Boarding School Queen Chronicles Book 1 - The New Girl - Parts VIII to X


Authors note: Boarding School Queen Chronicles details the lives, loves and rivalries of a group of strong-willed alpha females. Young women who are willing to use all their sexual powers and wiles to decide who will wear the Boarding School Queen’s highly coveted crown.

The story was originally serialized on Hostboard's now defunct Titfighting and Sexfighting Forum. For this version, I have combined several of the original posts to present each chapter in fewer threads. I have also corrected some errors of grammar and punctuation. Otherwise, the story is the same as the original which was written and posted between 2016 and 2019.

Please note this story is sexually explicit from the start.
All characters represented are 18 years of age or older.




VIII



As she showered herself clean of sweat and grime after the climactic sexual encounter with Helen Brodie at the Eerie that morning, Mhairi MacGregor’s mind was a mess of confused thoughts and calculations. Having been taken to the limit by Helen in their straight-up finger-fucking duel, Mhairi knew that her attempt to wrest the coveted sex-fight crown from her rival still hung in the balance. Her bold plan to gain a crushing psychological edge by forcing the sex-fight queen to submit sexually before their title match in two days’ time had ended in failure. In fact, Mhairi’s vagina had only just held out long enough under prolonged, intense attack by Helen’s strong fingers to avoid a humiliating defeat.

As the warm, comforting shower jet played on her toned body, Mhairi vividly recalled the explosion of relief she’d felt as Helen’s pussy started to clench around her fingers barely milliseconds after her own orgasmic spasm had begun. Although the new girl’s pussy still felt abused and tender from the bruising encounter, she knew its youthful resilience and muscular elasticity would help it to recover quickly. Which was just as well: she would need it to be fighting fit again by evening if she was to extract more information out of that submissive bitch Susan Walkerburn.


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To avoid drawing attention to her dishevelled state after the showdown Helen Brodie had showered in a draughty old shower block that was rarely frequented by other girls. Helen’s forensic mind was working overtime, and she quickly concluded that the meeting with her rival in the woods that morning had been no coincidence; most likely the new girl was hoping to unsettle and psych her out before their title fight. Well, if that was the bitch’s strategy, it had failed miserably!

Helen’s win-loss record, unrivalled in the long history of sex-fighting at Cardugan, had imbued the raven-haired girl with an almost unshakeable degree of self-confidence, but she was neither foolish nor complacent. She knew full well that that she had not had to defend her title against a challenger the like of Mhairi MacGregor before: whose spiky, unshaven bush was as imposing as her own; whose muscular vagina and big, tough clit seemed at least the equal of Helen’s fighting genitalia; whose feral musk was just as powerful and intoxicating.

Yes, I certainly couldn’t afford to take any chances when I fight that bitch in two days’ time Helen told herself as she briskly towelled her lithe body. Next on her list was to catch up urgently with Susan Walkerburn for further news of her opponent’s training schedule, and to ask an important favour of her good friend.


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Amelia Turner had been intrigued to speculate whether the two girls she observed from her window that morning had left early to resolve their grievances according to the ancient tradition of trial by sexual combat and, if so, what the outcome had been. Given how drenched both looked, coming out of the woods in their skimpy running outfits, they must have gone quite far beyond the grounds and been caught up in the storm.

Amelia wondered if MacGregor and Brodie had ventured as far as the Eerie before stopping to fight. If that was the case, there might be consequences as the English teacher was convinced that the ancient Celtic stone circle that the site was built on could have amplified any sexual conflict between the two girls. Although this could conceivably have started to rejuvenate any magical elements still residual in the ground beneath the stones, it was more likely to be an issue at the time of the full moon.

Amelia’s occult readings had in fact revealed that the female champions of the ancient Celts fought mostly in honour of Arienh, the warrior sex goddess when the moon was full, which was also when they were at the height of their sexual powers. Having noted already that the next full moon was in a mere two days’ time, Amelia decided that she would mount a vigil at the Eerie just in case any magical forces had already started stirring.


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As chair of the CATS steering committee, Janice Mearns held the overall responsibility for arranging a successful title fight between Helen Brodie and Mhairi MacGregor. She was therefore profoundly grateful that the recent storm had passed as she would need to take the committee out during the day to prepare the venue.

The location that the girls used for their contests had to be far enough away to preclude the possibility of interruption by prowling teachers: for the last few years a cleaned up abandoned cabin in the woods not far from the creepy old hilltop tower known as the Eerie had provided the venue for many gripping and sensational sex-fights between the Cardugan girls.

Janice and her two most trusted lieutenants would be acting as scoring judges on the night, with the three remaining committee members present as witnesses. The only other girls at the cabin would be the two handmaidens that the protagonists were each allowed to nominate as seconds. So far, Janice had received no nominations from either contestant and reminded herself to follow up with them both urgently during the day.

As she went about her official duties Janice could barely control her own excitement. The whole sixth form was talking about nothing else apart from the dream pairing of Helen Brodie with Mhairi MacGregor, the two finest alpha female specimens to have ever fought for the title of sex-fight queen at Cardugan.

Janice knew that both girls would give it everything they had, knowing that the stakes were so high. To the victor belong the spoils really was a truism in the aftermath of a sex-fight at an all-girls boarding school; the subordinate girls would cluster round the victorious girl like the proverbial bees round a honeypot, while the loser would find herself abandoned and socially ostracised until she was able to rebuild her reputation, perhaps by working her way back up the sex-fight rankings all over again.

Yes, Janice Mearns told herself with a grim smile, the stakes were truly high for both the reigning queen and her challenger.


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Helen was finding Susan impossible to track down and was becoming convinced that her friend was trying to avoid her. Eventually, the day before her title fight, she managed to ambush Susan in the gym block and propelled her into the changing room toilets where the girls occupied adjacent cubicles by habit and sat down.

“So, what’s been going on with the MacGregor bitch?”

“Oh… Helen...I…”

“Oh, Helen WHAT!?” It had been a stressful week leading up to the title fight and the sex-fight queen’s temper finally snapped as she shouted:
“It’s taken me a fuckin’ day and a half just to find you alone, and I’m fighting that bitch tomorrow night. Eh?”

“I – I know… it’s just…”

“Just what? Look, I need help – you must know something else about her by now?!”

“Yes – I do. She’s strong... really strong. I-I’ve never fought anyone like her before…”

“Fought her?! Jesus Christ – you were supposed to spy on the bitch - not take her on yourself. Tell me what happened!”

Susan snivelled for a bit before explaining how Mhairi MacGregor had taken her by surprise in own her bed, forcing the blonde to submit to a powerful attack that left no doubt as to whom the dominant bitch would be in the shared room going forward.

What Susan omitted to mention to her friend was that last night the new girl had conquered her a second time, with the express purpose of forcing the blonde to confess all she knew about Helen’s possible sexual weaknesses. Although Susan had resisted gamely at first, Mhairi’s pussy grip had eventually become so vice-like that the blonde could feel her vagina weakening and being stretched out of shape. “Stop! Stop! I submit!” She’d screamed, panicking that her soft insides might be sucked out and inverted if the other girl didn’t leave her be. But Mhairi had kept up with her relentless, cunt-twisting attack until finally Susan blurted out the magic words: “Anal p-p-penetration. Drives Helen wild. Now p-p-please let me go!”

Sitting in the toilet cubicle in the cold light of day, Susan shuddered as she remembered the look of triumphal glee on Mhairi MacGregor’s face after she had betrayed her best friend, and was mighty glad that Helen couldn’t see her ashamed expression now.

Susan waited until they were back in the busy corridor before breaking the last piece of bad news to her friend.

“Helen, I’m really sorry but I can’t be your handmaiden tomorrow night.”

“Wh-what do you mean? Why on earth not?”

“Because you know how I submitted to Mhairi MacGregor, right? And how the CATS rules say that I have to serve her if she wants me to?”

Finally comprehension dawned on Helen’s face, and she reddened and was left speechless as Susan continued.

“Well she insisted that I serve her – as her handmaiden in your fight tomorrow. Look I’m sorry… but…”

Helen stood rigidly still in the corridor, her open mouth twisted in shock, not knowing what to do next as her former good friend shrugged her shoulders, turned and walked away from her without looking back.



IV


On the night before the full moon Amelia Turner felt most unsettled and lay tossing and turning in bed for hours before finally falling into a fitful sleep some time before the dawn. After her drooping eyelids finally shut, she found herself mysteriously transported to a hot, sunny clime far removed from the chill, autumn land she had fallen asleep in.

Amelia was standing on a gently sloping hillside among olive trees, the warm rays of the summer sun caressed her bare back, breathing in the rich fragrance of wild thyme and listening to the buzzing of huge bumblebees as they made their way lazily from flower to flower. In the distance she could see a temple-like structure where people were gathering, and she decided to make her way down the hill towards it.

As she drew closer, Amelia saw that the building was indeed some kind of temple, built of marble and stone, with a red-tiled roof, fronted by a portico of impressive, tall columns carved in an obscure, but possibly classical Greek style. Out in front stood a raised platform, or dais, on which two gilded thrones were positioned, side by side. A striking middle-aged woman with auburn hair sat on the throne to the left. Clothed in a simple yet regal-looking turquoise chemise and lace-up gold sandals, she looked both wise and formidable, a plain gold circlet resting above her greying temples denoting her queenly rank.

The alert looking woman sitting on the throne next to the first queen also wore a plain gold crown and was perhaps ten years younger; her deep-cut white chemise showed off her womanly curves while contrasting strikingly with her smooth, ebony skin. The two queens were each attended by half a dozen courtiers as well as a gaggle of priestesses and functionaries who stood a respectful two paces behind them. Reacting to an already surreal dreamscape, Amelia quickly became convinced that both women were Amazon queens and wondered what was about to take place.

If the queens and their courtiers were aware of Amelia’s presence none of them paid her the slightest bit of notice and as she was level with the dais she decided to stay and watch the unusual scene for a while. Feeling the grass tickling her naked behind as she sat down, Amelia now noticed that a wide chalk circle had been marked out on the clay directly in front of her. She would be enjoying a ringside seat for whatever was coming next, she told herself happily.

Before long, two naked young women in their late teens or early twenties emerged from inside the temple precincts and walked down the steps to stand on the field and salute the queens. As the salutes were graciously acknowledged, a woman dressed in the robes of a priestess stood up and began a lengthy proclamation in a language unfamiliar to Amelia. While all this was going on she took the opportunity to study the two newcomers who were standing to attention in front of the dais, their oiled, splendidly naked bodies gleaming in the brilliant sunlight.

Both women were tall and had the unmistakable build of warriors: broad of shoulder with well-formed biceps; their flat, sculptured waists tapered beneath ample, shapely breasts before broadening out into full, curvaceous hips atop sturdy thighs. Amelia noted in fascination that each woman’s mons protruded quite markedly and was covered in dense pubic hair that, as well as signifying her underlying feminine strength, seemed to pose a clear sexual challenge to her opponent.

The warrior standing in front of the throne on the left was a statuesque redhead whose luminous alabaster complexion was offset by startling bursts of red freckles. What really drew Amelia’s attention, however, were the extensive blue tattoos snaking down her arms and belly depicting what appeared to be scenes of war and carnage involving warrior goddesses and sea serpents. This woman wore her long, tousled hair bound in a ponytail that reached all the way down her broad, naked back to her fleshy buttocks. Wow - I’ve never seen a proper woad-painted Celtic warrior in the flesh before! Amelia smiled to herself as her eyes lingered on the woman’s hairy, unkempt russet-coloured bush.

By contrast, the woman on the right equally as tall and striking as her opponent was African, perhaps even Nubian Amelia guessed correctly: an ebony-skinned warrior. This one’s dark, curly hair was arranged in intricate, weighted braids which fell loosely around her shoulders, swinging freely whenever she turned her head. Although she bore no ink tattoos, the Nubian’s arms and upper body were extensively patterned with raised whorls, suns and crescent moons – a dramatic effect achieved through deliberate scarring so that patterns were left clearly visible in the lighter pigment of the scar tissue.

Amelia had read years ago that scarification was a common ceremonial technique used by some African tribes to accentuate a warrior’s courage and a woman’s beauty. In such societies the amount of scarring on a person's body correlates directly with their perceived strength and how respected they would be within the community. This heavily scarred warrior must be a person of high standing indeed Amelia told herself as, inevitably, her gaze settled on the woman’s copious pubic bush, marvelling at how well it shielded her vulva while she was in a standing position.

As the priestess’s peroration came to an end the two women turned to face each other, their expressions still impassive and inscrutable. Standing some five feet apart, they began stretching and shaking their limbs loose as they limbered up in preparation for what was to follow. Soon a melodic gong rang out from the dais, and the Celtic and Nubian warriors crouched facing each other and adopting ready stances, their strong fingers outstretched. As the gong sounded a second time both charged forward shouting battle cries their pounding feet on clay as they covered the short space separating them amazingly fast.

Amelia was thrilled by the meaty slap generated as the warriors' oiled bodies slammed together, and she saw them bracing powerfully, and interlocking their fingers in a test of strength. Swaying backwards and forwards the two warrior women grunted and strained, their rippling muscles undulating under their skin tattoos as each tried to best the other. After several minutes neither had given any ground so they abandoned the hold, pulling each other into a mutual frontal headlock while ramming their big breasts together hard, their feet stamping on clay as they fought for position.

By now, both women had been forced to widen their stance to maintain balance and, seizing her opportunity, the Nubian suddenly drove her knee up hard between the other’s legs, making the Celt cry out and dance back in pain. Capitalising on the opening provided, the ebony warrior pivoted swiftly, forcing her opponent’s head down in a brutal side headlock, both women’s biceps straining as the Celt struggled to counter the hold. For a few moments it seemed as if the Celt would break free but with a piercing cry, the scarred warrior twisted hard and took her opponent down to her knees, still controlling her in the headlock, while looking quickly up at the ebony queen who nodded her tacit approval of her champion’s move.

Both wrestlers were panting with the terrific effort, but the Nubian skilfully kept up the pressure, wrapping herself sinuously around her struggling opponent and using her full body weight as she forced the Celt down on her back. On the ground she quickly lost the advantage however, as the supple, tattooed warrior tore herself free before they locked up again, rolling over each other on the sun-baked earth. The struggle on the ground grew long and tense as both young warriors proved to be truly excellent and innovative wrestlers, perfectly matched in strength and skill. Before long both became slick with sweat and effort and Amelia, having edged closer, was treated to a virtuoso wrestling display that had many complex moves and counter moves.

But as the hot sun continued to beat down out of the azure sky the two adversaries’ herculean efforts gradually slowed and, as intent frowns started appearing on the watching queens’ foreheads, it was clear that an unprecedented battle of attrition between their finest champions was taking place. Finally, the Celt achieved the crucial first breakthrough, trapping her opponent on her back in a powerful, breast-crushing reverse mount, her chin digging into her adversary’s mons pubis as she fought hard to keep her from bridging out of the hold. Amelia noticed in her excitement that the tattooed one was successfully pinning the scarred warrior’s shuddering shoulders to the ground even though the latter’s legs were still kicking out furiously. Five interminably long seconds later the gong sounded, signalling that the first fall of this marathon contest had finally been awarded to the tattooed Celtic warrior.

With the sweat running down into her eyes, the exhausted victor raised herself from her prone opponent and rocked back on her haunches, glancing up to her queen briefly for encouragement. Rather than congratulating her champion however the queen’s eyes were registering an urgent note of concern, and it was well-justified as the Nubian suddenly shot her legs up from the ground, catching the Celt by the throat in a well-executed leg scissors. It seemed that the Nubian intended to make good her deficit quickly as she twisted her legs sideways, taking her adversary to the ground and viciously tightening the hold while fending off the Celt’s thrashing legs which even now were trying to trap her in a reciprocal hold. Another twist and the tattooed warrior lay flat on her back, gasping for breath, struggling to prise those python-like legs apart to ease the brutal pressure on her neck. Suddenly – and unexpectedly - her wish was granted as the scarred woman abruptly released but only to convert the hold into a full body press as she went for the equalising pin.

Although the prolonged choke hold had clearly weakened her adversary, Amelia felt that the Nubian must have a plan as securing the Celt in a full body pin would still be no easy matter. The answer was not long in coming as the scarred warrior raised her hips high before slamming her hairy mons down hard on her adversary’s, repeating the blow until they both cried out in pain and anguish. Amelia had once lost a long sex-fight to a more experienced mentor who had taught her in the process that a cunt-to-cunt grapevine was one of the most devastating pins that one woman could inflict on another, and she felt convinced that this would now be the ebony warrior’s strategy.

Amelia was close enough to the action to hear the women's bushes actually start scraping as they locked calves and braced their protruding mons together, a clear sign that the tattooed one underneath had accepted her rival’s overtly sexual challenge and was determined to fight fire with fire. This latest development had caused a ripple of excitement on the dais as the courtiers chatted animatedly for a few moments before quietening down again. Although the two queens themselves had maintained a regal silence Amelia could see just how tightly both women were gripping the edges of their thrones.

As the eyes of the two warriors on the ground met, the ebony one smiled at her adversary and placed her hands symbolically on the other’s shoulders, leaving her in no doubt that she would be pinned all too easily if she lost. Ignoring the taunt, the Celt answered simply enough by thrusting upwards with her hips violently as she tried to twist out of the hold she was in. The two warriors’ powerful legs now bore the brunt of the action, their calves still locked together as the Nubian tried to stretch her opponent’s legs still wider apart while the tattooed woman began straining in the opposite direction. Meanwhile their broad, muscular mounds slammed into each other again and again, sending shock waves coursing through their lower bodies.

Still revelling in her invisibility to the denizens of this land, Amelia moved round directly behind the two wrestlers so that she could observe the struggle going on between their legs and genitalia at close hand. By now both warriors were going at it full force and even through the mass of tangled cunt hair Amelia could see how their thick, muscular pussy lips were flattening together, spreading out with every thrust, squeezing out more of their womanly juices which were starting to flow liberally. Having come within an ace of taking complete control, the scarred warrior seemed to be struggling more and more to stay on top of her tattooed foe who, initially at least, was responding more strongly to the sexual stimulus, bucking and twisting her loins like a majestic wild mare doing her utmost to unseat an unwanted rider.

So intent was Amelia on watching the ongoing struggle between the women’s legs and crotches that she failed to realise that a new front had suddenly opened up in the battle. Hearing an enraged yowl, she looked up and saw that the Nubian had a big handful of creamy white breast which she was cruelly kneading and squeezing. At first this seemed like a good diversionary tactic but as the Celt tried desperately to pull the assailing hand away, strong fingers gripped her erect pink nipple, jerking it in what looked unmistakably like a milking motion. Omigod – that’s her game! Amelia gasped to herself. Although she had read of women using forced breast-milking techniques to weaken their opponents in sex-fights she had never seen this being used in the flesh before, so to speak.

Moments later the Nubian was rewarded with a powerful spurt of milk from the Celt's breast and straight away craned her neck down, her lips closing on the thick nipple, which she also anchored with her teeth, and began sucking the stream of warm milk into her hungry mouth. The warrior underneath let out a tortured, plaintive gasp: and it was clear a clever trap had been sprung and she was in deep trouble: if she tried to pull her nipple free, the scarred woman’s teeth would likely rip the flesh; what was more, with the other woman’s cunt pressing down hard on her own, and their legs still grapevined together, she had no room left to manoeuvre.

Facing up to her predicament the Celt did perhaps the only thing she could do: rummaging desperately in the tight space between their sweaty, struggling bodies her fingers closed around the Nubian’s big dark teat, massaging and pulling at it until her adversary’s engorged gland started spraying milk too. Pulling the hard nipple desperately into her open mouth she clamped down and started slurping as if her life depended on it. Amelia was growing extremely wet between the legs as she watched the primal struggle unfolding in front of her: both warriors were sucking at each other's straining breasts in a desperate battle to be the first to drain the other’s milk sacs while, simultaneously, their wet, hungry cunts’ were sliding and rubbing together, lathering up their sexual juices into a viscous, pungent cream that gummed their long cunt hairs together into a wiry, tangled thicket.

Although the tattooed warrior fought as hard as seemed womanly possible, it was apparent to Amelia that she was at too much of a disadvantage and, sure enough, her head started to loll back, eyes glazing over as the Nubian sucked ravenously on her straining teat and her pale breast was emptied of the last of its precious cargo. So intent was Amelia on watching this spectacle that she failed to notice the ebony warrior’s pin had been locked in place until the melodic gong sounded the equalising fall.

While her satisfied queen clenched and unclenched her fist at this latest development, the dark warrior raised herself up languidly on her forearms, her sweat-sheened face with its half-closed eyes betraying the state of drugged euphoria brought on by the aphrodisiacal effect of imbibing so much of her rival's sweet milk; milk that was still drooling down her chin. The Celtic warrior also seemed drugged as she started to struggle fitfully beneath her rival. As the Nubian pressed down strongly on the Celt again Amelia realised that she was not planning to let her adversary escape; indeed, the rules of the contest seemed to provide no compulsion for her to release the other woman in the interest of fair play at this point.

Both warriors knew that the next fall would determine not only who would stand as victor in front of their queens but also would be crowned the sexually dominant female between them. With so much still at stake the coming build-up started slow as they stared into each other's eyes defiantly while tentatively moving their throbbing pussies around to determine just how stuck together they actually were. Without breaking their intense eye contact, the scarred, dark-skinned warrior started rocking her heavy hips, slowly at first, letting her hungry wet twat press down, until her grunting opponent responded, opening her thighs wider and mirroring the other woman’s movements as they gradually built up a constant rhythm, grinding their pussies up and down, driving and fencing with their big, swollen clits.

By now Amelia was watching between the humping women’s legs where the scent of competing womanly musk was almost overpowering as each warrior's vulva stretched and squeezed its rival. Even when their squished vaginal lips became glued together, trapped in each other’s overlapping puffy folds, she could easily differentiate between the tattooed warrior’s which were pale-pink and the ebony one’s which were a deep purplish brown. Sucking and smacking sounds began to fill the air as the two warriors battling pussies moved together harder and faster, their cunt lips locked and sealed in their own juices. At this point the Nubian’s hand closed involuntarily on the pale breast that her hungry lips had drained only minutes earlier. Squeezing the now flaccid gland contemptuously, she ground down as hard as she could, forcing her big hungry clit into the other woman’s soaking cunt where it could duel with its hard, pink rival, both fully unsheathed at last.

Something insistent was telling Amelia that she must leave now but as she rose, she stole a final look back and witnessed the precise moment that the tattooed woman's weakening cunt lips were finally engulfed. Hearing her ragged, irregular breathing, Amelia could sense the Celtic warrior’s state of mounting sexual panic and humiliation as her cunt was ridden and conquered by its more powerful opponent. But only the redheaded warrior herself truly knew how it felt on that fateful day: to endure having her clit steadily bludgeoned into submission by a stronger clit; to risk having her vaginal insides almost pulled out of shape by the sucking strength of the scarred woman’s powerful fuck lips; to suffer simultaneous ecstasy and pain as her defeated vagina finally gave up the battle and shot its surrendering load, ejaculating her cum deep into the Nubian warrior’s conquering, all-powerful cunt.


As the insistent beeping of the alarm dragged Amelia back from her vivid dreamscape she was in a feverish sweat and the sheet beneath her groin was soaking wet, as were the insides of her thighs. She moved her hand down and touched her moist, hard clit, wishing that the dream had not ended so abruptly but feeling sexually sated all the same.



X


On the morning of her title fight Helen Brodie woke early, feeling bleary eyed after an interrupted night’s sleep: yesterday's incident with Susan Walkerburn was clearly playing on her mind which was bad news indeed in the run-up to such a critical contest.

Examining her face and body critically in the full-length mirror Helen mostly liked what she saw: apart that is from the unwelcome dark, puffy rings that had appeared overnight around her eyes. She would have to use her best cosmetic concealer today in case the other girls noticed and wondered if the stress was all becoming too much for Cardugan’s reigning sex-fight queen.

Helen’s refined facial features would not have looked out of place on the cover of a fashion magazine: the exotic, dark eyes; pale, luminously healthy skin; her straight nose that was exactly the right length but somehow managed also to be slightly retroussé and cute; her full, dark red, very kissable lips. Her young woman’s breasts were creamy white and unblemished and had perfect shape, weight and tone which meant she often went without a bra as she had no need of further support.

In fact Helen was an image of such feminine perfection that her opponents frequently were blind-sided as to how big, hairy, and strong her pussy actually was until it was way too late, and they were being ridden helplessly to orgasm submission beneath Helen’s legendary top-grinding attack.

In her early teens, Helen had watched the cult SF film Blade Runner and had become fascinated by the character of Rachael, played by Sean Young, whom she somewhat resembled facially. At times she even modelled herself unconsciously on the ice cold, ethereal replicant who thanks to implanted memories doesn’t actually know that she is one, but eventually captures the heart of Harrison Ford’s cynical, world-weary private investigator, Rick Deckard.

Although not many of the other girls knew, Helen was a Jewess: her maternal grandparents, Ashkenazi Jews, had fled the Russian pogroms in the 1920s, settling in Edinburgh eventually, where their only daughter, Rachel Edelman, had grown up enjoying a hectic life as a beautiful if impoverished socialite until marrying Hector Brodie, a rich Scottish Laird with extensive country estates near Inverness.

Helen had grown up on the estate learning to ride horses and, as she got older, also learning how to ride the spirited local stable girls as well. When she had turned eighteen her mother who, uncharacteristically, had drunk too much wine and brandy one evening confessed in a private moment together that she and Helen’s father had nearly not been married thanks to a rich English heiress, Diana Symington, who also had marital designs on Hector Brodie.

For a time Hector was clearly torn between his beautiful, dark-haired Jewish lover and the stunningly attractive English rose who successfully manoeuvred herself to land in his bed after a particularly debauched society party and then refused to give it up. Fearing that she would lose the man she loved to her blonder, more aristocratic love rival forever, Rachel Edelman confronted Diana Symington in a bitter exchange in the ladies powder room of the Royal Mile Club, where both readily agreed to settle the matter for good in the time-honoured way as only hot-blooded and jealous women can.

Booking themselves into a suite at Edinburgh’s top hotel the very next night, Rachel and Diana met to settle the matter of honour between them: the sex-fight that followed started at ten pm and carried on well into the following day. Although Rachel perhaps sensibly demurred from describing the battle to her daughter in too much graphic detail, Helen was left in no doubt that by the time the dawn rose both women's 'nether regions' were feeling very sore indeed, and, although both had succumbed to massive multiple orgasms many times over, rather inconveniently for both parties the contest still remained messily unresolved as dawn approached.

Rachel still remembered vividly how both women were left laying on their sides, shattered and exhausted while recovering from their last shared orgasm, their congealed pubes hopelessly entangled and their mating pussies as good as cemented together by a drying crust of womanly residue.

As she noticed the dawn light creeping into the room Rachel had felt her bruised, blood-red clit starting to recover from the last attritional battle against its strong pink rival. Although, truth be told, it still felt turgid rather than fighting hard, and Rachel prayed fervently that Diana’s clit, which was still pressing lightly against her own, had been left in a similarly weakened state.

As the raven-haired woman steeled herself for one last desperate attempt to fuck her enemy into submission, her blonde adversary somehow beat her to the punch, rolling on top and pinning Rachel to the sex-slimed bed sheets while grinding into her open twat with a big clit that suddenly felt harder and more reinvigorated than Rachel’s!

“Got you finally, bitch!” Diana Symington had grunted all too smugly as she increased the pace of her gyrations while tightening her grip on Rachel Edelman's weakening pussy as much as her tired cunt lips would allow. “Surrender to me nicely now, and I might even invite you to my wedding with Hector!”

“Ahh – I -no – uuuhh uhhh!” Although she was desperate to avoid a final shattering defeat beneath her love rival's thrusting cunt, Rachel had involuntarily grabbed hold of Diana’s full, womanly buttocks at this point, and was pulling her nemesis into herself even more deeply without fully realising it! But then, as her fingertips accidentally tickled the soft blonde hair nestling around her opponent’s pert anus, Rachel understood the way forward with sudden clarity and without further hesitation plunged all four fingers in, all the way up to the hilt, her well-manicured fingernails leading the charge and taking the tight-arsed English heiress completely by surprise.

“So yes, as I was saying to you Helen, once I got the measure of that English woman and defeated her in a fair fight, she agreed to renounce all further claims on your father, and then the coast was clear for us to go ahead and get married!”

Having been forced to fight – and fight brutally as well - for what was most dear to her, Rachel Brodie was naturally keen to impress the importance of this life lesson on her only daughter Helen. However she was much too refined to go into the details of what had led to her final victory over Diana Symington on that fateful day; and she certainly didn’t know that her own daughter had recently discovered a weakness for anal penetration on her own part that had nearly caused her to lose a sex-fight with one of the stable girls.

What Rachel did ask Helen to do however (after first swearing her to secrecy of course) was to keep a careful look out for a certain Laura Symington-Bailey who was now in the sixth form at an exclusive Edinburgh girls school and, it turned out, was in fact Helen’s half-sister, the progeny of her father’s brief dalliance with Diana Symington nearly nineteen years earlier.


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Mhairi MacGregor also woke early that morning and spent the first minute or two extracting Susan Walkerburn’s blonde pubes from the puffy folds of her vagina. Then she spread her fingers and started examining herself internally, testing her muscular strength and elasticity in different places. At length she gave herself a grade A-plus report, satisfied that her youthful genitalia had made a full recovery after her gruelling finger fucking duel with Helen Brodie the other day. Withdrawing her fingers, she held them to her nose and liked what she smelt: if that intoxicating musk didn’t put the bitch off then she wasn’t sure what would.

The truth was that Mhairi had a real thing about posh girls like Helen Brodie and that thing was that most of all, she enjoyed conquering them sexually. In her early years, Mhairi had been brought up on a rough council estate outside Aberdeen where she had to learn to fend for herself from an early age. Her mother was often unable to look after Mhairi and her siblings properly, especially when her father came home often drunk and abusive after weeks spent away working on the North Sea oil rigs.

When, eventually, the father had disappeared out of their lives altogether, her mother still struggled to bring the family up and a life in care beckoned. But help was at hand in the form of one of Mhairi’s teachers who having recognised that the snotty-nosed young urchin was as bright as a button, arranged for her to sit the scholarship exams for an exclusive local girl’s college.

Although Mhairi had passed the entrance exams with flying colours, life didn’t suddenly become easy as the other girls at the college knew an imposter when they saw one, and wasted no opportunity to goad and humiliate the common girl who had been born on the wrong side of the tracks. It was this shoddy treatment that had fuelled Mhairi’s general dislike of posh girls with all of their superior airs and graces, and which had also spurred her on as she climbed all the way to the top of the sex-fight league at her previous school.

As far as Mhairi was concerned, Helen Brodie was the living embodiment of a haughty, spoilt posh girl who (it was rumoured) had been raised on a vast estate near Inverness, where she had servants to dress her and umpteen horses of her own to ride. Well, as far as Mhairi was concerned, the rich bitch was just another obstacle in the way of her continued rise to the top, and tonight she would forcefully remove that obstacle from her path.

Several years earlier, Mhairi had watched the film Working Girl starring Melanie Griffiths, whom she faintly resembled in her brunette phase, and had been impressed by the way in which the working class girl had risen to the top, defeating her more pukka boss played by Sigourney Weaver along the way. Yes, thought Mhairi, that’s my kind of role model all right.

Mhairi looked across at her roommate who still lay comatose on the other bed where she had ended up after they had sex last night. The tousled sheet had slipped down, revealing the dirty state of the other girl’s blonde bush: still matted and congealed with the residue of last night’s hard fucking.

By now Mhairi had grown accustomed to using the blonde as a reluctant sparring partner in her preparations for the crucial title fight and last night had been the final opportunity to practice her best fighting moves before going up against Helen Brodie herself. The fact that she was doing so with her new acolyte, Helen’s former best friend and now very much her own bitch, only added to the frisson of excitement she felt.

At first Mhairi had practised using her stronger fuck lips to spread, stretch and generally weaken Susan’s, while all the time exhorting the frustrated blonde to fight back harder. Then, once Mhairi had achieved the inevitable full cunt lock, she perfected her use of anal thumb-spikes, before resorting to two-fingered and, finally, four-fingered anal penetration, to weaken Susan still further before hoisting the blonde’s legs high in the air for the deep-clitting finale that the subordinate girl had very much come to enjoy and expect.

“Ohhhhh! Ooooohhhh! Yes! Yes! P-p-please don’t stop fucking me! PLEASE!”

At this Mhairi had ceased thrusting into Susan for a full minute, gently teasing the frantic, pre-orgasmic blonde with her big throbbing clit until she swore her undying allegiance to Mhairi, her new alpha bitch. Once the magic words were gasped out, Mhairi had leaned on Susan until she was almost bent double, her feet grazing the pillow on either side of her flushed, sweaty face before fucking an unprecedentedly loud, squealing, squirting orgasm out of her.

“Yes, Helen Brodie! Now, finally, I am ready to fuck you!”

So caught up was Mhairi in this triumphant coital moment that she was not sure at first whether she’d merely thought those words, or spoken them out loud. But, from the expression of awe and admiration mixed with sexual contentment displayed on Susan Walkerburn’s face, Mhairi concluded that she must have shouted her challenge out loud enough for the whole school to hear!



To be continued/