My name is Kim, and I work in housing administration at a liberal arts college in Florida. In my last story, I described how I met Claudia and learned about a group of women in my city who arranged catfights between women, contests with rules in controlled environments. In the weeks that followed that first night, I met more of these women and spent time in their circle. I had not been to another fight, though; Claudia had said that I should focus on getting myself into shape and getting ready to tell Joel, my boyfriend. But when I watched Joel play Xbox and check his twitter account all evening, sitting on the couch gaining a little more pudge, I could feel myself turning away. I kept my new interest a secret from him, and as far as he was concerned I was hitting the gym for his sake and not because I’d found a new life for myself that he wasn’t ready for.

Going to the gym took on a new intensity for me. No more searching for motivation to do another lap on the treadmill. Now I was going to the track and sprinting laps after hitting the weights, and I was trying out the squat rack and not using the pink barbells in the corner and drinking stacks of plastic water bottles like the other women. One of the rules of Claudia’s club was no professional training, meaning no boxing or martial arts lessons, but she told me that I had to have my cardio and muscular endurance levels to a higher stage. I was already in pretty good shape, but as I raised my level my face, abs, and arms thinned out while I still kept my curvy shape. I was always going to be a busty woman, and I would always be proud of that, but having a trim waistline would be a necessity when I stepped on the mat myself. We were women, after all, and when I stepped on the mat it would be an extension of my femininity and not a denial of it.

Things were heating up for me at the gym in multiple ways. There was a new queen bee, and she was a real looker. Her name was Gemma, and she was a British woman who had moved here with her husband Richard, who was a visiting math professor at the college. My office was in the same building as the payroll department, and we had talked in the hallway a few times. He was cute in a European-gent sort of way, and it seemed like he was just here to hang out in Florida for a year, which had a strange sort of appeal to it. At the risk of sounding a bit full of myself, it was obvious that he thought that I was pretty hot, and honestly, it felt good to get that sort of attention from someone like that. We talked in the hallway a few times, and then he would stop by my office and chat for a minute whenever he was in the building. I knew that there wasn’t any real reason for him to have so many payroll problems, but he seemed to like the view, and by that point I knew that I wasn’t feeling any particular reason to avoid attention from other men even though I wouldn’t cheat on Joel with any of them.

I don’t know if Gemma knew about any of this and I don’t see how she could have, but she sure treated me as if she did. Given that we were the two best looking women at the gym—and frankly, that’s saying something in South Florida—it was probably natural that we wouldn’t get along. We gave each other the once-over the first time we met, talking by the front desk, and things never got beyond chilly between us. But we did the fake smiles and “how are you’s” in the gym and steered clear of each other. I was hitting the free weights and doing a lot of track work, and she spent all of her time in the cardio area. We were staying clear of each other’s space, and while in the past I would have been fine with that, now I wanted something spicier. And I got it when one of the other women sat down next to me in the locker room. After some small talk, she said (with a little spark in her eye), “Gemma’s been telling everyone that your girls are fake,” and she made a little nod to my boobs. Well, if that was how Gemma rolled, tit for tat.

I went to her high-intensity cardio class and staked out some territory to stretch. I was wearing a new tank top that gave everyone a view of my very real boobs. The men who came to Gemma’s classes to see her could only manage the Medium level at best, and the only men who came to the advanced class were gay. I had aimed the volley directly at Gemma and I did it in front of the other women, and it wasn’t about the drooling silly men at all. Gemma was a real blonde with a very impressive set of boobs herself, and she showed them off to just the right degree, suggesting trashy and slutty without actually being it. I got exactly the response that I wanted, too. While we were stretching she looked me over and then said, “This is the advanced class. Someone like you might be better off starting at one of the other levels.” She said this standing over me with her hands on her hips and her chest stuck out.

“Someone like me?” I asked, and by now everyone was staring at us.

“Someone who needs to know her place,” she replied, taking a step forward.

I started to step forward toward her and then I stopped and said, “You’re right, of course. I should head back to the beginner class, and then work myself into shape to be in here with the big girls.” With that, I turned and headed out. I knew that Gemma would think that she had won a battle here, and that the other women in the gym would think that I had backed down as well. But that was fine. Let them think what they would.

There was a party coming up in a month that everyone would be at. It would be given by a real estate tycoon, Earl something, a player in the area’s hotel industry. Every year he threw a themed party at the beginning of February, and he had gotten a reputation as a bit of a perv. The word was out that this year’s theme was “pirates.” I talked to Claudia and she said that she could get me an invitation on the basis of my looks (as I said, the host had a bit of a reputation), and I had it on good authority that Gemma and her husband would be there too. This good authority was Richard himself, who was easy to ply for information in the hallway a few days after the sendup in the aerobics study. I talked to my boyfriend Joel about the party—which would require him to wear a costume, meet new people, and watch his girl get in a catfight—and he soon enough had to go to New Orleans for a convention that weekend. I guess that I should clarify that I didn’t tell him about the last part of the evening, although by this point I wasn’t sure that anything at all was enough to bring Joel back to life. When he told me about the convention, I smiled, pecked him on the cheek, and left him to his Xbox and went back to planning my costume.

The big night had arrived. Unfortunately, my wingwoman Claudia had not, having come down with the flu that week. I arrived on my own on what can only be called a South Florida estate, a sprawling compound on a few hundred acres. The house was a two story monster in the center, with a guest house to the left and a pool and guest house to the right. I parked my little Beamer in the gravel next to a Jaguar and a Porsche, sucked it up, and went in. For tonight it was cris-crossed with hanging lanterns, pitchers of rum, and paper mache swords and pistols. There was even a faux beach set up around the pond, with sand piled around and plastic cannons perched atop the mounds.

I was surprised by how few people were here, considering the party’s reputation. The night was cool, but only by Florida’s standards, and most of the guests were outside. There was a noticeable skewing in the ages: the average male guest was somewhere on the wrong side of 50, while the average woman was closer to the right side of 30. And there were a few girls who looked like they had been snagged from a sorority. Everyone had the right look, though. The men were obviously upper management, bankers, lawyers, with just the right level of paunch, and there was a consistent conservatism to their costumes, all leather jackets, flappy hats, and the occasional eye patch. Their female companions, who were mostly second wives with a few mistresses-slash-new-girlfriends thrown in, were all over the place, but again, in the expected way. Lots of open blouses, short dresses, and whore boots.

I do have to say that when I entered the “beach” area, I turned some heads. My brunette hair was back in a loose, flowing ponytail. It seemed appropriate for the costume, and I felt rebellious and sexy as hell in it. I had put on some rather aggressive make-up, too, with heavy blush and eyeliner, which drew a few hostile looks from the female guests. But most of the hostility probably came from my outfit. I had picked up some very nice black Jimmy Choo heels, which I noticed a few women check with quick glances and jealous smirks. But both the ladies and their male escorts directed most of their attention at my body. I was wearing a tight black skirt with slits up the sides so that it sashayed with my curvy legs as I strutted about (in my very sexy shoes, naturally). And I was wearing a thin white blouse open halfway down, showing off a whole lot of cleavage and hinting strongly at everything else in there, as well. There was a bit of sweat on my face and cleavage now, and I knew that I was taking on a glisten. I shook hands and made small talk with two couples outside, and then I made my way into the guest house.

The inside was decked out just as the outside, but they had gone all in on authenticity. All of the electronics were off: the lighting came from real lamps they had hung from the ceiling; the air conditioning was turned off, leaving the room just below sweltering so that the sweat beads popped out on my face and body; and the only sounds were talking and the noises carried by the hardwood floors. The overhead lamps cast a flickering effect around the room. There was a full bar that they had set up in the along one wall of the living room—or maybe it was the dining room. It was hard to tell. And at the bar was Gemma. She was leaning one elbow on the bar, smiling at a man who wasn’t her husband. She wore a red skirt and matching blouse that highlighted her very impressive rack, too, and she had her blonde hair in loose curls that fell to her shoulders. Her face looked extremely pretty in the dancing light, I had to admit, and as we made eye contact I gave my hips just a bit of sway. From the way her eyes narrowed, I could tell that she noticed and that she didn’t care for it one bit.

“Hey, Kim,” she said in a voice that seemed deliberately disingenuous.

“Gemma, I’m surprised to see you here.”

Her smile grew just a bit more. “I could say the same thing about you. I give private lessons to the Simons’ daughter; I’m out here three days a week. I didn’t realize that you knew the Simons, though. Frankly I didn’t realize that you ran in these sorts of circles at all. Doesn’t quite seem to be your society.”

“What does that mean?” I asked in a sharp tone.

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything at all,” Gemma replied, touching her hand against my upper arm a bit too firmly. “I just hadn’t seen you at these sorts of parties before. We all just stick to our own.”

I nodded and agreed, and we exchanged acrid smiles. “What do they have to drink here?” I asked.

“Anything you could think of and more, probably,” she replied.

I ordered a glass of red wine from the very hot, tall bartender. He smiled at me, and as he started to walk off I called him back, tapping him on his hand. “Help us settle a difference of opinion.” He looked back and forth between Gemma and I and at first I didn’t think he would do it. But then Gemma shouldered her way into me and turned to face him, with the same competitive fire in her eyes that I had. You could see his masculinity push his common sense off his face, and he nodded eagerly. Both of us leaned forward, elbows pushing our cleavage out, and Gemma subtly started pushing me to the side. I shoved her back hard enough to make her stumble just a bit. The bartender’s smile grew at the sight of this very feminine competition. And seeing him smile while staring at Gemma’s rack made me just want to slug her in the face.

“Oh, I think I’m not dumb enough to get in the middle of you two.”

“Then fuck off,” Gemma scoffed. Turning, she stole a glance at my chest and tossed her hair back out of her face. “I’m so tired of these limp-wristed men.”

“Is Richard here?” I asked.

“He seems to have wandered off. Probably with the boys somewhere. Why?”

“Just wanted to say hi,” I replied, and I turned away and started to walk off.

But Gemma grabbed my arm and tugged me back, saying, “You’re not getting off that easy.”

“Let go of me, bitch,” I said in a loud, catty voice. I might have come here with a plan, but at this point all of my emotions were genuine. I really wanted a piece of this woman.

“Excuse me?” Gemma replied, stepping forward so that our breasts and noses were nearly touching. “Why don’t you leave before I throw your flabby ass out.”

I poured my wine down the front of her blouse. Gemma gasped but she immediately slapped me across the face, and the catfight was on. The slap spun my head around, but I came back and slapped her face hard, bringing my hand up from my waist. The sound was hard and flat in the busy room. Gemma spun all the way around and landed facing the bar, bracing herself with her hands. As she tried to push off I grabbed her from behind, putting my arm around her neck and pushing down on her head. I had her face against the bar, and I wrapped her hair around my hand. But she elbowed me in the stomach, and I bent over grunting hard, the air rushing out of me. I tried to hold on to her hair, but she elbowed me again and I let go, stumbling backward holding my stomach. In the tumult we both had already lost our heels. Gemma pushed herself off the bar and turned and charged me.

I met her charge and we threw our arms around each other grunting as the air rushed out of both of our bodies. She drove me back into the crowd. They scattered out of the way, although all I could see was people shouting and jumping and drinks sloshing. My ass hit a table, and we tumbled over it and hit the floor. The two of us both grabbed onto each other’s hair. We pulled hair and rolled back and forth on the floor, our shapely hips and legs intertwined and pretty faces pressed against each other and flat stomachs and buxom chests bouncing and sliding. We grunted and groaned. Gemma got on top of me and slapped my face back and forth, and while I was stunned she ripped open the front of my blouse. My buxom bra-encased chest popped into view of everyone. But rather than cover up, I reached up and sank my hands into her own boobs, squeezing through the material of her blouse. She shrieked and smacked at my hands, and in her discomposure I bucked her off of me. We rolled apart and stood, facing each other and panting hard. My hair and hers were completely disarranged. My blouse was ruined and I shrugged it off, revealing my lace demi-cup bra. That drew a few appreciable gasps from our audience.

“Come on, bitch,” I taunted.

Gemma gave me a wicked smile and tossed away her own blouse. Her own rack was very impressive, and a few of the men cheered. No one offered to stop our catfight; they were all deeply into the rhythm that was between the two of us. And the women were even more into it than the men, staring at us with eyes wide open. I snarled and leapt at her. Gemma got her hands up in front of her face but I threw an awkward punch into her side that left her bent over, holding herself. I grabbed her hair and yanked her face up and slapped her, leaving her stunned. But she wasn’t as hurt as I had thought, and when I wound up to slug her she spun out of my grip. I grabbed for her but she got to the side and smacked my face hard. My dark hair spun about my head, and she latched onto a handful of it, tugging hard to the side. She was able to control my head by yanking on my hair, and as I went to the side she grabbed hold of me around the side and shoved. We went down to the floor again, with her on top of me. I bucked my hips up, but she was on me good. She slapped my face with a forehand and a backhand, and at that point the room started to spin. I put my hands up in front of my face and tried to roll free, but she smacked my boobs through the lace bra. I tried to cover up my sensitive, well-developed girls but then she slapped me across the face again, a real wind-up blow that knocked me senseless.

At that point I could feel my arms go rubbery. I pawed weakly at her face, but she knocked my arms aside. Then Gemma rose from off of me and yanked me to my feet by the hair. I was staggering on my feet, and she slapped me hard again. I threw a slap back, but I was out of it and harmless. Gemma took hold of me by the hair held my head still, and the two of us paused like that for a second. Redhead and brunette, and as much as I don’t want to admit it now both stunningly pretty and our buxom breasts heaving in our bras and sweat popped out all over our faces and chests and wet hair. We looked into each other’s eyes with real feminine hate and then she slapped me incredibly hard with all of that hate and I spun around and fell into the crowd. Two men caught hold of me and I was finished and the catfight was over.

I was helped out to my car, and someone produced a t-shirt for me to wear home. I checked my face in the car: some redness and bruising on my cheeks, and my hair was a mess, and my lip was burst, most likely from the last slap. My blouse was ruined, too. At the top of the list, though, was that I’d just had my ass kicked by another woman in front of a crowd of strangers. I had been humiliated by this was woman who was extremely good-looking and well-built, and my heart was racing. But it was racing with excitement, and I wasn’t anywhere close to crying or distraught like a typical girly girl. I wanted more.