The Perils of Nerine (Chapter 1): A Countess, a Dishwater blonde . . . and a Bitter Defeat

By Jaguar 8

No one at Sultry Circe’s---an upscale version of Victoria’s Secret--- knew if CEO Contessa Paolini really had royal roots. But the brunette cougar certainly acted as if she did. Her awed underlings obeyed La Paolini’s every command, bowing and scraping in near genuflection.

Though not especially buxom, the lissome Contessa was a classically sculpted Italian beauty. Olive complexioned and magisterial, she boasted sensuous 33C breasts. Men hungered to get even a glimpse of these supple mounds of succulent Mediterranean tit flesh. For Contessa’s teats were firm yet jiggled with naughty sexual promise.

And coupled with her deliciously panoramic derriere, La Paolini was the epitome of Italian sophistication, sexiness and class.

But Contessa’s greatest assets were her hypnotic come-hither areolae. These concentric circles of carnal desire stole the show, turning the men in the office into a band of drooling high-schoolers.
So whenever CEO Paolini desired male attention---either to garner yet another conquest or to quash a potential female rival---Contessa would stage an impromptu wardrobe malfunction.

La Paolini paraded around the office sans brassiere on an almost daily basis, so an areola-nip slip worked like a charm every time.

The raven-tressed Countess would loosen one or two of the top buttons of her blouse, thereby permitting a provocative side-view of her spicy Italian cleavage. Then she’d bend over slightly, granting the current object of her affection a direct view of the enormous pink areolae surrounding her prominent nipples.

Sultry Circe’s CEO was always ahead of the carnal curve, however. Whenever a potential rival appeared on the scene, Contessa acted preemptively to thoroughly crush and extinguish the female threat.

Lately, a busty blonde marketing manager---Nerine Gladwell---appeared on the scene. Before any of Contessa’s male employees could take notice of the woman’s 38D breast-ware, though, La Paolini spun into action.

Nerine Gladwell had been hired by Tom Brogan, the VP of Marketing, while Contessa was away on a lengthy overseas business trip. Upon the CEO’s return, she noticed the blonde’s voluptuousness and vowed to cut “this trailer-trash bimbo” down to size.

Cornering the new employee by the cafeteria coffee maker very early one morning, Contessa invited Nerine to her office for a “get-acquainted” session.

It was 7:45 AM as the two walked toward the CEO’s lair.

“Glad to see that you’re an early riser,” offered Contessa when they arrived at her door. La Paolini also observed the 1 to 2 inch height advantage she enjoyed over blondie---even without heels

“Y-yes, Ms. Paolini, I-I believe---”

Before Nerine could complete her stammering response, Contessa issued a command
“No one gives a damn what you believe. Now close the door behind you, Missy.”
Though irritated by Contessa’s imperiousness, the marketing executive complied.

“How fit are you, Nerine?” asked Contessa

“I run 5 miles per day, participate in weekly hot yoga, and have a brown belt in Taekwondo,” replied Nerine Gladwell snarkily.

“I see, Missy. That’s pretty impressive. Please stand and allow me to get a better view.”

The blonde marketing executive did more than stand. She arose, posed and preened, flexing her biceps. Next, Nerine Gladwell removed her blouse. And then she unhooked her brassiere, revealing an abundant set of milky-white 38-D breasts.

Nerine also twirled about, giving the CEO a birds-eye view of the sweet sprinkling of freckles adorning her shoulders and back. Noticing Contessa’s envy, Nerine double-downed on her lentiginous advantage: “Men just LUV my freckles!”

A nonplussed Contessa moved closer to the topless flaxen-haired woman and replied, “Not bad if you like dishwater blondes with blubbery tits. Actually, men just LUV fat whores who spread their legs. In your case, a blow job is all they’d want.”

A stunned Nerine was too taken aback to respond.

But La Paolini had no problem underscoring her contempt for “Missy” Gladwell. Taking advantage of Nerine’s shock, Contessa launched a fierce uppercut into the blonde’s surprisingly soft belly.

“Ooooooooofffffff!” uttered Nerine as the Italian woman’s fist made a mockery of Gladwell’s vaunted fitness.

Surprised at the marshmallow softness of the trashy blonde’s gut, the brunette CEO uncorked a second uppercut even deeper into Nerine’s vulnerable midsection. La Paolini smiled at how easily she’d taken the fight out of this trailer-park bimbo.

“Seems you’re all paunch and no punch, Missy!” hissed a gloating Contessa.
As Gladwell fell to her knees, La Paolini clenched her hands together and hammered an axe-handle blow down on Nerine’s freckled shoulders.
Uhhhhhhhhhhh!” moaned the humbled blonde.

“Your fucking freckles don’t offer much protection against Contessa’s fists, Missy!” laughed the brunette.

Gladwell pitched forward on her face, her tits hitting the marble-tiled office floor with a thunderous SPLAT!

Four swift high-heeled kicks to Nerine’s ribs soon followed. “Gahhhhhhh!” Ohhhhhh!” cried the helpless blondie.

La Paolini gave Nerine some time to catch her breath---but not out of kindness, sportsmanship or mercy. No, Contessa merely needed a moment to shed her top.

“Ok, Missy Tae-kwon-NO. Take a good look at a real woman’s tits,” said the Italian beauty as she grabbed a rude handful of Nerine’s dishwater blonde locks.

The pain-wracked Nerine gasped.

Contessa Paolini’s naked breasts were those of a Roman Goddess---olive-complexioned upright orbs of feminine pulchritude surrounded by enormous puffy areolae.

Though beautiful in their own right, the blonde’s alabaster mammaries were heavier teats than the CEO’s sultry sacs of sweet female tit-ware.

“Men drool over Contessa’s Magnificent Mammaries, Missy!” intoned the brunette cougar before continuing her pugilistic humbling of the younger woman.

For a wiry female, Contessa had no problem lifting the zaftig Nerine. In fact, La Paolini effortlessly hauled the blonde sales executive to her feet, tightened her grip on Gladwell’s wispy flaxen follicles, and repeatedly and methodically smashed Nerine’s prominent forehead into the nearby wall.

“CrRRRaccKKKK!” CRACK-buHHHHHH!” “Pouunnwwwwwnnnnd!”

Holding the trashy female’s blonde strands with her left hand liberated Contessa’s right fist, which she used to relentlessly bludgeon the small of Nerine’s freckled back. Then she immobilized “Missy” Gladwell with pulverizing kidney punches

“Gahhhhhhhhhhhh!” “ Uhhh-Ohhhhhhhhhh!” “Uhhhhhh-UhhhhhOh-Oh OWWWW!”

Yet rather than allowing Nerine to slide down the wall, Contessa whipped her around so that the two women were now face to face.

Knowing that the blonde’s fighting spirit had been broken by Contessa’s bruising attack, the brunette cougar smiled and said: “This may not be the beating of your life, Missy. But it’ll do . . . for now.”

A groggy Nerine Gladwell’s arms hung uselessly by her side as Contessa Paolini began a prolonged pasting of the blonde.

Interspersing combinations with stinging jabs and left and right haymakers, the Italian beauty reduced the blonde’s midsection to mush.

“Guess all that hot yoga hasn’t toughened your abs, Missy. You have one flabby gut, girl!” gloated La Paolini as she mercilessly buried her fists deeper and deeper into the blonde’s spongy belly.”

“OOOOOfffffff!” “UHHHHHHHHH!” ‘Oh-Oh-OH-OOOOOOf!” “Gahhhhhhhh!” replied a devastated Nerine.

Seeking to further humiliate the wobbly blonde, Contessa switched the focus of her assault and began clouting Nerine’s prodigious tit meat.

“SMACK-SMAACKCK SMACKETTY-SMACK!” The sound of La Paolini’s fists smacking against the blonde marketing executive’s fleshy breasts was melodic.

Nerine’s tits were juicy targets for the Italian woman. Though voluptuously attractive at first blush, Gladwell’s girls tended to flop forward, noticeably sagging where they should be firm. And like the blonde’s tummy bulge, the yellow-haired woman’s breasts were floppy masses of trailer-park tit-meat.

However, her light pink areolae were enticing, especially in light of the floozy’s alabaster skin tone---all the more reason for La Paolini to damage the blonde’s breasts as much as her ego.

The CEO’s flawlessly firm and seductive Mediterranean cleavage must not be challenged, so a haughty Contessa continued her pummeling of the hapless bimbo’s torso, mixing in a right cross to Nerine’s left breast with an uppercut to her right teat.

La Paolini would not let up on the breast punishment, punching Gladwell’s fat girls with authority. Nerine’s tits were drooping lower and lower under Contessa’s pugilistic domination.
“No man in this office----or anywhere---will want to suck your sorry cow teats when I’m through with you,” chortled Contessa.

“Ooooooooffffff!” “Gahhhhhhhhhhh!” “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” gurgled Nerine.

The Italian cougar added to the younger woman’s misery by clouting a well telegraphed right hook into Nerine’s already tenderized left udder; then Contessa issued a sweeping left hook into the cow-titted blonde’s right breast.

In addition to flattening out and nearly drooping to her waist under the brunette’s intensely wicked pummeling, Nerine’s pasty teardrop-shaped orbs were becoming black and blue masses of ugly breast meat.

“What’s wrong, Ms. Tae-kwon-NO? Can’t put up a fight? Contessa is beating the tar out of you, Trailer-Park Missy! What happened to your martial arts training?”

As if in response, Nerine Gladwell sheepishly adopted a fighting pose. But Contessa easily swatted the floozy marketing manager’s fists aside and retorted with a vicious right blow to the blonde’s mouth. This was followed by a thunderous left to Nerine’s right eye, which began swelling up after the Italian Countess hit it again with even more force.

Gladwell’s arms drooped as if in surrender, eliciting laughter from La Paolini.
“HaHaHaHa . . . Punching you senseless is like beating a stupid mule, Missy Nerine. And now we do full the Monty on your fat-assed body!”

The groggy blonde sobbed as Contessa removed the final articles of Nerine’s clothing. But she began crying in buckets when the Italian Countess discovered Nerine’s dirty little secret: The trailer-park bimbo had an additional layer of gelatinous blubber below her bellybutton.

“THWACK-THWACKETTY-SMACK SMACKKKK-SMACKKETTY SMACK!” could be heard as Contessa’s powerful fists plowed into the newly revealed marshmallow fold of fatty tissue encircling the now-utterly nude blonde.

“Ooofffff-OOF. Uhhhhhhh-ooof. Gahhhhhhhh-uhhhhh-oof. OOF-OOOF. OHHHHHHH-Oooooof!” cried the sobbing and humiliated Nerine, a pitiful victim of La Paolini’s cruel pugilism.

“N-no m-m-more. P-p-please . . . no . . . m-m-more,” pleaded the reeling blonde.

“What’s that, gutter-whore? You want MORE? Trashy Barbie wants the Countess to continue beating blondie’s unsightly fat flesh?” said the CEO in the midst of punching Nerine’s underbelly a deep purple.

Nerine’s stark embarrassment at Contessa’s discovery further inhibited the blonde from striking back. And this mental block enabled La Paolini to run roughshod over the stronger, younger woman.

Cognizant of her disadvantage in strength and size, Contessa had struck first---and continued to pound away at her rival’s mound of hitherto undiscovered flesh. She’d already sent a stern fistic message to the flaxen haired beauty: YOU’RE NO COMPETITION FOR CONTESSA.

In pounding and pummeling Nerine’s greatest weakness, the Italian sexpot wanted to make certain that the sleeping giant never awoke. Nerine Gladwell was an incredibly formidable beauty: A buxom freckled blonde possessing strength, sex appeal and poise in abundance.

Though currently incapacitated by the CEO’s ambush, Nerine was well-equipped to handle Contessa in a fair fight.

The Italian woman had taken advantage of the blonde’s unpreparedness for the preemptive assault. But absent a sneak attack, La Paolini’s pugilistic prowess was no match for Nerine’s raw power.

Still, there was Nerine, beaten and battered on the floor of the CEO’s office---reduced to groveling and pleading before Contessa Paolini.

The brunette smirked as she turned and headed for her private bathroom to grab a towel and wipe off some of the sweat from her exertion.

“Don’t worry, bitch. I’ll be back in a minute to beat your freckled back black and blue. HaHaHaHaHaHa!” chortled the smug CEO.

Contessa’s scornful words were no sooner out of her mouth when she found herself falling face forward onto the floor. Nerine Gladwell had revived, tackling La Paolini from behind.

The blonde’s sudden action jolted the brunette and literally knocked the wind out of the CEO: “Ahhhroooommmmfffff!”

Acting with the speed of a cheetah, Nerine grabbed Contessa by her upswept hair, spun the brunette around and hurled her into the bathroom door. Contessa fell to her knees, hitting the marble tiles of the spacious lavatory with a thud.

“Always wanted to sink my hands into that stringy brown mop of yours. Yuck,” gloated the stunning blonde wiping her hands on a nearby towel.

Then Ms. Gladwell pounced. Dragging the stunned CEO completely into the bathroom, which was entirely mirrored, Nerine propped her wobbly rival up against a mirrored wall.

“You’re nothing but an old hag, CUNTessa. You sucker-punched me before. And now you and your little titties are gonna pay the price!” exclaimed the increasingly confident blonde.

Before concentrating on the brunette’s breasts---which resembled a 13-year old girl’s nubs compared with Nerine’s Magnificently Voluptuous Tits---the blonde marketing manager focused her fistic firepower on Paolini’s breadbasket.

“ULLPPPPPP! EEEEEYOOOWWWWW! OOOOF-OOOOF-OOOF!” moaned the now-helpless CEO as La Gladwell worked over Contessa’s solar plexus. Though Contessa’s abs were quite firm, her stomach muscles began to wilt under the relentless pressure of Nerine’s non-stop punching.

The CEO’s mind was reeling even as her pride was fading. And the brunette wondered whether it was panic or fear that prevented her from mustering a defense. In fact, while the Flaxen-haired Fighter pounded the Italian woman’s abs into sloppy belly fat, Contessa’s arms remained motionlessly at her side. She’d made a dreadful miscalculation; the beautiful blonde’s strength was prodigious. And La Paolini came to the realization that Nerine was a dangerous and wily foe .
“I’ve turned your midriff to mush, Contessa-cow. And now for those tiny WOP tits---and pig-meat areolae!” announced the cocky blonde.

‘Why did I ever think I could take on this big, powerful blonde? thought a pained Paolini as Nerine’s fists began pummeling the fearful Italian’s breasts with zest.

“Ohhhhhh---OWWWWWW! Gahhhhhhhhhh! Uhhhhhh! OOOF-OOOOF-OOOOF!” groaned the deflated CEO.

As she pounded La Paolini’s 33-C titties, Nerine Gladwell smiled. A wicked smirk grew on the blonde’ lips, and she momentarily stopped the bare-knuckled barrage to allow her Dominant WASP mammaries to engulf Contessa’s smallish swarthy teats.

Contessa’s agony was made worse, however, as she observed this tableau on one of the mirrored bathroom walls—and the reflection of Nerine’s Beautifully Freckled Back Muscles tensing as they prepared to power the blonde’s two-fisted beating of the brunette’s tits.

Nerine sent 10 unanswered punches into Contessa’s girl-scout breasts (five for each tit), flattening both orbs against the humbled Italian’s torso.

The Beauteous Blonde with the Sensually Freckled Back was in total control, a bodacious Golden-haired Warrior Princess pummeling her inferior brunette serf.

“What small teats you have, my Little Paisan Paolini! What do you call those breasties----Italian bonbons?” guffawed the Goddess Gladwell as she continued to mash and bash the CEO’s already pulped puppies.

Zestfully gloating over her breast-ware dominance of the helpless CEO, Nerine realized she now held the upper hand. Having survived Contessa Paolini’s earlier ambush, Ms. Gladwell was asserting her native superiority.

Filled with desperation and a sense of impending doom, Contessa extended one of her legs to kick Nerine. Then the fearful Italian ran.

“You can run! But you can’t hide, COWARD!” boomed La Gladwell.

Scampering away, Contessa stumbled toward her desk drawer, extracting the pair of brass knuckles she’d hidden there. The Goombah Girl stealthily put them on.

An enraged Nerine lumbered out of the bathroom and managed to clamp a fierce sleeper hold on the nearly defeated brunette. Sure enough, Contessa was fading fast. Little Paisan Paolini was swooning, losing consciousness as the back of her head rested against Nerine’s massive breasts.

But just as the CEO was about to go under, she uncorked a lucky brass-knuckled fist into the blonde’s broad forehead.

Nerine Gladwell fell backward like a sack of Idaho potatoes. Just to make sure Gladwell was out, though, Contessa Paolini wrapped her arms around the stunned blonde’s waist, turned her upside-down and powered Nerine’s head onto the marble floor in a classic pile-driver.

“Winning---by hook or by crook—isn’t everything. It’s the ONLY thing, blondie!” declared the suddenly victorious Italian woman.

The CEO kicked an unconscious Nerine----reserving her most painful high-heeled blows for the vanquished blonde’s freckled back---all the way to the wall near the office’s entrance,

Then hoisting Nerine up against the wall, Contessa began peppering the Gladwell woman’s bountiful breasts with stinging jabs; the tempo of each blow increased as the demoralized blonde returned to full consciousness.

Realizing that the CEO had won by way of trickery did nothing to assuage Nerine’s humiliation. Or mitigate the excruciating punishment her Milky White Orbs were absorbing.

“This is what Contessa does to Trailer-Park Tit Meat,” boasted the reinvigorated Royal as she pounded and pummeled Nerine’s Sweet Teats with left hooks, right hooks and uppercuts.

There was no let-up to the CEO’s venomous speed-bag beatdown of the blonde’s perfect white breasts, which were now turning hideously purple.

Nerine’s earlier putdown of the Italian woman’s smallish breasts had stung the CEO. Revenge is a dish best served contemptuously.

“SMACK-SMACKETTY-SMACK; WHOOOMP-WHOOOOP-SMACK!” spoke both succulent alabaster breasts as they shook and stretched wildly with each vicious bare-knuckled blow.

Contessa’s intent was not simply to inflict pain or engender humiliation. No, the brunette wanted to disfigure the blonde’s bountifully beautiful breasts. So far, La Paolini’s plan was proceeding quite nicely.

Lowering her sights to Ms. Gladwell’s gut, Contessa began a workmanlike pasting of Nerine’s gelatinous paunch. The marketing manager was laboring under intense pain, as the brass-knuckled blow to her forehead---coupled with Contessa’s perfectly executed pile-driver---had thoroughly disoriented, weakened and demoralized the blonde.

The Italian Noblewoman’s approach to Nerine’s jiggling midriff was three-pronged. First, Contessa repeatedly launched several punches directly into the blonde’s bellybutton, corkscrewing them as soon as her knuckles encountered Gladwell’s pale white belly fat.

Contessa’s second fistic maneuver was to pound with rhythmic efficiency the folds of soft white meat surrounding Nerine’s waist—a k a the blonde’s love handles.

“Smacketty-Smack—Smacketty-SMACK! WHOOMPETTY-Smack-Smacketty-Whopmpetty-SNACK-SMACK-SMACK!” resounded throughout the CEO’s private office and outside into the main office.

Finally, La Paolini drove fist after thunderous fist deep into Nerine’s blubbery bulge south of her bellybutton and above her vagina.

The Countess’s lips curled into a wicked snarl as her menacing fists swamped, savaged and clouted the blonde’s unmoving body, which now resembled a side of beef.

“Ooooof-OOOF-ooof-OOOOOOOOOOF! UHHHHH--OOHHH-OOWWWWWW! OOOf! OOOF! UHHHHH! OOF-OOF-OOOOOOOF!” gurgled the reeling blonde as her arms splayed outward hither and yon.

Nerine’s sounds of suffering, defeat and humiliation---and the visual of Contessa fists arching back to pummel the bruised and bloodied naked blonde---were seen by the CEO’s administrative assistant, Donna Shipton, who spied this tableau through the glass windows alongside La
Paolini’s office door.

Contessa had counted on her admin to witness the CEO’s vicious humbling of the voluptuous blonde marketing executive. La Paolini wanted the gossipy Donna to spread the word throughout Sultry Circe that Nerine Gladwell had been completely and utterly vanquished by her superior: Contessa Paolini

“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! UHHHHHHHH! OOOOF-OOOOF-OOOOOF!” grunted the nearly unconscious blonde as Contessa delivered a devastating one-two combination to Nerine’s taffy-like fold of fat.

“Some folks have a double chin. But Bimbo Blondie has a double belly. Who knew?” chortled the sultry CEO.

After that barrage, Contessa donned her blouse and skirt---and signaled for Donna to enter the office.

“Guess someone’s having a bad hair day,” joked Contessa’s administrative assistant as she walked in and beheld the fallen, beaten and bloodied marketing executive.

“Hmmm, you’re right, Donna. Let’s have a better look at Missy Nerine’s wispy coiffure!” volunteered the Italian Beauty, grabbing a handful of the blonde’s thin flaxen strands---thereby exposing Ms. Gladwell’s high and broad forehead---and brutally slamming it into the edge of the CEO’s heavy oak desk.

“GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” cried Nerine as her body convulsed backward and onto the marble-tiled floor.

“It appears Ms. Gladwell is something of a drama queen,” retorted La Paolini as she gleefully sauntered over to the mass of quivering trailer-park meat known as Missy Nerine.

The Italian Noblewoman was in total command now, but the memory of her near defeat at the hands of the white trash bimbo now writhing in pain on the floor sent Contessa into a frightful rage.

La Paolini wanted to ensure that Nerine Gladwell never rose again---metaphorically (and maybe literally)---to challenge the CEO.

Aiming downward, Contessa dropped the point of her left elbow into the supine blonde’s flabby gut. The brunette repeated this blow with her right elbow.

“Gahhhoooof,” gurgled the banged up Gladwell each time Contessa struck the blonde’s mushy gut.

“Now Watch this, Donna!” exclaimed the haughty Italian to her admin as the CEO sat on Nerine’s pain-wracked stomach---bouncing up and down on the gelatinous belly flesh ---and began walloping the blonde’s face with haymaker after filthy haymaker.

Whuuump-whooomp! CRAAACCCK! Whoomp-whooomp! Pow-pow-pow! SMACK! Whooooompppppp!

Nerine Gladwell’s already bruised face was lumping up frightfully as La Paolini continued to batter the blonde’s visage at will. Powerful bare-knuckled punches rocked and humbled the once proud beauty.

Nerine’s earlier comeback was a fading memory as the Italian tried to prove (maybe to herself) that she was indeed the better woman. The blonde remained motionless while La Paolini gave the trailer-park wench a savage speed bag-facial.

The marketing executive winced in deep embarrassment when the Countess altered her approach.

“Now observe carefully, Ms. Shipton!” exclaimed a joyful Contessa.

The brown-haired CEO sank her talons into Nerine’s overhanging flap of belly fat just below the blonde’s belly button. Twisting and kneading this sloppy mass of mushy dough-like flesh, Contessa roared with laughter as Ms. Gladwell began to weep.

“Who’s the superior woman now, Miss Tae-Kwon-NO?” taunted the beautiful Contessa. But the proud blonde refused to acknowledge her foe.

So La Paolini decided to bring things to a stirring crescendo. Holding firmly onto Gladwell’s gelatinous sub-gut with one hand, Contessa used the other hand to grab almost all of the thin strands of hair atop Nerine’s pate---exposing the blonde’s enormous forehead---and lifted the beaten marketing executive off the ground in one swift motion.

Hoisting the trailer-park woman high in the air, the lithe Italian countess beamed with pride. La Paolini marveled at how quickly she’d managed to turn the tables on this flaxen-haired floozy.

Nerine was now weeping steadily, for the memory of her earlier dominance of Contessa stung. I beat the living shit out of this high-and-mighty WOP whore---only to let it all slip away, thought the humiliated marketing executive.

Ms. Gladwell’s arms dangled uselessly like a rag doll’s torn appendages---and the folds of her sloppy pale flesh jiggled and quivered---as Contessa paraded the thoroughly vanquished female’s form overhead and around the room for maximum effect.

“Blondie is toast,” chortled Donna Shipton snidely.

“Not yet. Not until----I DO THIS!” announced the cruel CEO, hurling Nerine’s limp and naked body across the room in a feat of near-herculean strength.

“Omigod!” cried Donna gasping.

Though it all happened in the blink of an eye, time appeared to stand still. The Countess’s administrative assistant watched incredulously as the blonde’s battered body sailed through the air. Nerine’s tits bounced and wobbled---while her belly meat shook and quivered----as if in S-L-O-W M-O-T-I-O-N.

And then came the thunderclap of an ugly THUD when the Gladwell girl’s bruised figure hit the wall.

Sauntering over to the shattered trailer-park cunt, La Paolini noted that “Gladwell’s fat tits took most of the impact, Donna. Looks like there’s more work to be done before we adjourn this meeting.”

To her astonishment, however, the blonde marketing executive stirred. Shaking off the intense pain of her encounter with the wall (and her fistic shellacking at the hands of the brunette CEO), a proud Nerine stood on her own two feet and challenged the Italian: “Do your worst, PEASANT!”

Enraged at the blonde’s impudence and resilience, Contessa roared “PUTTANA!”----and charged at her foe.

Nerine Gladwell’s ploy worked. Goading the CEO into an intemperate outburst, Nerine sidestepped her onrushing rival and timed a perfect right hook into the brunette’s temple.
This was followed by a swift left hook to Contessa’s jaw and an uppercut that sent the once haughty CEO reeling.

Landing on her haunches and unable to clear her head, La Paolini could not muster the energy to stop Nerine as the blonde stripped off every article of clothing that the Countess had donned.

The Gladwell girl was in total command as she lifted the wobbly Italian to her feet.
“Thought I was done, Contessa! Not hardly, Greaseball!” thundered the voluptuous blonde, sending a knee into the stunned CEO’s midriff.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOF!” gurgled a clearly pained Paolini. Doubling over following Nerine’s blow, Contessa was utterly unprepared for the bare-knuckled punch that brutally smashed into her nose.

The stream of blood gushing from her proboscis was the least of the reeling brunette’s worries, though, as a devastating left haymaker rocked Contessa’s jaw----and a whopping right hook pounded her left eye.

Bloodied, battered and blinded, La Paolini staggered about.

“I’ll get you, puttana. And my fists will---Arghhhhh-oh-oh!” screamed the brunette cougar as she attempted to make a comeback but was halted by the marketing executive’s pugilistic onslaught.
Nerine now began cuffing the CEO’s ears and forehead repeatedly.

“Uhhhhh! Owwww! Oh-oh-oh! Gahhhhhhh!” moaned the increasingly helpless Countess.
Though the sexy blonde could hardly be considered at full strength, she was mauling her boss, beating the brown-haired woman to a virtual pulp---and avenging her earlier humiliation at the hands of the CEO.

“You’re no Countess, CUNTessa. You’re nothing but a Dago peasant masquerading as nobility. And I’m proving it by kicking the living shit out of you, old lady!” declared the newly haughty flaxen-haired female.

La Paolini knew she couldn’t duke it out with Nerine woman-to-woman. Even though the blonde was fighting at only partial strength, the Gladwell girl was just too strong.

Contessa had to buy some time. So in a desperate bid for survival, she dropped to her knees---feigning exhaustion, which was very nearly true. And when Nerine saw that, the blonde began to gloat.

“Giving up so soon, Contessa?”

Rather than engaging in a verbal tit-for-tat, La Paolini winked at her admin, Donna Shipton, who had witnessed the entire fracas. Then the CEO suddenly sprang into action, tackling Nerine’s legs and upending the startled marketing executive.

Donna took that as a cue to bolt Contessa’s office.

The entire ploy was a two-fold ruse to (1) create the impression that Contessa was staging a comeback and would be victorious by the time Donna returned, possibly with security; and (2) to get hold of the brass knuckles lying a few feet away on the floor.

But Nerine had noticed the brass knuckles, too.

“Oh, no you don’t, greaseball!” thundered the blonde, who shot out her leg from a sitting position and savagely kicked Contessa’s chin.

Falling back onto her ass, the Italian woman soon found herself being lifted upward. Nerine had grabbed the CEO by her Circe-styled coiffure. All the outmatched Countess could do was try to roll with the devastating haymaker that followed.

The blonde’s blow, which landed on Contessa’s left cheekbone, sent the brunette sailing into the bathroom. Fiercely determined to punish La Paolini further, Nerine followed suit.
Having lost any hope of securing the brass knuckles, which now seemed out of reach, Contessa began to panic---and plead: “P-P-Please don’t hurt me anymore.”

However, Nerine dismissed the cowardly CEO’s pleas by pulverizing Contessa’s smallish breasts and belly with precise punches.


The Beautiful Blonde smiled gleefully as she buried her knuckles deep into the Italian’s itty-bitty titties, smashing the brunette’s areolae and flattening her insignificant swarthy milk sacs.
“No man in this office---or anywhere---will want to suck your puny teats when I’m through with you, Dago-girl!” exclaimed Nerine, relishing her renewed mastery over the cowering CEO.

“C-C-Contessa . . . she-a . . . s-s-surrender to----,” stammered the pathetic Italian.
But the Alabaster Beauty was having none of it.

Once again, Nerine took hold of La Paolini’s disheveled, greasy mane and rocked the CEO’s face with a short but painful right hand to the face. Contessa’s eye was nearly shut, her lip was bloodied and cut, and drool dribbled from the defeated Italian’s mouth.

“SMACKETTY-SMACK-WHOOMP-WHOOMPETTY-SMACK-SMACKWHOOMP!” hollered Contessa’s breadbasket---which had become a jiggling mass of polenta-like flesh---as the marketing executive pounded the Italian’s belly over and over and over again. The Aryan Blonde had turned La Paolini’s once hardened washboard abs into mushy layers of mincemeat.

“P-P-Please, bella bionda . . . bella Mistress Nerine . . . C-C-Contessa s-s-surrender to dee,” begged the Italian as she fell to her knees and began kissing and licking each toe of the blonde’s pristine feet.

“HaHaHaHa! I always knew you were a Fucking Coward, Contessa. Now you will serve as my maid, slave and pet WOP. And I have officially become Sultry Circe’s new CEO,” declared the victorious Nerine.

“Datsa so good, bella Nerine,” uttered the servile Italian.

“Oh . . . and one more thing----“ said the Beauteous Blonde as she lifted Contessa by her stringy locks and delivered a whopping uppercut into the bedraggled brunette’s chin.

“THUDDDDDDD,” announced Contessa’s body as it hit the bathroom’s marbled floor.

“Winner by a KO---the Buxom Blonde Brawler: Nerine Gladwell!” shouted the victorious Alabaster Blonde, planting her foot on both of Contessa’s swarthy titties.

A full ten minutes elapsed before Contessa returned to consciousness. Woozy and whupped, the brunette found herself still lying on the bathroom floor---and looking up at a fully naked Nerine primping, preening and applying her makeup.

As the blonde dabbed on dark eyeliner to her lashes, La Paolini enviously observed Nerine’s beautifully freckled back---and how it sloped sensually downward to meet a most sumptuous derriere. And all this came with perfectly shaped 38-D breasts and a stunning golden mane.
Contessa shuddered at this sight, remembering how thr Nordic goddess has so easily bested her.

“Well, look whose back—CUNTessa!” quipped Nerine.

Crawling on all fours, the brunette began kissing, licking and slurping both of Mistress’s butt cheeks.

“Good girl! Now I feel a fart coming on, so position yourself to receive it, Dago-doggy!” ordered Mistress Nerine.

Obeying ignominiously, La Paolini, buried her nose in the Beautiful Blonde’s anus. So when Nerine cut the cheese, the Italian Cuntessa was able to get a gale- force whiff of Gladwell’s flatulence.

“T-T-Thank you, Mistress,” burbled the brunette as she obsequiously inhaled the blonde’s cheeser.

“That’s right, Paisan Paolini. You should thank your superior for getting gaseous! But your duties don’t end there, peasant. Not by a country mile, Cuntessa!” said the newly smug and haughty blonde as she shoved the former CEO to the floor and then sat on the toilet bowl.

Having fully embraced her inferiority following the cruel fistic drubbing she’d absorbed at the hands of a voluptuous blonde she’d labeled “trailer-park trash,” Contessa sat up on her hind legs with her tongue wagging and her hands held up, emulating a canine’s paws.

“Datsa good girl. Mistress is indisposed right now and . . . oops!” said Nerine as some of her urine stream missed the bowl and squirted onto the marble floor.

Before the blonde could issue any orders, Puppy-dog Paolini bent down and began licking Nerine’s errant piss off the bathroom floor.

“Good Dago-doggy. Datsa good Dago-doggy!” tittered the Beauteous Blonde Bombshell.

By the time Cuntessa’s tongue had wiped the floor clean, Mistress Nerine finished defecating.

“Boy, did I need to take a dump, Cuntessa. Now, sit while I wipe my ass, Dago-doggy,” said Nerine slyly while grabbing some toilet paper to wipe her derriere.

But after a few perfunctory dabs with the bathroom tissue, the blonde exclaimed: “This paper is so rough. It’s scratching my butt. What should I do?”

Almost on cue, Cuntessa began to bark in excitement: “Arf, arf, woof, woof, arf!”

“So my little whelp of a WOP wants to cleanse Mistress,” smirked Nerine, who turned around and offered her succulent ass to Contessa.

Using only her tongue, the thoroughly degraded former CEO began her frenetic lingual cleansing of Nerine’s butt.

“Make sure there’s no shit left in my ass crack, WOP!” ordered the laughing blonde.

“Arf, arf-arf, woof-woof, arf . . . Your-a weesh is-a my c-c-command, bella principessa,” croaked Cuntessa as she dutifully licked Nerine’s anus clean.

The humbling of Contessa Paolini was now complete---except for a remaining detail. One of the brunette’s belts hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door gave Nerine an idea.

“Wouldn’t this make a wonderful collar for you, Dago-doggy?” asked the buxom blonde.
“Arf, arf, arf . . . It’s-a nize collar, Mistress Nerine,” barked the former CEO.

“And think of how beautiful it will look around your scrawny neck when I take you for a stroll through Sultry Circe in my maiden strut as CEO!” declared the triumphant Nerine.

Unnerved by the Blonde Bombshell’s announcement, La Paolini began to whimper. However, Nerine was too busy lunging for the belt to notice.

The blonde’s obliviousness cost her dearly.

Scampering away, the brunette raced for the discarded brass knuckles, which she spied just outside the bathroom. Stealthily and efficiently, Contessa grabbed the brass knuckles, donned them and returned to the overconfident Nerine.

“There you are, Dago-doggy!” said the blonde as she bent forward to collar Contessa.
But instead of canine passivity, Nerine was met with a rock-hard fist to the jaw.


Stunned by the unexpected blow, the Blonde Bombshell staggered a bit. But she regained her wits within moments.

“Dumb Cuntessa will never learn. Guess I’ll have to give you another shellacking, greaseball!” said Nerine.

Fearing yet another savage beatdown, the Italian woman backpedaled out of the bathroom and girded herself for the powerful Nerine’s new assault.

And just as expected, Nerine’s attack came without fail.

Though hurt and shaken by Contessa’s brass-knuckled punch, the Blonde Bombshell was still more than a match for the frightened WOp, who suddenly considered surrendering on the spot.

However, before the brunette could cry uncle, Nerine sent a right haymaker into Paolini’s right ear, then another to the left ear---followed by an explosive left uppercut to the jaw.

“GAHHHHHH-UHHHHH! OHHHHHHHHHHHH-UHHHHHH!” said Contessa as she fell reeling to the marble floor.

Nerine swooped down, took hold of Cuntessa’s greasy mane and lifted the puny-titted brunette up. What followed was a boxing lesson like no other.

The Blonde Bombshell began to rhythmically jab Paolini’s girl-scout breasties with punishing lefts and rights, making sure to hit the entirety of both tits: side-boob, under-boob and the Dago’ wrinkled areolae.

Nerine increased the tempo, smashing steely fists directly into the Italian’s sweaty little teats. Each punch exploded against Cuntessa’s smallish tit-meat head on, turning the brunette’s chest into a virtual ironing board.


Smiling wickedly, Nerine began pounding left and right hooks into Cuntessa’s temples. And as Paisan Paolini lifted her mitts to protect her head, the Sexy Blonde plowed a left-right combination into the former CEO’s softened belly.

“Oof-oof-oof! OOOOF! Uhhhhhhhh! Uhhhhh-Oof-oof! OOF-OOOF-OOF!” cried the stumbling Italian as Nerine’s bare-knuckled barrage mangled the brunette’s stomach flesh.

Contessa arms fell listlessly to her side, allowing the Blonde Bombshell to punch the whole of Paolini’s body with impunity: ribs, tits, liver, jaw, sternum, nose and, of course, teats.

“You are thoroughly fucked-up, Guinea-girl!” announced Nerine after clouting Cuntessa’s forehead with a jackhammer fist.

The Italian was tottering; her legs had become rubbery; and she was practically unconscious.

“And now my killer uppercut is gonna put you away, old lady!” proclaimed the blonde as she went into an exaggerated windup with her right arm.

However, Contessa felt a last-minute reflex kick in.

In foolishly telegraphing her blow, Nerine allowed La Paolini to lift a brass-knuckled right fist into the overconfident Gladwell girl’s chin.

The Voluptuous Blonde Bombshell dropped like a stone. Contessa had kayoed her bigger-breasted rival. And Nerine would not regain consciousness for a full half hour.

Thinking swiftly, the Italian removed the brass knuckles from her hand and slipped them onto the defeated dishwater blonde’s hand. Planting her bare foot on Nerine’s chest---thereby deflating the trailer-park bimbo’s fleshy melons----Contessa Paolini saw her hand raised in victory by a returning Donna Shipton.

“The winner and still CEO of Sultry Circe: Contessa Paolini!” exclaimed the administrative assistant.

Guess the second brass-knuckled fist to the chin was too much to overcome, thought the victorious brunette.

Contessa quickly cleaned herself up, masking her bruises with makeup and donning a tight-fitting tube top sans brassiere. Emerging from the bathroom, she noticed that Nerine was beginning to stir.

“Stay down, whore,” shouted the brunette as she kicked and stomped Nerine’s naked stomach, ribs and ass with a stiletto-heeled foot.

The dishwater blonde attempted to take hold of Contessa’s leg, but the CEO sent the point of the other high-heeled foot into Gladwell’s areolae. Another kick to Nerine’s forehead knocked the flaxen-haired bitch down.

Contessa was not giving Nerine any chance for another comeback. Hauling the beaten Walmart woman up by her thin, wispy hair, Contessa pounded a powerful right hook into Gladwell’s forehead.

Contessa let go to watch Nerine stumble about in circles, dazed and confused.

“I’m right here, Missy!” announced the Italian Countess as she proceeded to repeatedly punch the dishwater blonde’s high and broad forehead.

“Whoomp-whoomp-whoomp! Smack-smack-whoomp! WHOOMP!”

An ugly bump appeared on the dishwater blonde’s already prominent forehead, the direct result of Contessa’s jackhammer blows. Taking advantage of Nerine’s disoriented state, the Italian Noblewoman grabbed a pile of wispy yellow hair on Gladwell’s head and smashed the blonde’s forehead into the nearby wall . . . over and over and over again.

The force of the impact left a pronounced indentation in the plaster wall.

“Now that’s using your head, blondie!” chortled Contessa as Nerine slumped to the floor.
But the brunette stopped guffawing as she watched Nerine slowly stand up, turn around and face the CEO,

Shedding the brass knuckles Contessa had placed on her hand, the blonde spoke: “I won’t need these to take out the likes of you. Do your worst, WOP!”

Nerine jumped into the fray, bouncing stinging jabs to Contessa’s frame from top to bottom. Using her superior strength and boxing ability, the Blonde Bombshell began to dismantle the Italian woman all over again.

“Uhhhhhh! Oh-oh-uhhhhhhhhh! Oooof-ooof-ooof! Gahhhhhhhh-uhhhhh!” cried the wilting brunette who moments before seemed on the verge of complete victory.

Bobbing, weaving and punching with fluency, Nerine pounded her knuckles into Paolini’s shocked face. Contessa was no match for Nerine’s fury; the blonde was dictating the terms of engagement, backing the brunette up with shots to the gut, liver, midriff and chest.

A hard right cross swiveled the CEO’s head, driving her sideways. The voluptuous blonde followed up with a series of pulverizing body shots that rocked Contessa to the core.

Contessa was exhausted, depleted and very nearly defeated. Maybe I should quit and just submit to Nerine for good. She’s just too powerful for me, thought the demoralized CEO.

“Ready to surrender AGAIN, Dago-doggy?” asked the newly confident blonde, plowing yet another bare-knuckled fist into the brunette’s belly.

“Ooof!” gurgled Contessa, who was on the verge of surrender.

Sensing that complete victory was within her grasp, the Blonde Bombshell took hold of Contessa’s tube top and pulled the flimsy garment down, exposing the Italian peasant’s swarthy little mammaries.

“OWWWWWWWWWWWW! Uhhhhhhhhhh! Arghhh! Gahhhhhhhhh! Please s-s-stop hurting me!” bleated a desperate Contessa as Nerine clamped on Paolini’s areolae and began to savagely twist the brunette’s nipples.

“Is Dago-doggy ready to give up?” inquired Nerine as Contessa fell to her knees in agony.

“Arf, arf . . . y-y-yes, bella Nerine. Contessa s-s-she finally s-s-surrenders to thee, Regina Nerine,” barked the cowardly Contessa as she bent down to once again kiss and lick the Beautiful Blonde’s feet.

The haughty marketing executive swiftly collared Contessa and was about to take the battered CEO, who had reverted to walking on all fours, for a victory stroll around the office.

And then disaster struck.

Just as she had lapsed into a canine-like subservience, Contessa saw the discarded brass knuckles. While Nerine was looking for the belt collar, La Paolini scooped up the brass knuckles, placed them on her right hand and lifted a crushing blow into the blonde’s womanhood.

“Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” shrieked the stunned Gladwell, collapsing in a heap to the floor while reaching for her wounded vagina.

As Nerine gripped her pussy, Contessa walloped her in the jaw while the blonde was falling.
The gloating Paolini removed her collar and wrapped it around the dishwater blonde’s neck.
Nerine was lying face down on the floor, her freckled back beckoning to be pummeled by the Italian countess.

“SMACK-smacketty-smack! CRACK-smack-SMACKETTY-SMACK!” echoed throughout the room. Contessa continued to smash brutal brass-knuckled punches up and down the length of the helpless Nerine’s sweetly freckled spinal column.

Gladwell’s body shivered, quivering in odd, ugly spasms as Contessa hammered each of the flaxen-haired woman’s beauteous freckles. Proud of her handiwork, Contessa flipped the Dishwater Blonde Bitch over and began pummeling Nerine’s breasts.

Sitting astride Nerine’s gut, La Paolini pulped the marketing excutive’s white-trash teats, transforming Gladwell’s formerly pale orbs into purplish globules of sagging Wal-Mart tit-meat.

Contessa then flipped her body around so as to reverse face-sit Gladwell. And as the brunette’s sensual derriere enveloped the whole of Nerine’s face, the Italian victrix landed right and left haymakers to the defeated blonde’s twin bellies.

Contessa drilled Nerine’s upper gut with punishing bare-knuckled and brass-knuckled fists. But she saved her most devastating clouts for Gladwell’s unsightly lower flap of fat, pounding it repeatedly with a penetrating pugilistic fury that caused Nerine inordinate pain and humiliation.

Yet the greatest humiliation occurred moments later when Contessa arose, adjusted her tube top and marched out into the bustling office of Sultry Circe with the battered, beaten, subjugated and collared blonde in tow.

“Everyone gather round. Make way for your Contessa and her new pet, Nerine. Say hello to your co-workers, Missy!” gloated a triumphant Contessa, who had slipped the brass-knuckles onto the paw, er, hand of the crawling Gladwell.

“Woof, arf-arf!” barked the humbled blonde.

Deeply embarrassed and emotionally wounded yet fearful of another beating, Nerine began to lick Contessa Paolini’s high-heeled feet---including the scuffed and grimy sole of each shoe.

“After a heated discussion---and a well-earned pugilistic lesson---Nerine is taking a leave of absence from Sultry Circe,” declared the beaming CEO as she walked her collared pet to the elevator.

The brunette motioned for the buck-naked Nerine to stand and twirl about, revealing her bruised and beaten body---and bruised bulbous forehead. As Gladwell complied, Contessa wrapped her arms around the humiliated dishwater blonde’s waist, flipped Nerine upside down and executed a picture-perfect pile-driver, rendering the trailer-park floozy unconscious. Grabbing a knot of Nerine’s wispy blonde locks, La Paolini lifted the white-trash bitch up and onto her shoulders.

Contessa pressed the elevator’s DOWN button. And as the doors whisked opened, the Sensuous CEO hurled the trashy trailer-park bimbo into the elevator.

The last thing the Dishwater Blonde saw before the doors closed was the entire staff of Sultry Circe erupting in a standing ovation for the Italian Countess who had dismantled, debased and destroyed Nerine Gladwell.

Months later, long after Nerine had resumed her duties at Sultry Circe, the blonde’s shattering defeat at the hands of Contessa Paolini was viewed as a thing of the past. And both the CEO and the marketing executive appeared to let bygones be bygones.

At least on the surface.

Ah, but appearances can be---and are---deceiving.

Though Contessa seemed genuinely magnanimous, rewarding the blonde with a considerable raise and a promotion to Assistant Vice President of Marketing, La Paolini still harbored a grudge toward the woman who had legitimately bested the Countess in hand-to-hand, woman-to-woman combat---twice!

The Italian woman shuddered to think of how she’d debased herself before the trailer-park tramp, groveling like a canine, licking Nerine’s feet and tongue-wiping the Blonde Bombshell’s dirty ass.

Had Contessa not cheated by (twice) resorting to brass knuckles, Nerine would now be CEO of Sultry Circe---and Paolini would be La Gladwell’s “Dago-doggy.”

So after Contessa’s tainted victory, she embarked on a physical makeover, hiring one of the West Coast’s top personal trainers to turn her into a super-sexy MMA-style fighting machine. By the time Nerine had returned to work, Contessa’s transformation was complete.

In addition to sporting steely biceps and rock-hard abdominals, the Italian Countess had also augmented her smoldering sensuality. La Paolini had gained 15 pounds, but the poundage was so well distributed that the brunette’s bust defied gravity and age: it was firmer and fuller, accentuating her already luscious areolae. And Contessa’s sumptuous derriere became even more delectably desirable.

Nerine’s wounds ran deeper, for she lost a physical contest that the blonde had actually won. The voluptuous beauty’s superior strength had been negated by Contessa’s guile and treachery. So the flaxen-haired Asst, Veep’s recovery process involved a mix of rest, reflection and recuperation.

Nerine also concentrated on trimming her belly fat and sharpening her fighting skills at the local gym.

Upon her return to Sultry Circe, though, the blonde adopted a lower profile so as not to antagonize Contessa Paolini. No more plunging necklines, short skirts or bare-shoulders. Nerine believed that the CEO still harbored ill will toward her, so why provoke the hot-headed brunette?

Plus, Nerine’s outlook had changed. She’d met a guy, fallen in love and was now engaged to be married. Her beau was a tall, dark and handsome IT entrepreneur named Ian Eisley. She even brought Ian to the Sultry Circe offices to meet her co-workers, including La Paolini.

And when Ian was introduced to Contessa, the CEO was polite but perfunctory---to Nerine’s great relief. The social chit-chat lasted all of 4 minutes. Indeed, the brunette seemed quite indifferent.

But that had been nothing more than a ruse.

So when La Paolini asked Nerine whether Ian could help streamline Sultry Circe’s digital infrastructure two weeks later, the blonde easily agreed. She was so proud of her Ian.

When the Armani-clad Ian Eisley arrived for the initial consultation, he was ushered into Contessa Paolini’s private office. And Nerine was happy to see that the CEO had donned a severely austere business suit and was wearing glasses. The brunette had been preparing a PowerPoint presentation and seemed harried as Ian crossed the threshold of her door.

“Thank you, Nerine. Would you like to stay for the consult?” asked Contessa.
“No, I can’t. I have a meeting with our vendors uptown,” responded the blonde, happy in the belief that Ian’s confab with Contessa was just business as usual.

“Well, off with you then. And tell those vendors to move the merchandise,” quipped a surprisingly ingratiating Contessa.

As soon Gladwell had departed, the CEO walked back into her office and locked the door. She graciously guided Ian to the chair facing her desk. The Contessa took her place behind the desk.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Eisley.”

“Ian. Call me Ian,” said Nerine’s fiancé`,

“Ian it is! And you may call me Contessa,” responded the Sexy CEO with a radiant smile.

“I’ve never dickered with a real live Countess before,” said Ian, flashing the brunette a rakish grin.

La Paolini, removed her glasses and began playing with her spectacles, inserting one end betwixt her teeth. “Dicker away, Ian.”

The sexual tension was accelerating at a faster clip than Contessa had planned. So she opened her desk drawer and extracted a mountain of Excel spreadsheets.

“Well, Ian, what can you do to help us minimize this pile of spreadsheets?” queried the coquettish Contessa.

“I have a proposition for you, Countess.”

“Will I like it, Ian?” asked the increasingly flirtatious CEO.

“There’s only one way to find out, Countess!” exclaimed Ian.

Before the conversation could turn any hotter, the thermostat did.” Excuse me a moment, Ian,” said the brunette, picking up the telephone and buzzing her administrative assistant. “Donna, what’s with the temperature here?” asked Contessa, shedding her jacket and unbuttoning two of the buttons on her blouse.

Donna Shipton informed her that the air-conditioning was on the fritz throughout the building.
While placing the phone back in its cradle with her right hand, the CEO used her left hand to loosen the barrette pinning back her raven tresses. The brunette’s mane now cascaded down over her shoulder.

Ian had loosened his tie in response to the heat, but his temperature rose when he noticed that Contessa’s blouse was of the see-through variety; and what the handsome IT expert saw, he instantly liked.

The sensual Italian Nobelwoman’s supple breasts and prominent areolae were clearly visible---and not just because of the flimsy material. Contessa’s unbuttoned top afforded Ian a direct view of La Paolini’s side-boobs---as well as her sexy tan lines.

“So how about that proposition, Mr. Eisley?” inquired Contessa arching an eyebrow.

Arising from his chair, Ian swaggered toward the CEO, inserted his hand into her inviting blouse, fondled both of Contessa’s firmly succulent breasts and areolae, and thrust his yearning tongue deeply into the Italian’s mouth, kissing La Paolini with unbridled passion.

“You’re going to have to STOP!” declared the CEO suddenly.

“Why?” asked a puzzled Ian.

“Because . . . I must do . . . THIS-----!“ exclaimed the overheated Contessa, dropping to her knees, unzipping Mr. Eisley’s fly, extracting his engorged cock and fellating the man’s penis with her furious and fiery tongue----licking and inhaling each testicle and adopting different tongue speeds to lubricate and coat Ian’s elongated stem.


“And you really know how to DICKER, Mr. Eisley!” moaned Contessa.

After allowing Nerine Gladwell’s fiancée to nearly shoot his seminal load, Contessa arose, ripped Ian’s shirt off, threw the tall man onto her desk---while sweeping all the desk’s contents onto the floor---and mounted Mr. Eisley’s well lubricated and throbbing cock.

“Ahhh . . . aren’t you the powerful one, though!” said an admiring Ian as the Italian Countess gyrated on the man’s pulsating dick.

“Powerful enough to beat the tar out your fat fiancée!” boasted Contessa.
“MMMMMMMM . . .That you did, my sweet! Nerine was depressed and humiliated for weeks,” responded an excited Ian.

“The bitch had it coming, Ian. I pounded those sloppy milk sacs she calls tits up and down this very room, lover!” added La Paolini.

“Nerine’s insanely jealous of your come-hither breasts, Countess. Her pasty white melons can’t compare to your upright, firmly august and beautiful Italian orbs, my love!” said Ian, sucking on the Countess’s areolae and nipples.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmm. You obviously appreciate quality over quantity, Mr. Eisley,” moaned the enraptured CEO.

“Indeed I do, Contessa. And I really like a fit and trim woman. Nerine’s too . . .”

“Fat in a trailer-park, white-trash sort of way!” added Contessa, completing Ian’s thought.
“EXACTLY, my love! She looks voluptuous, but once the panties come off, there’s that . . .”

“Unsightly second jelly belly that hangs over her pussy,” said the CEO, again completing the handsome man’s thought.

“And her hair isn’t lustrous or thick,” added Ian as his dick pounded Contessa’s pussy with fervor.

“Wispy, thinning strands of straw that the trailer-park bitch combs downward to hide a bulbous and broad forehead!” announced the Italian countess.

“And boy did you ever leave an impression there, my sweet Contessa!” said Ian.

“Yep! I pummeled her forehead with my fists---and then slammed it into the wall over and over and over again. Take a look at the indentation on the wall near the door,” said la Paolini.

Craning his neck to the left, Ian smiled as he saw the concave depression left in the plaster.
“I deliberately did not repair that wall to impress upon all visitors and employees---especially your fat fiancée---of blondie’s humiliating defeat at my hands!” explained Contessa.

“Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha! That’s so magnificent!” roared Ian as he leaned upward to lustily kiss the luscious brunette gyrating on his dick.

“Serves Ol’ Bubblehead right, Mr. Eisley!” boasted Contessa.

“ Mmmmmmmm. Ol’ Bubblehead----I LOVE IT!” announced Ian.

As the sexually intoxicated duo continued to fuck---nearly reaching the brink of climax---Contessa noticed a message on her mobile device. It was from Donna Shipton, the admin: “Nerine due back in 5 minutes!”

At that moment, Contessa hatched a most delicious scheme.

“Ian, my love, want to see your beauteous Contessa beat up Nerine all over again? In the proverbial flesh?’ moaned Contessa.

“Yesssssssssss!” said the delirious Mr. Eisely.

“Bet you can’t wait for me to pummel Ol’ Bubblehead’s sloppy, floppy boobs!” exclaimed La Paolini.

“C-Can’t wait, my beautiful Countess!” moaned Ian.

“And you WANT to see my fists make mincemeat out of blondie’s flabby gut---and pulverize her pale and fleshy white-trash underbelly!” boasted the Italian Noblewoman.

“Y-Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” exclaimed Ian.

Finally, Contessa Paolini saved her best prediction for last: “And you want Countess to incessantly pummel, punch and decimate Nerine’s freckled back---as all of Sultry Circe’s executives and staff employees gleefully look on----snapping Bubblehead’s spine with a vicious backbreaker and a brutal piledriver!”

“Ohhhhh . . . YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!” uttered Ian in the throes of near eruption,
“MMMMMMMMM, lover. Bubblehead just got off the elevator and is entering the receptionist’s desk. Fuck me HARD, Mr. Eisley: Fill Contessa with your love juice NOWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” commanded La Paolini as Ian’s cum flooded the Italian Countess’s love canal.

Dressing hastily, minutes later, Ian and Contessa restored the desk to order, hurling the Excel spreadsheets onto the floor.

Hearing a knock at the door, Contessa purred: “Come in.”

“Well, it looks like you two have been working up a storm,” announced an oblivious but ebullient Nerine Gladwell.

“You don’t know the half of it,” responded Ian, taking Contessa’s hand as she arose from her chair---and then kissing his fiancée on the cheek.

Even while bussing the blonde’s cheek, the handsome Mr. Eisley held onto the Beautiful CEO’s hand.

Seeking to send a subtle but unmistakable signal to the Nerine, Contessa continued to grasp Ian’s hand as she playfully swung both their arms. And then the wickedly calculating brunette said: “Nerine, dear, we were slaving over a HOT desk---literally. The air conditioning had stopped working, so we swept the desk clear and then I took the balls, er, the bull by the horns. That is, in lieu of spreading . . . the Excel nonsense all over the desk---your boyfriend, I mean fiancé, had been DICKering with me over the details---I suggested we spread on the floor.”

A thin line of perspiration trickled down both of the dishwater blonde’s armpits as she listened to Contessa’s coyly suggestive account of the day’s activities.

Toning down her suggestive rhetoric---but still hoping to unnerve blondie---La Paolini released Ian’s hand, declaring: “Ian’s been such a DOLL; he licked everything I spread before him!”

“So my fiancé’s expertise made a difference,” volunteered a timorous Nerine.

“A BIG difference. Thanks for loaning me this BIG guy, Nerine, And thank you ever so much, Ian!” said the sensual Italian Countess, leaning in to plant a seemingly innocent peck on Eisely’s cheek. What Nerine could not see from her angle, though, was that Contessa’s wet tongue had lingered on Ian’s face.

A devilish grin emerged on Ian’s face as he allowed Contessa to lavish her hot tongue even longer. The Italian Countess and Eisley finally disengaged, but Nerine was slightly perturbed that the CEO had left a ruby red lipstick smudge on Ian’s cheek. Before the dishwater blonde could wipe it off, Contessa beat her to the punch----allowing La Paolini to once again intimately touch Nerine’s fiancé.

“NOW you’re good to go, Mr. Eisely!” flirted Contessa.

“Why, thank you, Countess!” responded an equally flirtatious Ian.

A visibly irritated Nerine attempted to steer her beau out of the room before a budding romance might soon be kindled.

“Honey, we really must be going,” implored Nerine.

Sensing the dishwater blonde’s discomfort, Contessa took Ian and Nerine by the arm and steered them toward the door. But her action wasn’t altruistic. No, the Italian Noblewoman’s move was but a ploy to position Nerine under the plaster indentation on the wall. That is, the spot where Contessa had repeatedly and deliciously pounded Nerine prominent forehead into the wall.

Winking at the brunette, Ian reached into the pocket of his jacket and threw a small item at Contessa. It was an old-fashioned wad of bubblegum.

“You are a very clever devil, Ian!” said Contessa, snaring the bubblegum in her hand.

“W-What’s this all about?” asked the clearly worried Gladwell girl.

“No worries, Nerine. Your boyfriend----“said the calculating CEO before being interrupted.

“Fiance`!” demanded Nerine.

“Yes, well, Ian is quite a clever fellow, my dear Nerine. What he wants me to do with this wad of gum is to illustrate the bubble we’ve all been living in regarding our financials,” explained Contessa.

“That’s right, Nerine. Now watch as the Countess shows you what she did for me during our
meeting,” added Ian.

Practically purring with delight, La Paolini placed the gum in her mouth and said: “Indeed. Now watch me closely, Nerine. This is what I did with Ian before. I put my lips together, masticating
away---and then I proceeded to BLOW. It was quite a JOB!”

Second later a large bubble emerged from Contessa’s mouth. The gleefully smiling CEO then pricked the ballooning sphere with one of her long fingernails. “That’s what you call bursting the BUBBLHEAD!” declared the brunette staring directly at the indentation on the wall overhead.

Ian Eisley’s raucous laughter---and Contessa Paolini’s contemptuous smirk—irritated Nerine.
Then the Countess added one more indignity. “Nerine dear, I’ve kept both of you for far too long,” said La Paolini grasping both of the blonde’s hands in a cordial goodbye gesture.

The sensual CEO took both of Ian’s hands in a similar fashion. She paused to look at Nerine momentarily---and then lunged for Ian, placing a lingering lingual kiss on Mr. Eisley’s neck. This time, however, Contessa didn’t wipe off the lipstick smudge. “Thanks again, BIG boy!” gloated the triumphant CEO.


Later that evening, after a brief spat over Ian’s interaction with Contessa, Nerine and Ian had makeup sex. But Eisley acted as if the fucking was obligatory. In fact, it was desultory, predictable and, well, boring---especially compared to Ian’s explosive sexual escapades with the Italian Countess.

Though she was still uneasy about Contessa---and her dealings with Ian---Nerine was just happy that her fiancé still found her desirable enough to bed. However, Ian’s true passion was reserved for the loins of Contessa Paolini.

As the months progressed, Ian and Contessa began a torrid affair. They’d fuck at least twice a week---in hotels, conference rooms, cabs and Contessa’s very office. They fucked during the day and at night and in the wee hours of the morning. And they would fuck right under Nerine’s oblivious nose, fornicating in the bed Ian shared with the dishwater blonde.

The white-trash bimbo began to feel like a second-class fiancée. Nerine suspected that Ian and her brunette rival were doing the nasty, but Gladwell couldn’t prove it. So she finally decided that the best way to arouse Ian---and win him back---was to prove her physical superiority over that sleazy Cuntessa.

Nerine was confident that if her fiancé watched Gladwell defeat the “greaseball,” he’d come running back! After all, I had that skank collared and licking my dirty ass like a dog once before, thought the blonde.

So when Nerine invited Ian to join her in a workout at a new Fitness Gym, her fiancé was happily intrigued. Maybe Nerine wants to get back into shape, thought Ian. What the tall, dark and handsome fellow did not expect, though, was a showdown between his lover and his fiancée.

“Fancy meeting you here, Contessa!” exclaimed Nerine as she and Ian entered the Fitness Gym.

The Italian Noblewoman smiled seductively at Ian, almost ignoring the dishwater blonde. “It’s so nice to see you, Ian. And you too, dear Nerine.”

Irritated by the snub, Nerine grabbed Contessa by the arm and squeezed the Italian woman’s considerable bicep. “Whoa, that’s some musculature you have there, Contessa!”

Not one to miss an opportunity to outshine her flaxen-haired rival, La Paolini, began to flex and pose. “Do you agree with your girlfriend, Ian?”

Striding over to the CEO, Eisley wrapped one arm around Contessa’s waist while measuring Contessa’s ample bicep with his other hand.

“Rock-hard,” announced the handsome IT expert.

“Like you, stud-muffin!” purred La Paolini.

“What did you say, Contessa?” exclaimed Nerine.

“Nothing, dearie!” said a smiling Contessa.

“Whatever. Say, let’s take advantage of this Fitness Gym, Contessa. Join me in the ring---it’s downstairs---for a 2 out of 3 fall wrestling match. And my fiancé can serve as referee!” said the blonde, issuing a challenge.

“That’s a superlative idea, Nerine! Isn’t it, Ian?” responded the wily brunette.

Ian hesitated. His dick was screaming “Yesssssssss!” But his head worried that Nerine was setting herself up for failure. Though his heart now belonged to the Italian Countess, he still cared for the blonde. In the end, however, Ian’s cock decided for him. “YES! And I’d be happy to serve as referee!” announced a beaming Mr. Eisley

Nerine jumped for joy, dislodging Ian from Contessa and hugging her beau.

“Yes, Ian. Great choice!” exclaimed La Paolini, grabbing Ian back and planting a blatantly wet kiss on his lips.

Ian blushed, fearing that Nerine would take umbrage at Contessa’s brazen flirtation.

“Hope you didn’t mind that peck on the lips, dear Nerine. It was just my innocent way of thanking Ian. I mean, it’s not like I pecked him on his, um pecker!” chortled the brunette, taunting the dishwater blonde.

“Why should I mind, Contessa? But let’s get rolling!” offered Nerine.

“Sure, dearie!” said the confident CEO

The trio soon descended the stairs to the squared circle down below. The women climbed through the ropes and went to their respective corners. Ian donned a referee shirt and called both Nerine and Contessa to the center of the ring.

“This will be a 2 out of 3 fall no-hold barred wrestling match. The loser must be pinned, submit or rendered unconscious.

“I have one stipulation, Ian!” interjected Nerine

“And what might that be, Missy?” asked Contessa, posing arms akimbo.

“Just . . . THIS!” announced the dishwater blonde, removing her T-shirt and baring her fleshy breasts.

“Oh, so you want to tangle topless, blondie?” sneered the smug CEO, removing her sports bra to reveal a pair of firmly succulent pointy teats whose tan lines underscored the deep allure of Contessa’s puffy areolae.

The taller brunette strode toward the trailer-park blonde so that La Paolini’s tits---blessed with a firmness that seemed to defy gravity---towered over Nerine’s fat floppy jugs, which sagged to Gladwell’s belly.

Smiling at her tit-to-tit superiority, the Italian Countess winked at Ian and held both hands high in the air, challenging Nerine to a test of strength.

The dishwater blonde gripped Contessa’s mitts.

But it was no contest. Despite Nerine’s considerable strength, she found her knees buckling as Contessa crushed the blonde’s hands while bringing Gladwell to a genuflecting position. Nerine’s fat teats jiggled and her love handles quivered on the way down. Contessa then bent both of the dishwater blonde’s arms backward. And as she did, the CEO suddenly lifted her knee into Nerine’s exposed chin.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh-ooooowwwwww!” yelped the Gladwell woman, falling flat on her back.

La Paolini quickly hauled Nerine up by her thinning yellow hair and threw the blubbery blonde into the ropes. And as Nerine’s body rebounded---her pasty tits sloshing about every which way---she was met by a wicked fist to the solar plexus, courtesy of Sultry Circe’s Sexy CEO.

Collapsing in a heap, the dishwater blonde found herself being lifted yet again. This time, however, Contessa turned Nerine upside down, smashed her rival’s head to the canvas, executing a picture perfect pile-driver.

Folding a supine Nerine’s legs back, Contessa went for the pin.

Before Ian could begin the three count, though, Contessa planted a tongue-probing kiss on the referee’s mouth---while holding the blonde in a painful cradle.

Her worst fears confirmed, Nerine began to sob.

“ONE . . . TWO . . . THREE . . . FOUR . . . FIVE . . . SIX . . . SEVEN . . . EIGHT . . . NINE . . . .TEN! The winner of the first fall: The Beautiful and Powerful Contessa Paolini!” exulted Ian, who deliberately extended the three count to humiliate his fallen fiancée.

Shuffling back to her corner, a tearful Nerine look over her shoulder at a beaming Contessa Paolini, who was flirting with the referee---a k a the dishwater blonde’s fiancé-----by heaving her tits onto his chest.

Racing over to the opposite corner to “teach that WOP a lesson”---Nerine triggered the Second Fall.

“Lying, greasy BITCH!” shouted Nerine, charging the Italian Noblewoman with her fists at the ready.

Ian the referee ducked for cover as his mad cow of a fiancée lunged for the topless CEO’s succulent breasts. Contessa stood her ground, but at the last second stepped aside, allowing the trailer-park blonde’s momentum to carry her through the ring ropes and unto the gym’s concrete floor.

Leaping over the ropes with aplomb, Contessa pursued the dazed flaxen-haired wench---seizing a massive knot of the downed Assistant Vice President’s wispy follicles---and repeatedly smacking Nerine’s prominent forehead into a steel pillar supporting one of the ring’s turnbuckles.


“How does that feel, BUBBLEHEAD?” snorted a haughty Contessa.

There was nothing the reeling blonde could do to prevent the CEO’s rampage.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhguuhhhhhh! OWWWWWWWWWWWWW! Oh-Oh-Oh!” moaned Nerine as Contessa pounded Ol’ Bubblehead’s forehead into each of the remaining ring pillars.

As the blonde slid to the floor----with her sagging bovine teats quivering wildly---the Italian Noblewoman again grabbed Nerine’s straw-like hair and executed an exquisite snap-mare. The beleaguered Assistant Veep went sailing over Contessa’s shoulder, once again hitting the floor with a jarring thud.

Contessa lifted Ol’ Bubblehead with ease, hoisted the cow-titted blonde over her shoulder, climbed onto the ring apron (with Nerine in tow) and then used a reverse chin-lock to snap Gladwell’s back against the ropes.

After back-flipping against the ropes, the dishwater blonde’s body hit the mat and began spastically convulsing. Moving in swiftly, Contessa picked up Nerine and bitch-slapped her bloated face repeatedly. Gladwell was disoriented, woozy and utterly incapable of mounting even a rudimentary defense.

So the CEO began peppering Nerine’s high and broad forehead with stinging jabs.


Then came a teeth-rattling right cross to the jelly-bellied blonde’s jaw; a left haymaker to the left temple; and a savage bare-knuckled blow to Nerine’s bubbleheaded forehead that pushed the Asst. Veep back into the ropes.

The force of the punch entangled Nerine’s arms in between the ring’s ropes, making the outclassed blonde a sitting duck for the Italian Countess.

La Paolini smirked as she began to methodically clout Nerine’s gelatinous midsection with punishing bare-knuckled fury.

“Oooof! Guhhhh! OWWWW! Oof-oof-ooof! Uhhhh-OOF-Oof!” cried the Gladwell rag doll as Contessa’s fists plowed deeply into the dishwater blonde’s sagging stomach flesh.

In the midst of her furious fistic assault on Nerine’s pale belly fat, the Italian Noblewoman noticed a freckle (or was it a mole?) near the Asst. Veep’s belly button.

“Sweet!” enunciated the cruel Contessa, proceeding to pound the dishwater blonde’s prominent belly freckle---and the surrounding mass of sweaty gut blubber.

SMACK-smacketty-SMACK; WHAM-Whoomp-Smacketty-SMACK!

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh; OOOOOF! UHHHHHHHHHHH! Oooooooof!” yelped the Gladwell ragdoll.

Contessa’s next order of business was to pound, punch and punish Nerine’s over hanging sub-gut: WHAMM-WHOOMP! SMACK-smacketty-SMACK; WHAM-Whoomp-Smacketty-SMACK!

Looking over at Referee Eisely, the Italian Countess grabbed and twisted Nerine’s white-trash second belly and said: “How did you ever go to bed with this load of trailer-park shit, lover?”

Ian smiled but could not respond. His growing boner was response enough, though---indicating how much he was enjoying Contessa’s physical dominance over---and humiliation of---his fiancée.

Contessa continued to twist and mangle Nerine’s sloppy underbelly, stretching it to ugly and hideous lengths while winking at Ian.

Satisfied that she had aroused Eisley’s Big Member, the brunette suddenly let go of the blonde’s ugly second belly flap and began to focus on the Gladwell rag doll’s love handles, punching the sweaty folds of protuberant fat with rhythmic regularity.

“Like how I’m dominating and demolishing Ol’ Bubblehead, darling Ian?” asked Contessa with glee.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh! Oooof! Gahhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhh! Oof-oof-oof! cried Nerine as she simply absorbed her Italian rival’s blows---without so much as a response.

One of Contessa’s punches whirled the blonde’s body around, exposing Nerine’s lower-back tattoo. Contessa pumped rhythmic fists into the Asst Veep’s trailer-park body ink.

“Only a Walmart wench would get a tramp stamp,” said La Paolini as her methodical volley of powerful punches brought the lowly blonde to her knees, arms uselessly dangling in abject surrender.

Wrapping Nerine’s head in a choking-claw sleeper hold, Contessa called out to Ian: “Bring that luscious cock over here, lover!” commanded the brunette.

Eisley eagerly unzipped his fly and approached the Italian Noblewoman, who was about to terminate the bout---and possibly Nerine.

“W-What are you doing?” asked a worried yet excited Ian.

“Why, getting rid of your albatross, lover!” chortled Contessa while tightening the sleeper-choke hold on Nerine, whose seemed moments away from shuffling off this mortal coil.

Ragdoll Gladwell’s eyes were rolling up in her head; her tongue was hanging out of her mouth; spittle dripped onto the dishwater blonde’s sagging udders and belly fat; and Nerine’s body was beginning to convulse.

“This is soooo SWEET, my Conquering Contessa! You literally have beaten my fiancée to within an inch of her life!” exulted Ian, whipping out his engorged dick.

La Paolini twisted Nerine’s head to the side so that the dishwater wench could observe Ian’s stiff cock enter Contessa’s salivating mouth. And the blonde watched in horror and disgust; she felt Ian’s pulsating member shoot his load into the Italian Noblewoman’s mouth at the sensual insistence of Contessa’s fellating tongue.

Despite inhaling, sucking and deliciously licking Ian’s hardened penis---and scrotum---Contessa continued to apply pressure to Nerine’s head. Either the blubbery blonde was going to succumb to La Paolini’s sleeper hold and lose consciousness or Nerine was headed for a very, very long sleep.

But once her fiancé shot his load into Contessa’s mouth, the CEO decided to spare the blonde. However, La Paolini made certain to retain some of Ian’s cum. And just as the Gladwell Ragdoll’s arms went limp and Contessa dropped blondie to the canvas, the CEO spat our Ian’s seminal fluid onto Nerine’s face and forehead---slathering the sticky substance all over Bubblehead’s high and broad forehead.

“Did you make sure to get all this on your smartphone, lover?” asked the Conquering CEO as she placed her foot on Nerine’s unconscious, cum-covered face and flexed her arms in a haughty victory pose.

“Sure did, my beautiful champion!” gushed Ian, who was standing over to his vanquished fiancee.

This was surely one of Contessa Paolini’s greatest triumphs.

“And to honor your great victory over Nerine---and add to its sweetness---I must ask for your lips. Please approach your humble servant Ian, my Queen!’

A sultry and sensual smile broke out on Contessa Paolini’s face. When she met Ian, the victrix embraced the man she’d stolen from Eisely. But before they could lock lips and tongues, the Italian Noblewoman took it upon herself to stand atop the prostrate, unconscious body of the beaten Nerine. She placed one foot so that it squashed the white-trash woman’s mushy gut. La Paolini positioned the other foot on the dishwater blonde’s chest, crushing Gladwell’s fat saggy tits.

“Take out your smartphone, Ian sweetheart!” commanded Contessa.

Ian complied---and also whipped out his cock, which he pointed directly at his fiancée’s bloated, cum-covered face. Sensing what was about to happen, Sultry Circe’s CEO laughed heartily and implored Ian to take both a sexy selfie and a video.

Positioning herself for maximum effect, Contessa took hold of Ian’s chin and licked his face, plunging her smoldering, swirling tongue into his mouth---at the same moment that Eisely’s dick urinated on his defeated fiancee’s face.

Nerine Gladwell’s humiliation was complete.

She’d been thoroughly demolished by the Italian Countess in a fair, no-holds-barred bout---a fist fight the dishwater blonde had initiated. And in this woman-to-woman tussle, Nerine had suffered as never before, beaten to a literal pulp and forced into unconsciousness while Contessa stole her man.

The brunette appeared to be at the peak of her physical perfection; the trailer-park Gladwell not so much, her fleshy flaws massively exposed and exploited by the triumphant CEO. La Paolini took ample advantage of Nerine’s physical weaknesses and pummeled the blonde’s pale and sagging belly while mangling the Dishwater Bitch’s drooping jugs.

The Italian woman beat Nerine like a white-trash mule. Worse still, Nerine’s beloved Ian lost respect for Gladwell, showering her with his contempt by pissing on his loser fiancée as he tongue-kissed the victrix.

Soaked in Ian’s urine---and soundly defeated by her arch rival---the heavily bruised blonde had just about given up all hope. But then she heard Contessa blurt out: “ Whew, I’m glad that’s over!”

“Whaddaya mean , love?” asked a puzzled Ian.”You trounced jelly-belly Nerine all over the gym. Man, you clocked that cow-titted bitch but good! What’s all this self-doubt, girl?”

“Never mind, lover. She’s a tougher customer than you think. But now she’ll never challenge me again. R-Right, Ian?”

“You bet, my sweet Contessa!”

Feigning unconsciousness as she listened to the dialogue, Nerine felt her confidence returning. Now I know what I have to do to beat this skinny cunt once and for all. And win back Ian, thought the Gladwell girl.

“T-T-That’s right, Ian. I showed that white-trash cow, didn’t I?” said La Paolini as if to convince herself.

“Let’s leave now, my love,” replied Ian. “

‘Before we do, my love, let me have some last-minute fun. The CEO unzipped her lover’s fly, extracted Ian’s penis and nodded toward the broken blonde’s motionless body.

“Hold your water till I’m through, Ian sweetheart!” implored Contessa.

Nerine knew what was coming and tried to steel herself for the onslaught. She was thoroughly depleted and in no position to fight back as Contessa began stomping and kicking the Gladwell ragdoll’s prone body all around the mat.

La Paolini’s boots cruelly beat the wounded blonde’s body until the CEO tired of that line of attack and decided to launch atomic elbow smashes into Nerine’s freckled shoulders and back---again, again and again.

“Whoomp! Smack! Whomp! Smack! Crack! Whoooomp! Whoomp! Smack! Crack!”

The dishwater blonde’s pain-wracked frame could take no more----and she was slipping into unconsciousness—when Nerine felt a downpour of warm liquid drenching her freckled shoulders and back.

Ian Eisely had once again peed on his beaten fiancée, making sure to thoroughly soak her straw-like hair and face with his piss.

“Magnificent, my love!” said Contessa, congratulating her lover with a torrid tongue kiss.

And then everything went black for Nerine Gladwell.


When she awoke hours later, the defeated dishwater blonde reeked of urine, blood and humiliation.

Though Contessa had bested the blonde in a fair fight, demolishing the Gladwell gal with a punishing two-fisted assault that exposed Nerine’s flabby breasts and belly, the Asst. Veep had hope.

And now that her tormenter had departed---with Nerine’s fiancée as the prize---the flaxen-haired woman began plotting her revenge.

After a warm shower in the gym, Nerine donned a jumpsuit and headed for a nearby motel to lick her wounds and get some much needed shut-eye. She didn’t want to head home to absorb another beating at the hands of Contessa---and then be forced to watch the brunette CEO making love to her man.

Though La Paolini’s victory over Nerine was a rout, the blonde had detected a simmering fear in the brunette even as the prostrate, beaten and humiliated blonde lay at the CEO’s feet.

The next morning---after getting up early and journeying home to witness Contessa and Ian depart for work---Nerine slipped back into the apartment and donned one of her sexiest dresses, a stunning black number that bared one of Gladwell’s resplendently freckled shoulders while sporting a plunging cut-out displaying much of the blonde’s milky white cleavage.

“Wait till that swarthy cunt gets a load of me!” exclaimed the luscious lentiginous sexpot aloud.

When the two women met in the elevator that morning, Nerine waited until the doors shut and then pressed the emergency button, halting the entire boxcar.

Contessa gasped upon viewing the blonde’s naked freckled shoulder; and the timorous Italian shook as Nerine approached her brunette rival with a disdainful smirk.

“Whatsamatta u?” queried the Gladwell gal condescendingly.

“I beat you black, blue and senseless, yesterday! Now . . . o-open the e-e -levator door, Nerine!” implored a clearly intimidated Contessa.

“SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP!” thundered the sexy blonde’s hand as it struck the CEO’s face back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

“Uhhh! Owww! Ohhhh! Gahhhhh!” responded the shaken brunette.

Nerine watched with delight as the supposedly Invincible Contessa held her reddened countenance, but did nothing to respond to the humiliating slap-down---except cower and backpedal into the elevator’s corner.

Emboldened by her former tormentor’s fear, the Voluptuous Blonde shoved the CEO fully into the corner. “Is the Cowardly Contessa afraid of Nerine Gladwell?” asked the powerful flaxen-haired fighter as she began punching and jabbing the brunette’s forehead, face and cheekbones with bare-knuckled fury.

“Whoomp-smack! Smacketty-whoop! Whap-Whap-Wop –Whappppppp!” reverberated around the elevator as the Gladwell Gal’s punishing fists cuffed, clouted and battered the Italian.

Smiling devilishly, La Gladwell continued to snap Punching-bag Paolini’s head back like a bobblehead doll. Nerine’s blows were putting a big hurt on the brunette. A stinging right cross set the CEO up for a left-right combo to the eye, which instantly began to swell shut as it turned the ugliest shade of purple.

“Seems the Goomba Guttersnipe can’t defend herself!” chortled Nerine as she smashed another right cross into the tottering Italian’s mouth.

“Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” yelped the shell-shocked CEO, falling to the elevator floor in a heap.

Bloodied and nearly beaten to a pulp, Contessa screamed in agony as Nerine lifted the rag-doll chief executive up by the roots of her greasy Snooki-like mane. And wrapping the tangled brown strands of Contessa’s hair around her fist, La Gladwell proceeded to bash the brunette’s forehead into the elevator’s three walls----and the closed doors---repeatedly.

While still holding her foe by the hair, an exultant Nerine lifted a knee into the chin of the overmatched Contessa. Then letting the brunette go, Nerine laughed as the tottering Italian stumbled about in a stupor..

“Wobbly WOP’s not up for this bout!”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” is all that a wilting Contessa could utter as Nerine sent a searing haymaker into the brunette’s nose.

Thrilled by the scarlet liquid spurting from Paolini’s proboscis, Nerine pounded another insolent fist into Contessa’s right eye, instantly blackening it.

La Gladwell followed up with a jarring left hook to the jaw. Then a vicious right cross to Contessa’s temple, which floored the CEO.

But Nerine was just getting started. Before the Italian rag-doll could slip into unconsciousness, the blonde hoisted Contessa up by her stringy Snooki-locks, tore off Paolini’s blouse and savagely removed the Cowardly Paisan’s bra.

Bruised, bludgeoned and bloodied, the brunette was now a delicious topless target for the resurgent blonde.

“Wham-smack! Smacketty-SMACK_ Whoppetty-WOP! Smacketty-Smacketty-SMACK!” rang out as Nerine’s fists plowed into Contessa’s girl-scout torso.

The Sexy Blonde issued a quick left/right/left combination to the brown-haired wench’s tater-tot teats. Then came stinging jabs to Punching-bag Paolini’s tiny torso. Tit-jab after tit-jab after tit-jab softened up Contessa’s swarthy breast meat, mashing and smashing the CEO’s puffy areolae in the process.

Mercilessly, efficiently and relentlessly, Nerine demolished the Italian woman’s boobs, body, fighting spirit and self-esteem. “P-Please . . . s-s-stop hurting me, Nerine!” implored the devastated brunette.

But Contessa’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

And speaking of ears, the CEO’s were cuffed about as Nerine’s bare knuckles banged away at Contessa’s face, which was lumping up gloriously.

The slaughter of the swarthy brunette bitch continued unabated as the Bodacious Blonde dropped booming rights and lefts into Contessa’s exposed belly.

Nerine was a blonde on a mission.

“Ooooof-OOF! Ghhaaaaaaa! OOF! UHHHHHHHHH! OOF-OOF-OOF-OOOOOOFFFF!” screamed Contessa as Nerine’s pulverizing bare-knuckled punches turned the brunette’s once proud abs to mushy polenta.

Nerine was bringing the fight to the Punching-bag Paisan as no one ever had before. Contessa winced as each fist burrowed deeply into the brunette’s now fleshy breadbasket.

Contessa Paolini had become a scalding-hot mess. Sporting two black eyes, a bloody nose, damaged cheek bones, a bloated, lumpy face and badly bruised breasts, Sultry Circe’s CEO blurted out her capitulation: “ C-C-Contessa s-s–she a s-s-surrender to dee Beautiful Blonde Mistress Nerine.”

La Gladwell’s response was a massive wind-milling uppercut to Contessa’s chin that lifted the cowardly Italian off the elevator floor and sent her crashing into the opposing wall.


Nerine waited the full ten minutes that it took for the unconscious Contessa to recover from the knockout. Then she ordered the defeated brunette bitch to suck the stiletto heel of the Victorious Blonde’s stylish shoe.

“Y-Yes bella Mistress Nerine . . . slurppppppppp!” gurgled the obsequious Italian in full degradation mode.

Flexing her bare freckled shoulder---while the beaten Wop inhaled the Aryan Blonde’s stiletto heel---Nerine pressed the elevator button. The door opened to the offices of Sultry Circe. And the astonished employees gaped in shock before erupting in a unanimous standing ovation.

“Meet the CEO of your new firm----The Freckled Femme Fatale!” exclaimed Nerine Gladwell.

After the applause died down, Nerine reached into her handbag, removed a dog collar and placed it around Contessa’s neck. The Voluptuous Blonde then announced: “The CEO of The Freckled Femme Fatale is walking her Dago-doggy to the official signing ceremony.

“I’ll make sure everything’s ready, your grace!” said Donna Shipton, Contessa’s former confidante.

“Good to see you’re onboard, Ms. Shipton. By the way, how do you like my little canine?” queried the cruel blonde as she kicked Contessa’s tiny naked udders with the point of a stiletto high-heeled shoe.

“She’s a bitch. Always has been. And now she’s a has-been CEO!” replied Donna.

“Ha-Ha-Ha! You got that right, Donna!” Now come on, Contessa. Chop-chop my little WOP-WOP! HaHaHaHaHaHAHaHa!”

Everyone had migrated to the office of the former CEO---Contessa Paolini---by the time an astonished Ian Eisley arrived.

The slack-jawed Ian was speechless. There was his lover squatting on all fours, collared and leashed by the woman La Paolini has beaten to a literal pulp just 24 hours earlier.

“Good to see you, Mr. Eisley---and welcome to the signing ceremony of our new firm: The Freckled Femme Fatale. And do say hello to my new canine---Contessa!” announced Nerine

“W-What happened?” stammered the stunned IT expert.

“Why, my dear Ian, I trounced the little tramp with whom you’ve had a dalliance all these months. Beat the tar out of your Italian CUNTessa. Turned her little-bitty titties into black-and-blue prunes. Knocked the coward out---and collared and leased the Lowly Meatball,” said the triumphant blonde.

“H-How . . .?” wondered Ian.

“Yes, how about I let my Little Pet WOP explain!” smirked La Gladwell, tugging at Contessa’ leash.

“Arf-arf! Arf-Arf-Arf! Arf-arf-arf!” responded the utterly servile Italian in full canine mode.

“HaHaHaHa. . . Ah . . . HaHaHa! Stunned, my darling Ian? Well, you shouldn’t be. In your heart, you always knew the Lowly Wop feared me. Now, I’ll overlook your betrayal if you persuade the bitch to sign over her company to moi!” exclaimed La Gladwell.

“Uhhhh . . . uhhh. . . ?” stammered Ian.

“Maybe this will persuade you, luv!” responded the Sexy Blonde, stripping off her blouse and bra, baring her Sweetly Freckled shoulders and back---while gripping Contessa’s oily locks---and striking a sensual victory pose.

Extracting a stylish pen from his breast pocket, Ian handed the writing instrument to Contessa. Smiling triumphantly, Nerine momentarily let go of both the leash and the brunette’s hair.

Instead of taking the pen in her mouth in full doggy fashion, La Paolini stunned the onlookers by grabbing it with her hand, inserting the writing instrument between her fingers---with the pointy tip of the pen exposed---and forcefully pounding a clenched fist into Nerine’s exposed belly button.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOF!’ yelped the stricken Dishwater Blonde.

Arising to her full height, Contessa followed her initial surprise blow with a powerful left hook that smashed into the quivering flesh of Gladwell’s soft paunch. Then came a wave of successive one-two combinations---again to Nerine’s plump gut.

“Oof-oof! OOF-OOF-OOF! Ooooof-OWWW! OOOF-Oof-OOF!” cried the stunned blonde.

Nerine was reeling from the surprise attack, but she was not about to let the Canine Cuntessa beat her into retreat, surrender or submission.

For Nerine knew that Paisan Paolini was no match for the Aryan Blonde’s pugilistic skills!

“Do your worst, WOP!” exclaimed La Gladwell, kicking the pen out of the brunette’s clenched fist.

Backpedaling in fear, the Cowardly Contessa panicked and attempted to flee. But it was too late. The Bodacious Blonde pounced, unleashing a booming uppercut to the cowering brunette’s jaw!

Contessa landed on her ass with a thud. Nerine stepped in, lifted the Wobbly WOP up by her greasy Snooki-locks and bitched slapped the Italian woman to and fro.

“Not so tough when we’re on even terms, WOP!” shouted La Gladwell.

The once haughty Countess sobbed uncontrollably as the Aryan Blonde began working Paisan Paolini over with precise bare-knuckled punches.

First, Nerine clouted each of Contessa’s prune-like tits with left-right-left combinations. Then the Aryan Blonde shifted to Paolini’s softened gut, pounding rock-like fists into the Cowardly Italian’s stomach flesh in a rhythmic, staccato fashion.

“Ooof-oof-oof! OOF-OOF-OOOF!” gurgled Contessa.

The Italian wench was soaking up another terrible beating as Nerine sent a series of lightning-quick fists into the brunette’s softened abs.


A stroking left hook---followed by a thudding one-two combination---upped the pugilistic pressure on the now vulnerable Contessa. Stumbling about in pain, she left herself wide open for the Aryan’s blonde’s bare-knuckled barrage.

Nerine stepped in and methodically and efficiently, took advantage of Paolini’s stupor to punish the brunette with heavy-handed clouts to the Italian’s little titties, rabbit punches to Contessa’s neck, and a devastating right hook to Concetta’s mouth.

Falling to one knee, Paolini didn’t have time to recover as Nerine smacked a fist into the peasant’s right temple.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” yelped the brunette.

Dancing around the dazed paisan, the Blonde Goddess began popping stinging jabs into the former CEO’s face; jab-jab-jabbing Contessa’s cheekbones, bloodying her nose and punching each eye for good measure (again)!

Pugilistically outclassed and embarrassed by the swift turnaround in fortunes, Contessa wobbled as the Sexy Aryan Goddess continued to smack the brunette’s swarthy flesh at will.

“OOOOF! OOOOF! OOF-OOOF! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOF-OOF!” grunted Paolini as Nerine pounded Contessa’s squishy belly with bare-knuckled relish.

Gone was the MMA-trained fighter. Nerine’s incessant pummeling had exposed the CEO’s true nature as a dimwitted grape-stomping WOP.

“Whatsa mattsa u, Contessa?”

“Oompf!”burbled the Pitiful Paisan as Nerine plowed yet another fist deep into the soft, sweaty folds of Contessa vulnerable belly.

A merciless Nerine aimed to beat the brunette unconscious. All the overwhelmed brunette could do was soak up the Aryan Blonde’s bare-knuckled punches as they pounded, punished and pummeled every inch of the Grape-stomping wench’s body with fistic ferocity.

“Thought you could go toe to toe with me, didya?” declared Nerine, clouting Contessa mushy girl-scout titties.

“SMACK-smacketty-SMACK! Smack-smacckk-Smacketty-SMACK!” Nerine’s fists methodically exacted their teat-flattening fury on the Swarthy Woman’s torso.

After briskly battering the Italian Wench’s little tits---jabbing, punching and smacking Contessa’s under and side breast meat methodically---the Beautiful Blonde grinned broadly and unloaded a flurry of uppercuts to Punching-bag Paolini’s chin.

Then a right cross followed a left cross, which gave way to a wind-milling uppercut to the proboscis that floored the once haughty brunette.

Badly hurt, deeply humiliated and fearing for her very life, Contessa began to beg.

“P-Please s-s-top. Y-You a win. C-CUNTessa she-a s-s-urrender.”

But Nerine ignored the beaten Italian’s pitiful plea. And it was inaudible to the assemblage in the office.

Having lifted the downed brunette up by her greasy hair, Nerine sent a sweet hook into Concetta’s teeth. Then came a series of chopping clouts to the Paisan’s temple;

“P-P-Please bella Nerine, s-s-stop hurting me; I-I s-s-surrender to dee!” croaked Contessa

But all the office workers could hear was the sound of the Flaxen-haired Beauty’s fists as they beat Contessa’s swarthy flesh over and over again---again and again---hammering body blows to the Italian’s bloated tummy, tenderizing Paolini’s teat-meat with bare-knuckled punches, pounding the Peasant Bitch’s collarbone, ribs and skull.


Contessa body had become a punching bag for the Beautiful Aryan Blonde Goddess. Soo much so that Nerine had no fear of a counterattack.

Smirking wickedly, Nerine ricocheted a final volley of chopping right hands into Rag-doll Contessa’s lungs, gut and kidneys.

“Uhhhhhhhh! Gahhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh! OOF! OOF-OOF-OOF!” moaned Contessa.

“Seems Guinea Girl is whupped! HaHaHaAHHHHHaHaHa!” chortled Nerine in seeming triumph.

Grabbing the thoroughly battered Italian Sow by her neck, the Blonde Goddess astonished the office onlookers by lifting Contessa off the floor---and holding her up so that the Putrid Paisan’s feet dangled in the air.

Paolini’s head hung in shame as spittle mixed with blood and dripped onto the battered brunette’s puny puppies.

Nerine then hoisted the humiliated CEO onto her gloriously freckled shoulders---and bench-pressed Contessa high in the air, parading the defeated wench for all to see.

Seconds later, Contessa’s helpless body came crashing down across Nerine’s upraised knee in a spectacular back-breaker.

But rather than planting her foot on the defeated woman’s tiny chest---and claiming a final and conclusive victory over her hated rival--- La Gladwell hauled the nearly unconscious Contessa up and foolishly placed the brunette in a sleeper hold.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . Gahhhhhhhhh . . . Gnnuuuhhhhhhhhh . . .” gurgled Contessa when Nerine applied intense pressure to the Italian woman’s skull and temples The blonde’s beautifully freckled biceps flexed, constricting the blood flow to the prostrate Paisan’s head.

“You’re FINALLY going down, CUNTessa!” howled Nerine in triumph.

And to underscore her point, the blonde beauty lifted Contessa’s right arm and watched it fall listlessly down ---indicating that the reign of La Paolini had just about ended.

But when Nerine took hold of the brunette’s left arm---loosening the grip on her sleeper hold---the blonde screamed in pain.


Contessa lived, after all! And just as she was about to succumb to a most ignominious defeat, the Italian Noblewoman used her the sharply manicured nails of her left hand to rake Nerine Gladwell’s eyes.

Stunned and blinded, the Dishwater Blonde did not see Contessa’s bare-knuckled haymaker as it exploded against Nerine’s prominent forehead.

‘OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !” screeched the Trailer-Park woman.

Falling flat on her back, Nerine could do little to stop Contessa’s vicious kicks to the trashy blonde’s skull, kidneys, back and fat ass.

The Italian Countess wasted little time in pouncing on the suddenly hapless Gladwell.

Contessa mauled the White-trash Blonde, pounding her naked body with three-punch combos; sinking her fists deep into Nerine’s girdle gut---the overhanging second belly under Nerine’s regular paunch.

In between clouting this mass of fat with savage left and right hooks, Contessa smacked Nerine’s pendulous breasts with contemptuous open handed slaps.

“Smack-smacketty-SMACK! SMACK-Smack!” echoed throughout the office as the brunette bitched-slapped Nerine sloppy cow-teats; leaving ugly red welts on each pasty-white melon.

How could this be happening? I had Contessa beaten to a p-p-pulp, thought the reeling Dishwater Blonde as the triumphant brunette shifted her line of attack to Gladwell’s mushy gelatinous gut

“OOF-oof-oof-oof! OOF-OOF-OOOF!” moaned Nerine as both her regular breadbasket and her unsightly underbelly absorbed Contessa’s thunderous punches..

The Italian Noblewoman’s fistic aim was unerring, for she targeted for a particularly noticeable freckle (or was it a mole?) on the Dishwater Blonde’s regular marshmallow mid-section.

“I always knew this is how it would end up, Missy Nerine—with you on the receiving of my superior pugilistic skills. You’re a chubby trailer-park Ho who just got lucky last time!” said the Italian Noblewoman, interspersing jabs, hooks and haymakers up and down the length of the worn-out blonde’s tubby body.

Contessa took particular delight in holding the blonde’s straw-like mane in one clenched fist--and then double-punching Nerine’s prominent forehead with the other, issuing one pummeling blow after another.

“Whoomp-whoomp- smack-whoomp! WHOOMP-WHOOMP-SMACKETTY-WHOOMP!!”

This bare-knuckled barrage opened up a cut just under the blonde’s receding hairline. And as blood dripped onto Gladwell’s right eye, La Paolini stepped back.

But just for a moment.

“Here . . . let me help you wipe that away, dearie!” said Contessa, viciously raking both of the helpless Dishwater Blonde’s eyes (again)!

“ARGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” screamed Nerine.

Nerine reflexively lifted her hands to her eyes, leaving herself wide open for a merciless 10-minute belly beating that left the Dishwater Blonde’s saggy, sloppy and sweaty stomach flesh black, blue and bloodied.

Gladwell’s innards were so savagely pummeled with each punch to the gut that the flaxen-haired floozy almost vomited on the spot.

Contessa stepped in again, sending a chopping right hand into Nerine’s left temple; a mighty wallop to the blubbering blonde’s right temple brought Gladwell to her knees.

“Uhhhhhhhh!” groaned the Dishwater Bitch as the Italian Countess sent a straight punch directly into Nerine’s prominent forehead.

The Gladwell bimbo pitched face forward onto the floor, quivering spastically as if in the middle of an epileptic seizure.

But Contessa instantly grabbed a handful of thinning yellow hair, hauling the Walmart wench up by her wispy roots.

“No mercy for you, Bitch!” bellowed La Paolini, lifting a left knee to one of Nerine’s pendulous fat breasts; then lifting the right knee to the trailer-park blonde’s other cow teat.

Contessa continued to punish Gladwell’s pasty flesh, methodically and repeatedly smacking her knee into Nerine’s overhanging belly.

“Oof-oof-oof! OOF! Oof-oof-oof!” cried Rag-doll Nerine.

Next came two massive uppercuts to the blonde’s taffy-like lower gut—followed by a third sweeping uppercut to the tottering blonde’s jaw.

Grabbing Gladwell’s locks again, Contessa took hold of the nearly unconscious blonde before she tumbled to the floor---and administered a brutal bare-knuckled speed-bag facial pounding, interspersing hurtful jabs and left and right hooks with merciless punches that rocked Nerine’s already puffy countenance.

Unable to resist the compulsion to pulverize the white-trash Ho’s tit-meat some more, La Paolini attacked Nerine Gladwell’s dangling globules of sloppy breast fat with a furious volley of bare-knuckled blows.

“Smack-SMACK-SMACK! Smacketty-SMACK. Smacketty-smack-smacketty-SMACK!” echoed throughout the room as the blonde’s perspiration-soaked sacs of tenderized teat-meat endured a humiliating lesson in the sweet science of breast boxing.

Nerine had absorbed an unprecedented beating at the hands of the Italian Noblewoman. And the end was nigh.

But before she dropped Gladwell for the final count, La Paolini spun the wobbly, befuddled blonde around so as to pummel, pound and brutalize Nerine’s freckled back.

The penultimate blow was a liver punch that nearly crippled Nerine; however, just as the blonde stumbled downward, Contessa launched a massive, wind-milling uppercut to Gladwell’s chin.

Down fell the Dishwater Blonde---flat on her freckled back.

That’s when Nerine Gladwell’s body and spirit were broken; yet just as the light in her eyes was about to flicker and die, the formerly unbeatable blonde watched helplessly as Contessa’s classically sculpted and superior Italian breasts engulfed Nerine’s face, smothering Gladwell’s countenance----as well as the entirety of the flaxen-haired floozy’s battered boobs.

Nerine didn’t squirm, budge or move as Contessa’s sleek physique and delectable olive-hued breasts smothered the Pasty One’s throttled white-trash tits and body.

Donna Shipton appeared and began counting the immobilized Gladwell out S-L-O-W-L-Y: “1 . . . 2 . . .3 . . .4 . . .5 . .. 6 . . . 7 . . . 8 . . . . . . .9. . . . . . . . 10!

The winner and forever CHAMPION: Contessa Paolini!!!!”

Contessa took her time arising from the unconscious woman’s broken body. But as she did so, the Italian Noblewoman stomped the blonde’s blubbery udders with her feet. Then Contessa kicked the defeated cow-cunt all the way to the nearby wall, making sure to amply punish Nerine’s freckled back.

“Now that the White-trash Witch has been thoroughly annihilated, I will resume my stewardship of this company, which henceforth will be called Circe’s Revenge. As for the “Freckled Femme Fatale,” I intend sell that odious name to an appropriate buyer,” announced the victorious Contessa.

“B-But what about us, Contessa?” queried a tremulous Donna Shipton.

“All my loyal employees shall remain. However, in your case, Donna, I have special plans!” responded the triumphant CEO.

Taking the brunette admin by the hand, Contessa led her to a dazed and bewildered Ian Eisely.

“Ian and I are no more. Our relationship is too fraught. Yet he deserves the comfort and warmth of a true companion. And you, Donna Ferro Shipton, would show him much affection.”

As if on cue, Donna unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked her brassiere and unveiled a sumptuous pair of breasts to Ian. Though more than a little zaftig, the brunette was quite the abundant vixen.

Noticing Eisely’s growing boner, Donna grabbed the IT expert’s head and plunged it into her massive cleavage.

“Mmmmmmmm,” muttered Ian as he kissed and licked Donna’s fulsome breasts and areolae.

Aroused to the max, the duo engaged in a torrid make-out session.

Their ardor was interrupted, though, by a suddenly revived Nerine Gladwell, who dashed across the room wielding a massive paperweight.

(Not wishing to crimp her admin’s style---and perhaps looking to secretly punish Donna for her brief betrayal---Contessa did not intervene.)

“CRACK!” sounded the paperweight as it smashed across the base of Donna’s skull!

The Italian administrative assistant fell to her knees.

Nerine Gladwell picked the pudgy brunette up by her thick locks and slammed the paperweight across Donna’s jaw.

The admin hit the floor with a heavy THUD, but her blonde pursuer once again lifted Donna up—this time by the nipples---and unloaded bare-knuckled fist after bare-knuckled fist into the brunette’s mushy midsection.

“Oof-OOf-oof! OOF-OOF-OOF! Uhhhhhhh-oof-ooof-oof! OOF!” yelped Donnas as Nerine assiduously pounded the stunned admin’s thick belly.

A speed-bag pummeling of Donna’s fleshy mammaries followed, bringing the brunette to the point of an obsequious surrender.

“SMACK-smacketty-smack-smacketty-smack-SMACKETTY-smack! Thwapp-SMACK!” moaned Donna’s melons as they soaked up Nerine’s painful clouts.

The Italian admin was being worked over something fierce; but just as she was about to cry ‘Uncle,’ a desperate Donna uncorked a lucky uppercut to the Dishwater Blonde’s jaw; the blow rocked Nerine—sending Gladwell flying backward a good three feet.

Rizzo-Shipton stomped across the room. The stupefied and groggy Gladwell could do little to stop Donna Ferro Shipton from wrapping her right hand around the blonde’s thinning follicles and pounding Nerine’s high and broad forehead with a powerhouse portside punch, repeating the blow three more times--- THWAPP! THWAPP! THWAPP!---before letting the trailer-park Ho fall ignobly to the floor.

A groggy Nerine found herself in a kneeling position as Donna approached the blonde and began using her as a human punching bag, smacking Gladwell’s swaying cow teats from left to right and all around.


The White-Trash Blondewas reeling from Donna’s fistic fusillade; but Nerine’s pain owed more to the humiliation of being so easily beaten by a lowly administrative assistant!

“Bet you didn’t know that “Ferro” means iron in Italian, bitch!” bellowed Donna Ferro Shipton as she pulled Nerine up by her wispy hair and began pummeling the blonde’s jelly belly with iron-fisted punches. The admin’s bare knuckles penetrated deep into Nerine’s marshmallow mid-section, kneading and twisting the flaxen-haired fucktard’s flesh as if it were dough!

‘Uhhhh! Ooof! Gahhhhhhhhhh! Uhh-uhhh-Uhhhh OOF-OOF-OOF!” gurgled Nerine as Donna’s heavy-fisted blows wreaked havoc on the blonde’s pulpy gut.

The Gladwell gal looked as if she wanted to yield.

But Donna was deriving too much pleasure debasing her former boss to stop the pasting.

La Ferro-Shipton was in total control of the once formidable Nerine. In fact, Donna owned the trailer-park blonde, smacking, slapping and pounding the white-trash woman with relish.

“Whump-whump-WHUMP! SMACK-smacketty-SMACK!” echoed throughout the office as Donna’s iron fists turned Nerine’s sloppy stomach fat into mincemeat.

Chopping right hands bounced off Nerine’s temple as La Ferro-Shipton interspersed right and left hooks with uppercuts to Gladwell’s gelatinous belly and tit-flattening slaps to the blonde’s drooping udders.

Nerine was being worked over by a woman whom she considered a decided inferior. It was unbelievable. This short, plump WOP was teaching the once mighty WASP the boxing lesson of her life. Yet Gladwell could not deny the existential reality: lowly Donna was a force of nature, methodically beating up and humbling the taller, stronger blonde as never before.

Worse yet, Ian---who had tasted and swooned over La Ferro-Shipton’s extra-large breasts and the zaftig brunette’s huge areolae---was getting a massive boner watching the pudgy EYE-talian punch out Nerine.

Panic was setting in with every clout. Unable to mount any offense----much less defend herself—Nerine was slipping fast into abject cowardly mode.

Donna was having so much fun hammering Gladwell’s pasty body, digging deeply into Nerine’s quivering flesh with wicked three-punch combinations while winking seductively at Ian Eisely.

Sensing the end was near for the Walmart blonde, La Ferro-Shipton slammed vicious hooks into Nerine’s mouth and ears---followed by a rapid-motion drubbing of the former marketing executive’s cow teats.

Donna smiled broadly as Nerine’s sagging breasts flipped, flopped and hideously jiggled, soaking up the brunette’s bare-knuckled punches; and all the while Gladwell’s arms hung uselessly by her side.

“Uhhhhhhhh! Oof! OOF-Oof-oof! . . . . P-P-Please . . s-s-st . . .!” gurgled Nerine.

“What’s that, Nerine honey?” asked Donna, who continued to pound alabaster white-trash meat with authority.

“I . . . s-s-s-surrender to Donna Ferro-Shipton, my s-s-superior . . . p-p-please stop h-h-huritng me!” uttered the thoroughly debased blonde.

The brunette did not even have to order Nerine’s obedience. Gladwell fell to her knees and began ignobly licking Donna’s feet.

The gloating admin called Ian over so that she could tongue-kiss Nerine’s former flame while the blonde slurped Donna’s toes.

“Like how I kicked ‘Ol Bubblehead’s ass, lover?” asked Donna of Ian.

“You beat her brains out but good, luv!” responded Ian, whose engorged dick was being fondled by the brunette.

“Get up, bitch! ordered the admin.

Nerine hastily complied.

“Now kiss my superior tits, Gladwell!” declared Donna.

As the taller woman stooped to buss each of La Ferro-Shipton’s massive mammaries, Donna grabbed hold of Nerine’s thinning blonde locks and ordered the beaten blonde to “Lick my ass crack!”

The brunette swung her ample derriere around, allowing Nerine to ignominiously lick the Italian woman’s anus with intensity.

The entire office burst into applause as Nerine’s tongue did its dirty work. And as the blonde’s tongue slurped and probed the brunette’s butt hole, Donna and Ian French-kissed with abandon.

But that wasn’t Nerine’s final humiliation.

After Donna and Ian’s torrid lingual gymnastics, the brunette commanded Nerine to lie down on a nearby couch as La Ferro-Shipton reverse face-sat the blonde whilst fellating Ian huge member.

Donna swallowed most of her new lover’s cum, but reserved some of Ian’s seminal fluid in her mouth. The brunette ordered Nerine to get up. Then Donna spat Ian’s reserved jizz into the blonde’s countenance, making sure to slather Eisely’s love juice all over Gladewell’s saggy tits and blubbery belly and sub-gut.

“Now watch ‘Ol Bubblehead drop!” exclaimed victorious admin as she smacked a thunderous fist into Nerine high, broad and ugly forehead,


Nerine Gladwell fell flat on her face in an instant. Planting her foot on the defeated blonde’s freckled back, Donna Ferro-Shipton flexed her biceps and jiggled her luscious breasts in a preening victory pose.




Gwendolyn McCluskey, was a stately MILF who hid her voluptuous charms under a fashionable but conservative jacket, a floral scarf and sensible slacks. Her visage was lightly and elegantly freckled---a sign of the luscious lentiginous beauty that lay underneath.

And when this imposing Irishwoman entered the offices of Circe’s Revenge, she had but one objective: Domination.

Having witnessed Nerine Gladwell’s twin defeats at the hands of Contessa Paolini and Donna Ferro Shipton, respectively, Ms. McCluskey knew she’d come to the right place.

With the Gladwell woman’s limp body still lying in a heap in the corner of La Paolini’s office, Gwendolyn approached the brunette CEO.

“Quite the establishment you have here,” volunteered the beautiful auburn-tressed female.

“Yes, Circe’s Revenge will rock the market! But who are you?” asked Contessa.

“Gwendolyn McCluskey. And I have a business proposition for you, Connie. But would you mind terribly if I removed my jacket.”

La Paolini was slighty annoyed at the Irishwoman’s impertinence in dumbing down the CEO’s first name. But once the Mighty Colleen shed her outer garb, Contessa backed off. This was no ordinary MILF.

Gwendolyn resembled a sweetly freckled cross between Julie Andrews and Sable of WWE fame. Indeed, Ms. McCluskey’s lentiginous beauty extended across her broad shoulders and abundant cleavage, all of which were clearly visible under a see-through, bra-less blouse.

“As you many have surmised, I’m here to buy the rights to The Freckled Femme Fatale!” declared the bodacious MILF, placing her the knuckles of her clenched fists on Contessa’s desk blotter and leaning forward so that the two women were nearly nose to nose.

“Sold!” responded a clearly intimidated Contessa.

“What? No bargaining?” asked a wickedly smiling Gwendolyn as her 38-DD freckled breasts dwarfed the Italian wench’s puny puppies.

“That company was a company in name only. Just pay me $1, sign the requisite papers that my attorney will forward to your office . . . and we’ve concluded our business, Gwen!” replied the CEO of Circe’s Revenge.

“It’s Lady McCluskey!” bellowed the Freckled Amazonian MILF.

“Y-Y-Yes, Lady McCluskey,” stammered Contessa meekly.

The Voluptuous Colleen strolled around the desk and leaned forward, thrusting her massive freckled breasts against Paolini’s swarthy countenance.

“SLAP! SLAP-SLAPPETY-SLAP! SMACK-SMACKETTY-SLAPPPPPP!” reverberated around the office as the Irishwoman’s Gloriously Freckled Mammaries repeatedly whacked the lowly Italian’s face back and forth.

Then taking hold of Contessa’s tiny breasties, Lady McCluskey twisted the Italian’s nipples and exclaimed: “Datsa good girl!”

Even as the Mighty Gwendolyn continued to punish Paisan Paolini’s little teats---now mangling Contessa’s puffy areolae, too---the Cowardly Dago obsequiously kissed each of the Irishwoman’s lightly freckled hands, declaring: “Thank you, your Grace!”

On her way out, Gwendolyn McCluskey picked up the unconscious Nerine Gladwell in one motion, stuffing the blonde’s naked body into a nearby trash can---head first.

“Perhaps after I beat the living cellulite out of this fat Barbie---somewhere down the road---you’ll get into the ring with Lady McCluskey.” announced the Gaelic MILF.

“Not likely,” whispered a quaking Contessa.

“Coward. But that’s typical of your kind, WOP!” declared Lady McCluskey, making sure that the Italian Countess got a full view of the Sexy Irishwoman’s Freckled Side-Boobs and sinewy lentiginous shoulders and back.