Catfight - The main story continues here.

Silke’s videos had gone viral again. The fan service, in particular, was a hit. Three cocks. The block. The dripping outside the window. Clips with no sound, clips with sound, compilations where someone had layered Silke’s moans over a beat. Max and Mira saw the numbers and wanted more. They wanted to tempt Silke into doing it again. The idea was simple and mean. Wrestling.

When Silke came through the connecting tunnel, the pool was already set up.

A shallow tub on the gym floor—deep enough that the lube wouldn’t run off right away, shallow enough that the cameras could see everything. The lube lay in it like a heavy, transparent film. The window was covered. Silke knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

How she knew that: Her boyfriend had been on the roof. The following week, she’d caught Jonas masturbating. His cock in his fist. “Wicked Bunny” on the screen. Her own, masked body. He’d come before he’d even noticed her behind him. She hadn’t touched him since. No kiss. No touch. Just the knowledge that he’d stood on the roof and jerked off into a bowl, and then again at home to the same clip.

Mira stood at the edge of the pool in a bikini, waiting. Black. Tight. Slim. In her hand was a second swimsuit, the same cut, one size larger. For Silke.

“We’ve set up a wrestling match,” Mira said. “Strip wrestling in the pool. They’ll fight until one is naked. You can’t give up. The other one then has thirty minutes and can do anything.”

Peter had talked Silke into negotiating the details again. “And anything goes,” said Silke, her voice firm even though the tunnel still ached in her bones. “Just don’t take off the mask.”

Mira nodded. Silke looked at the narrow shoulders, the toned thighs, the flat stomach, and thought: This is doable. I’m heavier. My arms are longer.

She changed into her swimsuit. The bikini was sturdy. No faulty seams. No fabric that would come undone on its own with a sudden jerk. Three things had to be removed: a bracelet, the top, and the bottom. Silke checked every bow and every hook. They’d been loose. She wasn’t stupid, after all. She pulled them extra tight. Twice. She fastened the strap so it couldn’t be easily unfastened with wet fingers. The top hooked behind her back. The bottom fit snugly in her crotch; the fabric dug in, but it stayed in place.

When she came back out, she looked like an advertisement and felt like bait.

Soft hips. Her stomach spilling over the waistband. Her breasts filled the top too much. Mira already had her mask on; she gave her a quick once-over and smiled as if sturdiness were just another rule that could be bent later. Then Silke put on her mask, just as the screen opened and the crowd on the roof cheered. Through the mask, she heard everything distorted and muffled.

Mira repeated the rules.

“No time limit. Whoever takes off the other’s three items first wins. The loser stays in the tub. Thirty minutes. Anything goes except taking off the mask.”

Silke lowered her chin. “Deal. Get in.”

The gel was cold at first, then immediately warm. Silke put one foot in the tub, then the other. It rose up to her calves, to her knees, coating the insides of her thighs. The smell was sweet, chemical—like a club and a pharmacy. Mira climbed in from the other side.

A sound. They moved toward each other.

Not a graceful grapple. A glide. Silke’s hands found Mira’s hips; Mira found Silke’s top. The gel turned every grip into a near-defeat. Silke put her weight into it, pressing Mira against the edge; gel and water sloshed over the side of the tub. Mira’s fingers searched for the hook on her back. Silke had fastened it. It stayed in place.

Silke made a dirty move. A handful of gel, flung straight into her face. Mira threw her arms up. At that very moment, Silke grabbed her slender wrist, twisted, pulled, and the bracelet slipped off her wet fingers.

One down. Cheers from the roof, muffled by the mask. After that, Mira got angry. She was dominating the fight. Weight versus technique. Silke was taller and still couldn’t keep up. Mira slipped under one arm, hooked it, twisted, and the top came off. A tug on the double knot—which would have held if it were dry but was now just fabric in the gel.

Her tits fell free.

Heavy. Soft. They swung forward, slapped against each other, flinging gel in flat droplets. Her nipples were instantly hard, dark, and shiny. Mira grabbed them—not like in wrestling, but viciously: thumb and index finger on both nipples, a pull outward, then a twist. Silke screamed into her mask. Her breasts kept bouncing anyway—every dodge a new swing, every movement a picture for the ceiling.

They kept fighting.

Silke tried to bury Mira beneath her. Mira let her come, slid sideways, hooked the bottom of her outfit. The sturdy fabric cut in, held firm, didn’t tear—it shifted. Over the hip. Through the crotch. Gone.

Silke was naked except for her mask and bracelet.

Her pussy lay exposed in the gel, her lips glistening, her soft belly wet, her tits heavy and red at the tips. Mira put her in the hold, an “Electric Chair” of wrestling and sadism: Silke sat on Mira’s thighs, her own legs spread wide over Mira’s shoulders and arms, her back against Mira’s chest, no support for her hands. Her breasts exposed. Her pussy exposed to the window. She couldn’t move, while Mira had one hand free.

Her free hand reached for her tits. And her pussy.

“So you wanted to play dirty with me,” Mira gasped into her ear. “Just you wait. I’ll make you pay for this.”

A finger traced her wet slit—not penetrating, just tracing. The roof witnessed the gesture.

“Did you notice the timer hasn’t started yet?”

Mira gave Silke just enough breathing room to look. The clock on the tripod was set to zero.

“But I’m naked. Why isn’t the timer running?”

Mira pointed to Silke’s wristband.

Silke understood. A fight with no time limit—until one of them won—that was the trap. Until all three items were off. She was missing the wristband. Mira had already lost hers and still had control. Silke tried to pull the wristband off herself. Her teeth on the clasp. Her wet hand. It was too tight. Just the way she’d made it herself. Now Mira began.

She tugged at her tits, lifted them, let them fall, played with her nipples until Silke was just squealing. Then her pussy. Two fingers along the lips, a circle on the clit, pressure, letting off, pressure again. The gel made everything too slippery and too direct. Silke writhed in the chair and couldn’t get anywhere.

Eventually, she was just squealing. Mira changed positions.

She tickled Silke all over her body. Underarms. The soles of her feet. The insides of her thighs. Her soft belly. The laughter was worse than screaming. It burst from behind the mask, high-pitched and helpless, while her tits jiggled and her pussy visibly contracted. Laughter came from the roof through the loudspeaker.

Then hands on her ass.

Slaps. Not light. Hard enough that the flesh rippled and turned red. Between the blows, a finger in her asshole, circling, penetrating, then a second. Mira fucked the tight hole with two slippery fingers while holding Silke’s pussy up to the cameras with her other hand. Open. Wet. The lips spread. The asshole right next to it, wrapped around her fingers.

At some point, Silke’s legs were up behind her ears.

The yellow basin, her legs spread, the cameras: asshole, pussy, tits in a straight line. Mira leaned over her, her own mask close.

“What if I took your mask off now? A picture. Asshole, pussy, tits, and face.”

Silke panicked.

“Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Everything?” Mira asked.

Silke moaned. The finger in her ass moved. Her clit burned.

“Everything.”

“Good. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll line up some guys from the roof. They can fuck you. Let’s say thirty minutes.”

Silke was already nodding.

“But for every orgasm you have, it’ll be five minutes longer.”

Silke just kept nodding.

“Say it out loud. Into the camera.”

Mira loosened her grip just enough for her voice to come through, but still held Silke open toward the window.

Silke almost screamed it—muffled by the mask, but clear enough for the speaker.

“You guys on the roof can fuck me in my bare pussy. Thirty minutes. And if I have an orgasm, I’ll add five more minutes.”

Cheers.

Mira let her go and pulled the tape off her face.