BAROCCA vs EBONY AYES
BAROCCA vs EBONY AYES The Trilogy
Part 3 Catfight-Sexfight
Ebony Ayes sits at the make-up table applying the finishing touches to her face and hair. She must look exactly right for the foreign prince who has invited her to his American estate. She has not personally met this mysterious heir to the throne, but she has been contacted by his loyal staff, and she understands the vital importance of first impressions.
The lady's maid brought Ebony the clothes the prince specified: an ultra-short peach babydoll nightie so sheer that it's almost transparent. The nearly weightless garment is so low cut that Ebony's bountiful bosom threatens to overflow at any moment. A matching floor-length open negligee of the same delicate material, matching hosiery, and a pair of matching stiletto pumps with 6" heels complete the ensemble. "This prince really knows how to dress his women," Ebony muses.
She turns at the subtle knock at her door to see an envelope discretely slide beneath it. She squats down in the classic Playboy Club Bunny Dip (it's almost impossible to bend over in these shoes), opens the envelope, and reads the note. "Please follow your escort to the room I have prepared for you." Ebony opens the door to find a petite maid of indeterminate nationality patiently waiting. The escort starts down the long corridor with Ebony a few steps behind. A few short corridors later, the escort pauses and opens another door just slightly before retreating two steps and lowering her eyes. Ebony enters
She finds herself in a massive bedroom, spacious enough to enclose a modest house for a small family. The décor is light blue with gold accents. "That's probably real gold, not paint," the Napali Queen assesses. She steps slowly, almost reverently, around the room, noting the tasteful appointments and the few but elegant pieces of furniture, especially the oversized bed. She reaches to feel the silken bedspread when-
The door through which she entered opens slightly again and two seconds later in strides none other than her rival from Napali, Barocca. The Brazilian Bombshell is almost identically attired, but in pale lavender. Her 6" stilettos preserve the height advantage Barocca enjoys over Ebony. Their eyes lock on each other and the temperature in the lavish bedroom instantly drops ten degrees. It is as silent as an anechoic chamber.
With a deep inhalation, Barocca puts her hands on her broad hips and moves glacially toward her counterpart. "Well, it looks like the prince has an interesting evening in mind. I am Barocca. And you are…"
"I am Cleopatra," Ebony announces, folding her arms below her massive mounds and taking a step toward the Brazilian. They carefully eyed each other from head to toe and back, then warily circle each other to get the full picture. Before their mutual orbits were complete, there is another subtle knock at the door and another envelope sliding beneath.
"What's with all these envelopes?" Barocca sighs, dipping to retrieve this one.
"Is that how you were summoned her, to this room?" Cleopatra inquires. They compare stories and learn that they match perfectly. Then the tall temptress opens the new envelope, looks at the note, smiles and shakes her head. She hands the note to Cleo.
"As prince, I am accustomed to only the very best. You ladies, Cleopatra and Barocca, must decide between the two of you and in whatever manner you prefer, which of you is worthy of my presence and my attentions. Once you have decided, that woman will be brought to me. I have every confidence that she will be the right one."
The Queen of the Nile lays the note on a table. "This is just like the stuff Ken sets up for me at Napali," she snorts. "Just another overwrought excuse for a catfight."
"Yes," Barocca agrees. "Frank has done this to me countless times…but never in such an expensive setting. I guess I subconsciously suspected this all along." Checking Cleo out a bit more closely this time, the Bombshell adds, "Well, shall we get to it?"
Cleo steps right up to Barocca so the taller tigress's tits hang over her own like a balcony. She jabs a stiff finger repeatedly into the Brazilian's pride and joy, warning, "Look honey, I came here to meet a prince, not to beat up a stripper. Why don't you just save us both a lot of pain and effort and get the fuck outta here. I mean, if I have to whup your ass, you're gonna-"
Grabbing Cleo's protruding finger, Barocca plows one step forward and snarls, "Whup my ass? In your dreams, bitch. And who're you calling a whore? You're the pornstar. You're the one who fucks strangers for money. I may not be Goody Twoshoes but I don't peddle my precious pussy to bums." With a sneer, Cleo hauls back and slaps Barocca across the mouth as hard as she can.
With a fire in her eyes that would singe Cleopatra's eyelashes, the Brazilian holds back for a count of three and smacks the Egyptian with an equally venomous open hand. The black beauties stand their ground and exchange a series of slaps and backhands that increase gradually in tempo and force. Their dark complexions disguise the fiery warmth that overwhelms their cheeks and jaws throughout this purely feminine form of fisticuffs.
This slapstick comedy continues for about three minutes when Barocca becomes bored and breaks the monotony with a solid uppercut to Cleopatra's upper belly. The punch sends shockwaves through her ribcage and pops her breast out of her babydoll nightie. Tightening her right hand, she blasts the Bombshell on the side of her jaw, knocking the statuesque stripper back a few steps. As though obeying a signal, they both peel off their long negligees and toss them aside.
With a sullen scowl, Barocca wades back into the fray with a one-two combination to Cleo's casabas, detonating an agony grenade in her chest. Ignoring the pain as much as possible, Cleo sinks a foot into the Brazilian's belly, doubling the taller woman over. Clamping on a forward headlock, Cleo proceeds to knee her victim's dangling dugs over and over, with her right knee and then her left, while Barocca cries out in anguish. Desperate and with limited options for movement, Barocca punches Cleo's crotch with full force. Her slightly extend knuckle crashes into Cleo's clit perfectly, and the busty brawler collapses to the floor in the fetal position.
Barocca sits down hard on the edge of the huge bed, cradling her inflamed double-F bosom in both arms, gasping. She is unable to take advantage of Cleo's temporary incapacity, but her mocha latte mammaries demand immediate attention. The Brazilian's abused boobies are starting to swell noticeably, almost matching her opponent's double J juggs. Cleopatra rolls onto her knees and struggles to rise. With a muttered curse, Barocca lifts her aching body off the bed and looms over her foe.
"You fucking bitch," Barocca snarls as she grabs a handful of Cleopatra's thick hair. She hauls her to her feet and sinks a hard knee into Cleo's soft belly. Hanging onto her jet black mane, Barocca gives her another knee to the midsection. Cleopatra cannot keep the tears back any longer. Supremely satisfied at the sight of her rival crying in pain, frustration, humiliation, rage, or whatever, the Bombshell delivers a solid kick to Cleo's still traumatized twat that lifts her off her feet. Cleo lands off balance and topples onto Barocca, her dead weight nearly immobilizing the lavender-clad lovely.
Karma has put Cleopatra on top, and she musters every milligram of strength she can summon to keep Barocca pinioned until she can mount an offensive. In her struggle to extract herself from beneath Cleo's carcass, the stripper rips the diaphanous peach babydoll almost in half. The recovering pornstar responds in kind, shredding Barocca's babydoll and clawing at her stockings. The wildcats roll on the thick carpet, ripping and stripping, pawing and clawing, for several minutes.
Releasing each other, they roll apart and rise slowly. Both are naked, save for the tatters of stocking still clinging to their shapely legs. "Fuck these shoes," Barocca barks, pulling hers off and throwing them at Cleo. Not very creatively, Cleo pulls hers off and nails the Bombshell squarely in the face with the second pump she tosses. With a yelp the lanky Latina staggers from the impact and Cleo charges, driving the demonic dancer onto the expansive bed.
The Egyptian goddess whips her meaty thighs around the Brazilian bimbo's neck crosses her ankles, and bears down. Barocca grits her teeth and struggles in vain to pry those thunder thighs from her throat. Cleo has the decided edge in ass mass and thigh diameter compared to the anoxic Amazon at her mercy, whose assets below the waist are also admirable ample. Gasping and gagging, Barocca manages to elbow Cleo in the abdomen and the beartrap springs open.
Cleo grabs two handfuls of hair and bangs Barocca's head against the mattress, doing little actual damage but disorienting her nemesis nevertheless. Besides, it makes Cleo feel better. The Brazilian fights back by clawing and squeezing the Egyptian's dangling titties. Her face has been crashing into those milk cans on every upstroke of Cleo's head-banging barrage, so it's just natural to attack them directly. Cleo takes the hint and switches her grip from hair to hooters, bouncing on Barocca's belly to boot.
The Bombshell doesn't take this lying down…although that's exactly the position in which she finds herself. She bucks and arches, finally dislodging the punishing pornstar from her perch and gaining domination. Now on top, the exotic dancer releases Cleo's left lobe to slap her back and forth across the face a few times. Both hellcats spit insults and curses as they inflict as much pain as possible on each other. Cleo isn't content to take such abuse and writhes incessantly to dismount her tormentor.
Barocca finds it increasing difficult to stay in the saddle. When she's finally thrown, the two panting porn performers take a moment to reassess their strategies. Almost telepathically they spread their legs and inch forward for the ultimate female combat: clit to clit. For these fearsome felines, fighting and foreplay have the same effect: intense sexual stimulation. Even now their pussies are just below the boiling point and need only the slightest provocation to trigger an earth-shaking orgasm.
Cleo and Barocca couple up, mashing their gashes together, bumping and grinding to a growing duet of moans and groans. Each is determined to make the other cum so she can conquer the climaxing coquette. These are Napali's all-time best, the only women to achieve the title of Queen. Cleo trounced Barocca in a fierce wrestling match; Barocca knocked Cleo out in a brutal boxing bout. And now it's all come down to this, woman-to-woman, pussy-to-pussy, clit to clit.
As her hormone levels reach new highs, Barocca lunges forward, pushes Cleo onto her back against the pillows, and mounts the steamy stripper. They grimace as Barocca slams her clam against Cleo's again and again, harder and harder, until with a scream of ecstasy and frustration, Cleo erupts with a shattering orgasm. The Egyptian arches her back as the waves of sexual fulfillment wash her away. Barocca keeps up her relentless pussy pounding, driving her quivering rival to a second spasm of orgasmic excess.
Cleopatra is drained of all resistance. With a feline grin, the Bombshell folds her voluptuous victim into a classic matchbook pin and counts slowly to three…four…five. She continues all the way to fifteen before Cleo concedes defeat. "You win, Barocca," the panting pornstar admits. "You're the better woman…the Catfight Queen. I'm no match for you."
With a smug and satisfied smile, Barocca endorses that assessment. "Yes, I am the best. But you, Cleopatra, are the best contender I've ever wrestled. Better than Lacey, better than Devin, better than Fantasia, Venus, Chloe, all the others. I hope the prince, who I'm certain was watching via hidden cameras, I hope he appreciates how good you are."
Barocca eases her aching body off the bed, leaving behind the sweaty, spent, battered body of the mighty Cleopatra, legs sheathed in the remaining ribbons of her peach stockings, a spreading stain on the sheet at her crotch. She retrieves her negligee, wraps it over her shoulders, and strides regally to the door where her maid awaits to escort her back to her dressing room.
From the prostrate form on the bed, amid the heavy breathing and occasional groans, Ebony mutters, "Damn!"
Revisit this site for more Barocca femme fight stories by Sherlock.
Who do you want the great Barocca to fight next? Tell Sherlock and include any special aspects you'd like (type of fight, location, special outfits, who should win, etc). Send your requests to email@example.com.
BACK TO kARTOON kOMBAT
TO EBONY AYES
FOLLOW ME TO ULTIMATE SURRENDER!