Primal Urge Ch. 01byaviendha33©
An earlier version of this story was submitted elsewhere. I retain all rights.
Primal Urge: My Surprising Entry Into the Sorority of Catfighting Wives
Chapter 1: The Initiation
A lot of my acquaintances whisper that I married for money. I didn't. I married for security. I grew up in circumstances that led me to appreciate comfort, safety, and a man who looks forward to coming home at the end of the day.
When I met Paul, he was welcoming a group of people onto a yacht at an exclusive club. He was dressed in frayed khakis and old, scuffed topsiders, and I assumed he was a deckhand. Impulsively, I walked onboard with the group, hoping to crash the party and maybe meet an eligible doctor or lawyer. Paul stopped me, introduced himself, and generously welcomed me to his party as a bonafide guest. It turns out it was his yacht. When I told him my plan, he said, "What's wrong with me?" We've been together, ever since—married now for almost a year.
Paul is in his mid-50s and still fit, but I confess it was the stability he offered that wooed and won me. Not that I bring nothing to the table! I'm a leggy 5'7" and, at 26, one of the most attractive women my husband has ever laid eyes on. He tells me just that, almost every day, and, in return, I shake my red hair and pout my lips into a kiss for him.
Despite the difference in our ages, we have a terrific relationship. We're good friends, and he's a natural mentor, patient and gentle with my endless questions about life and the world. And as for sex? We have a good time. Paul is passionate, and I'm tolerant; and, most of the time, I genuinely enjoy myself. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like with a younger man, but, above all, I prize loyalty in my man, and I'm a loyal wife in return.
Our lives are so busy and full that it was almost a year after our wedding before I wondered aloud with my husband why we never see many of our wedding guests socially. He dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, but I knew that he had many friends from his first marriage who had been important to him. When I asked why he seldom showed any interest in seeing them, he just said, "They're old friends, and we don't share so many interests anymore." I worried that perhaps his old friends were being harsh or judgmental for his having married such a young second wife, but he assured me that it was simply a matter of his having less in common with his old crowd now and little interest in seeing them.
Then, a few weeks ago, while searching for a set of Paul's cufflinks to wear with a French blouse, I found some photographs of my husband with his old friends. I confronted him, but all he would say at first was that they were old pictures he'd saved. When I pointed out that he was wearing a sport coat and tie in the photographs that I'd just had made for him, a month previously, I could see his resolve beginning to waver. He's not a natural liar, and, even more importantly, he's a good man and a good husband and would have trouble not being completely truthful with me.
"What's up, Paul?" I asked. "Why would you meet with your old friends and not include me?"
"I arranged to meet them for an evening on that weekend you were visiting your sister at her school," he said. "It was really no big deal."
I sensed that he was dissembling and pressed forward. "But why would you see them and then not tell me? We tell each other everything, don't we?"
That struck a nerve, and Paul turned to face me, his eyes slightly downcast. "Not everything, Kerry. To be honest, I haven't wanted to involve you with my old friends, because...well, because they have interests that I'm sure you don't share."
"What!" I interrupted. "Interests that you share with them but not with me? Paul, how can you say that! I've always tried to share your interests. Even in those antique cars you love restoring."
"Classic cars," he gently corrected. "But Kerry, this is different, trust me. It's something Carolyn and I did with the group that I doubt very much would interest you. In fact, I guess I'm a little ashamed of it, or I wouldn't have tried to conceal it from you."
"Paul, that's unfair!" I protested. "You and your first wife shared something with your friends, but you want to keep me out of it? If it's something you like, then I want to be a part of it, too!"
"Kerry, this really is different," he said softly, holding me by the shoulders. "It's...well, I was afraid you'd think it was perverted."
"Perverted?" Now I was a little fearful. "You're not involved in infidelity, are you darling?" I couldn't keep my voice from quavering.
"No, sweetheart, it's nothing like that...I'd never be unfaithful; you know that...but honestly? It is sexual."
I began to feel my stability toppling. Was my husband having some sort of an affair? "I know I haven't always been the most passionate woman, Paul," I interjected, "but I've always been happy to give you whatever you want."
"No, Kerry, stop it! Sweetheart, I love you. You mean the world to me, and I love our lovemaking, every moment of it."
"Then what do you all do together, you and your friends? What is it that you like? Paul, please tell me."
My husband settled me gently onto the loveseat in our dressing room and then sat on the floor in front of me. "Okay, I hadn't planned to tell you this way, but maybe this is best. Kerry, the women in the group of my old friends...well, they enjoy catfighting."
After a moment, I said, "You mean they like gossiping and saying vicious things about each other?"
Paul laughed. "No, darling, they're not mean. In fact, they're all loyal friends and acquaintances. But they enjoy a good catfight. Both watching them and participating in them."
My face must have been a blank.
"Kerry, they like to wrestle and fight each other physically. You know, pull hair, rip clothes, that sort of thing." He made a choking motion with his hands.
I was stunned. "You're joking. You mean they...they actually fight? But why?"
Paul shrugged. "Well, I guess the simplest answer is 'because they like it.'" When I didn't respond, he added, "It turns them on, and it turns their husbands on."
"But don't they get hurt?" I asked. "Doesn't it end up with grudges and hurt feelings?"
"No, it's not like that, Kerry. In fact, it's pretty heavily ritualized and rules-oriented. The wives challenge each other in prescribed ways, and the object isn't to hurt each other but to humiliate and sexually dominate each other."
"And the husbands like this?"
"Are you joking?"
"And the wives don't find it demeaning? I mean, why would they do it?"
"You'd have to ask them, I guess," Paul said. "But I'm sure some would say—maybe they'd all say—that they do it to excite their husbands. Really, it's better than Viagra," he winked. "And I think many would say they enjoy the intensity and sexual contact with another woman. And they enjoy watching each other. The fact is, the wives themselves are in control. They make up the rules to suit them, and they're in charge of the gatherings. We husbands are merely the grateful recipients of their largesse. And really, Kerry," Paul added, after a moment, "if you knew in advance that no one would be hurt, don't you think you'd enjoy watching a good, sexy catfight between two women?"
I smiled, digging my toe into the carpet. I had enjoyed watching my sorority sisters mud wrestle for charity at college, and I'd wished I'd had the courage to try it myself. When I confessed this to Paul, he raised his hands as if to say, "Well, of course."
"But wait," I said. "Why do your friends' wives try to humiliate each other? And how do they humiliate each other?"
"Probably the same way you'd want to humiliate a woman who wanted to humiliate you in a fight."
"Oh. Like tear her clothes off and strip her naked in front of everyone. So the winner is the first to strip her opponent?"
"Well, it could stop there," Paul replied. "But would you stop there? Picture yourself standing across from another attractive woman. You've challenged each other to fight in front of the rest of the group. In front of all the other wives. In front of your husbands and all the other husbands. She wants to embarrass and humiliate you until you submit, so she can make you do whatever you've agreed the loser will do. And you want nothing more than to do the same to her."
"Oooohhhh," I said, suddenly appreciating the full range of possibilities. "So it can get pretty nasty."
"The fights can get nasty. That's actually the hope," Paul smiled. "But the wives seem to have come up with a formula for remaining cordial and friendly. Some of them are even very close friends."
"I see," I murmured, suddenly picturing myself, standing across from an irritable woman whom I'd accidentally bumped at a political fundraiser that Paul and I had attended, the previous week. In my mind's eye, we'd kicked off our shoes and were circling each other on the dance floor. The crowd made a noisy amphitheater around us, as we lunged for each other and went down to the floor, rolling over and over, pulling each other's hair and trying to tear the tops of each other's dresses down. I didn't have much of an idea of where to go with this fantasy or what was supposed to come next, but I was aware of feeling sexually excited.
Paul tugged at my arm. "What are you thinking?"
"Umm, Paul, would you like to make love?"
Without a moment's thought, my husband scooped me up in his strong arms and whisked me to our bed, where the next several hours seemed to pass in a blink, leaving us both sublimely satisfied and completely exhausted.
After a few sips of the sports drink I habitually keep on my nightstand—one has to keep hydrated on these long afternoons!—I rolled over onto my spent husband and casually began to massage his now flaccid member. He chuckled, saying, "I think I may be down for the count, at least until after dinner, my love."
I kissed his ear and, screwing my courage to the sticking place, offered uncertainly, "Paul, if you'd like me to be a part of this...this thing with the wives...I mean, I'd want to do it, if it's something that's important to you."
"The question is whether it would interest you, Kerry," Paul responded. "I don't want you involved in anything that doesn't interest you and make you happy. I don't need anything other than what I have with you."
I became quietly thoughtful, as my imagination played with the possibilities, until my reverie was interrupted by my husband's sudden and surprising tumescence. "Well," I grinned, as I fondled his now erect penis, "I certainly like what the idea does for you."
"If you're serious—and only if it's something you'd really like to do—there's a party this weekend that we can attend. At the Farrells'. You remember Penny and Harry?"
I lazily climbed atop my husband and slowly lowered my womanhood onto his throbbing shaft. Running my fingers languidly through my hair, I thrust my breasts forward and said, "The idea does seem to have its positive side. All right, give them an RSVP."
Matching my breathy voice to our rhythmic movements, I continued, "So if you'd like to watch me...in a fight with another woman...pulling each other's hair...ripping each other's clothes...stripping each other...slapping each other's faces...grabbing each other's breasts...pulling each other's nipples...well, maybe I can do this for us."
Paul groaned, and I knew that dinner would be delayed, while we explored this new twist in our erotic fantasies.
The following Saturday evening, we arrived at the Farrells' home for their weekend house party, ascending the front veranda simultaneously with another couple, whom he introduced as Sol and Rachel Steingold. They were an attractive pair, in their late 40s, and obviously well turned out. We'd just finished shaking hands, when the Farrells' butler opened the door to admit us. The maid took our coats and wraps, and we were ushered into a large open room—part great room and part conservatory—where several other couples were already gathered.
We were offered champagne, and our hosts, Penny and Harry Farrell, came over to greet us. Penny was perhaps 50, deeply tanned, and what many men would call a very handsome woman. A little horsey-faced but well coifed with an ample bosom bursting forth to greet us from a low-cut, silver-sequined cocktail dress. Harry was a little portly and maybe five years older but had a winning smile and charming demeanor. The Farrells, like many of their guests, had been guests at Paul's and my wedding, and I remember liking them and wanting to get to know Penny better.
"You are just as precious as I recall, Kerry," she exclaimed in her cultured Southern accent, "and I'm just so glad you're here, tonight. When Paul called us and told us you wanted to participate, I said to Harry, 'I knew that girl was game from the moment I saw her.'"
"Well, I guess you could say 'game but a little nervous,'" I offered.
"Honey, you just enjoy this evening," Penny said, "and if you want to get involved, that's just fine, and if you just want to watch, tonight, why that's just fine, too. You just make yourself at home."
"Thank you, Penny. I guess I'll just wait and see what the evening brings."
"I'm sure you'll find it an interesting experience, Kerry," Rachel said as she joined us. "Did Paul tell you about tonight's rules?"
"Well, he told me to wear a cocktail dress, thigh-high French stockings, and silk thong or bikini underwear, but that's all he said."
"That's all he needed to say, shoog," Penny laughed. "You just watch and see what happens and you'll get the idea. When things get started, I'll find you and fill you in on the finer points, while we watch."
"Of course, things could get started sooner rather than later," Rachel said, as she stepped forward, pushing her bosom softly against Penny's.
The two women quietly and subtly rubbed their breasts into one another for a moment, and their breathing became perceptibly louder. After another moment, Penny stepped back and said, "Why, Rachel, I do believe you're still upset about what I did to you at the Ellisons' party, last month. But all in good time. I need to play hostess for a little while longer, and I need to make Kerry and Alex Crandall's new wife comfortable. Besides, what I did wasn't nearly as humiliating as what Cecily did to you at the Stones' party, two months ago." Penny smiled wickedly. "And I do believe Cecily and her husband have just arrived."
"Well, one thing's certain," Rachel returned the smile, "it's payback time and either you or Cecily can look forward to a dose of your own medicine, tonight." Rachel turned on her heel and, waving to a blonde woman across the room, called out, "Cecily, there you are."
Turning to Penny, I asked, "What's the medicine she wants to give you a dose of?"
"Oh, Kerry darlin', you'll just have to wait and see. Now go mingle and get re-acquainted with these good folks, and I'll be sure to take you aside for a full commentary, when things get exciting."
While Penny made her way through the other couples, hugging and offering kisses as she went, I turned to look for Paul, only to find that he'd joined a conversation with several other men, by the huge open fireplace. I decided to leave him to it and find a conversation of my own. Wandering toward the bar for a fresh glass of champagne, I surveyed the room. There were maybe ten or twelve couples—mostly in their late 30s, 40s, and early 50s, with only one other woman as young as I. "Alex Crandall's new wife," I said under my breath, and the bartender nodded and dropped a fresh bright red strawberry into my cold glass of bubbly.
All of the women were fit and attractive, but most were showing the inevitable signs of wear: a few extra pounds and lines, a bosom not as high as it once was, and a slightly wider version of a once tighter derriere. "Classic derrieres," I laughed quietly to myself, and a woman who had materialized beside me said, "Classic what?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just thinking about my husband's hobby. He restores old cars."
"Oh, you must be Paul's wife, Kerry. I'm Camilla Reston."
Camilla was a drop-dead gorgeous woman, probably in her late 30's, with a shock of golden hair, down to her shoulders. She was around 5'6", I guessed, and wearing a variation of the uniform-of-the-evening—a spaghetti-strapped, electric blue cocktail dress that hugged her shapely hips and dropped to six inches above her knees. The bust was cut deep, giving a full view of her cleavage and hinting at the delicate upturned roundness of each breast.
We shook hands, and I offered Camilla a glass of champagne from the bar. She complimented my own black silk cocktail dress, and asked where I'd gotten my stockings, which had an unusual floral-patterned seam along the outside of each leg. I remarked what a lovely room we were standing in, and she gave me a visual tour of the room's decor and the beautiful plants. Camilla was clearly a fan of Penny's decorator and told me that Penny had added many of the finishing touches herself.
"Of course, the room-sized Persian carpet is a nice touch, too," she said.
"I noticed that," I said. "There's so much padding, I'm almost falling off my heels."
"The better to cushion your fall, my dear," Camilla raised her eyebrows, laughing. "Let's grab a couple of those cushions and have a seat so we can talk more comfortably."
"Oohh, I see about the carpet," I said, sitting down next to her. "That makes sense on those less than dignified landings." Then I asked, "Camilla, how long have you been, um, doing this?"
She smiled and replied, "I guess going on five years now. Of course, my husband Tom and I don't get together with the group as often as we'd like, since we live in Zurich, now. But we try to visit, half a dozen times or so, each year." She leaned into me, conspiratorially, "It does wonders for us, when we're able to attend these little gatherings."
"Paul said that's why many of you participate. Is that why you're here?"
"That alone would probably do it," she said. "I love what it does for Tom's and my sex life. Whether I win or lose, it charges our lovemaking with electricity. But truthfully, Kerry? I love the sense of excitement. That part, I do for myself."
"You mean the competition?"
"Well, sort of. But 'competition' is too tame a way of putting it. This is wild. Elemental. It's like a primal urge. I've had the feeling before of wanting to get into a fight, but I never did, because I was afraid of getting hurt. And I'd never want to hurt anyone else; that would just make me feel terrible. But this way...the stakes are just as high. No one wants to have another woman get the better of her in front of crowd of onlookers, but no one gets hurt." She smiled, "So, even when you lose, you live for the thrill another day."
"And how does that happen? How does one woman get the better of another?" I asked.
"There are lots of ways," Camilla said. "Submissions, pins, and we make up a lot of different rules and games, just to keep things interesting. But personally? I favor the high stakes of a facesitting submission."
"You mean you actually?" I didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"You've got it, Kerry," Camilla smiled. "How can I describe the thrill of it? Two women, face to face, each realizing that the other wants to humiliate and degrade her as thoroughly as possible. If you don't do it to her, then she'll do it to you."
"So, basically, you're trying to get the better of her by..."
"By rubbing my ass crack in her face, yes," Camilla offered with a cheery grin.
"Has any of these women ever gotten the better of you?" I asked.
"Oh, my God, yes," she laughed. "Most of us are pretty evenly matched, so we give as good as we get. If your opponent thoroughly degrades you, one time, chances are you'll get her back, the next. Without really fixing the match, so to speak, I'm sure that most of us even get into some fights with the idea that it's the other woman's turn. A few women have gotten too competitive, and they're not invited back, after a while. Don't get me wrong. The fights are always tough, and nobody wants to lose. But I wouldn't have the heart in me to do to Allison, next time, what I did to her, last time. So the next time we meet, there's a good chance she'll even the score."