My Husband’s Catfight Fetish Ch. 01

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


Chapter 1: The Discovery

Like most women who know about their husbands’ catfight fetish, I discovered Eric’s interest by stumbling onto his cache of videos and dvds. He was out-of-town on business, and I was determined to investigate the contents of a locked cabinet, which he claimed held only business papers.

When I’d finally worked the lock open, I was surprised. I was expecting love letters from former girlfriends or maybe even a current mistress, not a media extravaganza. As I popped the first disc into the dvd player, I couldn’t imagine why he was hiding movies from me. After all, I’d even shown some enthusiasm for his “manly” action films and think Jean Claude is a hotty!

When the first scene materialized before me—two women, rolling around on a living room rug, pulling hair and ripping each other’s clothes to shreds—I was flabbergasted. What did this mean? Was Eric having an affair with one of these women? Were they fighting over him?

Spellbound, I previewed disc after disc and videotape after videotape, and it became clear that even my husband’s sexual stamina couldn’t sustain him through all these women. Besides, some were clearly not his type, and some, to be honest, looked frankly as if they had quite a few miles on them.

A few of the movies seemed to reflect some thought in the development of plot or scenario, with the women discussing their differences before throwing down. Some were obviously straightforward wrestling matches or boxing matches, a few with referees; while still others depicted two women entering a room and immediately beginning to tear and claw at each other with no prompting at all.

In the best of them, the acting was convincing; but, in the worst, the two women just seemed to roll around and barely suppress their laughter. In several, I was convinced that there was no acting at all; and this genre often led to bloody noses and split lips.

I’m not a naïve woman. After an hour or so of watching—barely making a dent in Eric’s collection—I felt I’d put together the most likely hypothesis: my husband had a catfight fetish! Of course, I knew that most men enjoyed the idea of this sort of thing. How else would one account for all the titillating commercials, whenever a catfight was written into the script of a movie or TV show?

But Eric’s interest was definitely on a different plane—unless all men had locked cabinets holding several thousand dollars worth of catfighting movies. My mind reeled with doubts and questions. Why keep it from me? Was he ashamed? And how could I have been so unperceptive, during the five years of our marriage?

As I scoured my memory for clues, I recalled an incident, during our engagement, when Eric had taken kızılay escort me to a charity event with dinner and dancing. As we fed each other hors d’oeuvres and played footsie beneath the tablecloth, we suddenly heard a crash, as a chair tipped over at a nearby table. Two women had stood up and were pointing and screaming at each other in their fashionable evening dresses. One of them said, “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you tell lies, Amanda!” I was sure they were on the verge of leaping across the table at each other, when their friends rose to separate and soothe them.

I looked at Eric and realized his pupils were dilated and his breathing, quite ragged. “Oh, darling, that’s so sweet,” I said. “You’re upset because you thought they were going to fight.” In retrospect, I chuckled to myself, “He was upset, all right, but with the two women’s meddling friends.” I also clearly recalled that our sex, that night, had been remarkable, even for two people who were usually passionate for one another. Hmmmph! I thought it had been my beautiful dress and lingerie, especially chosen for the evening.

Eric and I had always enjoyed a romantic and highly-charged sexual relationship, but, now that I thought about it, the most memorable evening we’d had, recently, was several months ago—after we’d attended a garden party at which two attractive, middle-aged women had gotten into a row of some sort and were rolling about on the grass, their skirts hiked up and their hair, wildly askew. Once again, a group of well-meaning but spoilsport friends had managed to pull them apart but not before one had ripped open the other’s blouse, revealing a lacy brassiere. The two women were screaming and begging to be let loose to settle their differences, but their friends prevailed.

Funny. I remember feeling disappointed. When I rejoined Eric at the refreshment table, he and a group of men were laughing and raising their glasses. “What’s the toast?” I asked; but my husband hooked my arm and spirited me away, before I got an answer. Our sex, that evening, was unusually hot and lusty, and I had felt like a jungle cat—seductive, demanding, and insatiable. Again, I thought it was the lingerie and maybe the warm, moist night air. Hmmmph, indeed!

An idea was given birth, at that moment; and, by the time my husband had returned from his travels, that evening, I’d used all of my skills with makeup to apply a small but fetching bruise beneath my right eye. When Eric saw me at the airport, he kissed me and exclaimed, “Avi, what happened!”

“Oh, nothing, sweetheart. Really, it’s too embarrassing even to discuss.”

The more persistent his questions became on the drive home, the more evasively kolej escort I replied. Once we were in our bedroom, as my husband kicked his shoes off and reclined on the bed while I unpacked his suitcase, I said, “Eric, please stop asking. If you really want to know, another woman and I got into it at a junior league meeting, and I’m so embarrassed I just want to forget it.”

Immediately, Eric leaped up to embrace me, saying, “Avi, darling, what happened? Tell me everything.”

I chuckled inwardly but looked up at him, with vulnerability and the beginnings of tears in my eyes, “Oh, Eric, it was awful. This woman I barely know and I were in charge of mapping out where the booths are to go at the next charity event, and she was insisting that her friend’s booth should get the best spot.

“We argued for several minutes, and she finally grabbed the marker from me and started writing her friend’s name on the chart. So I grabbed the marker back; and, before I knew what was happening, we were on the ground with our hands in each other’s hair.”

I sniffled and Eric embraced me, caressing my hair. In a hoarse voice, he encouraged, “Go on, sweetheart, tell me what happened.”

“At first, I thought we were just wrestling over the marker,” I said, “but then she starting ripping my blouse. I was sure someone would break us up, but, when a group of the other women gathered around us, they were cheering us on, not trying to stop us. She ripped my blouse open, so I did the same to her. And then,” I paused and sniffled again, “we just went for each other’s bras.”

“My poor baby,” Eric said, hugging me fiercely. His manhood had sprung to life within his trousers, and I snuggled against him. “What happened next?” he whispered, almost out of breath in my ear.

“She got my bra, Eric! She pulled it down around my waist, and my breasts were exposed to all the other women on the committee! I stood up and was going to run for the car, but one of the other women yelled, ‘Don’t let her get away with that, Avi! Pull her bra down!’ Well, that bitch was just grinning at me, waiting to see what I’d do, so I went after her!”

“Good girl!” Eric responded, and I felt his hand sliding past the waistband of my slacks to massage and knead my thong-clad bottom. I moaned and gyrated my womanhood into him, in reply. We kissed, and I felt my ardor building.

“Go on,” my husband whispered raggedly, and, again, I smiled inwardly and congratulated myself at having discovered this new form of foreplay.

“I don’t know what got into me, darling. I tore her bra down, too, and then we slapped faces, slapped breasts, pulled each other’s skirts down and ripped at each other’s pantyhose. When the maltepe escort other women finally separated us, we were practically naked, just shreds of pantyhose and our thongs.”

With that, Eric picked me up and tossed me onto the bed. He pulled my slacks and thong down, with one motion, and unbuckled his belt and struggled out of his own trousers in record time! His penis was hard, and a droplet of precum had formed on the head; but, even in his obvious need, he whispered hoarsely, “Are you ready, darling?”

“I’m so ready,” I gasped, and, at once, felt him sliding into me. The first few strokes were, as always, gentle—my husband is a considerate lover!—but, as our passion continued to build, we bucked and dug our nails in like wild animals. Within minutes, we found release, with our backs arched and both of us grunting and howling like wolves.

As we kissed and caressed, afterward, I realized that Eric was critically examining my breasts. “Your left breast is a little red, darling, did she hurt you?” I was glad I’d had the foresight to administer a few stinging slaps to myself, before leaving to meet Eric at the airport.

“She got in a few good ones,” I sulked, “and she pulled my nipple.” Then, brightening, I said, “but I gave her breasts a few good smacks, too, and I’ll bet her nipples are more sore than mine.”

Reaching behind me, careful not to let Eric notice, I managed to scratch my bottom hard but without breaking the skin. “And did you see where she clawed my ass!”

Eric rolled me over and exclaimed, “Oh, my god, Avi, she really got you! You’re still all red, back here. Poor baby!”

I could feel my husband’s tumescence, gaining strength against my leg, and I rolled over to play with his penis. With Eric on his back, I scooted down so that I could kiss and lick his manhood, while still seeing his face. Inwardly, I congratulated myself—and Eric, too—on the fastest second erection I’d ever known him to have. “You know, I’m pretty sure I could’ve gotten that thong off her, if the other women hadn’t interfered,” I said, bathing his penis in my saliva. “But then where would the fight have gone? I mean, once both women lose all their clothes, what do they fight for?”

I paused from tickling his shaft with the tip of my tongue to muse, “Hmmm, I suppose we could have continued to slap and pinch and scratch, until one of us gave up . . . but, you know, I really wanted to humiliate her. I would’ve probably tried to sit on her face.”

Eric suddenly groaned with unbridled pleasure, and I planted several sloppy, noisy kisses on the head of his manhood. Rising slightly to take him fully in my mouth, I sighed, “Maybe we’ll see. She said she wants to fight me again.” As my lips closed around him, my husband exploded in my mouth, and his hot, creamy semen shot down my throat, as fast as I could swallow.

Now, you may say, “But, Avi, you made the whole thing up!” Well, yes, I did. But I had fun. And my husband certainly had fun! Didn’t you?

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın