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This is all true. Names, ID's have been changed.

"Well if you mean it," she replied, "then maybe the next time my husband and I are in Dallas, we can see just who is the best woman."

"Better woman." I corrected.

We continued haggling, jabbing at one another verbally until it was time to log off. I realized by the clock that the past four hours had passed like twenty minutes. Even so, I was now more riled than before. I indulged myself with consideration about what I would like to do to the arrogant witch. As I have explained, I have tendency toward a really bitchy streak at times. Whatever ended up happening, "Liz" needed to learn a little something about class structure. That meant embarrassment.

For most women, myself included, there are few things that are more demeaning than catty control by another woman, and being exposed. There is something about the shock of having your clothing, your protective shell, representative of financial and social standing, suddenly taken from you, or worse, ripped off in public. It is demotion, disclosure of one's most intimate secrets and the loss of privacy that humiliates more than anything else. That is what I wanted her to experience from the perspective of the underside of my thumb. So a plan began to take form, as I imagined the look on her face when I won. She had, after all, issued nothing less than a challenge, really. We had met online because of a mutual interest in femme competition (wrestling actually), so what I came up with naturally, seemed to follow.

She quickly agreed, the next time we logged on. As I am new to the concept of wrestling another woman, I was careful to assure that I would retain the privilege of setting the rules. Liz agreed, but wanted the right to determine wardrobe and stakes. I made sure she understood that there would be no biting, hitting the face, (she agreed, but wanted an allowance for a light slap to be permitted and I agreed) no scratching, and no punching. At her suggestion, we both agreed to stripping, spanking, some slapping, hair pulling, taunting, and that the winner would be determined by a pin or a submission. The match would be decided by the best of three falls. We both agreed that significant others could watch. In fact the count for a pin would have to be made by her husband if she were pinned, and my boyfriend for me. She agreed.

I watched as she typed and what popped up in the message bar took me back for a second. The wardrobe, she had written, would consist of string, side-tie, (free tie, no knots) bikinis. She also stipulated that they would be Brazilian bottoms.

For those that are not "in-the-know", a "Braz" offers only a little more coverage than a rio style bottom, which offers a little more than a thong. It is also generally a low-rise and can be very low-rise if a side-tie. They are not, generally speaking, my first choice, especially since the narrow back coverage seems to easily get caught in between one's cheeks, as it were. In fact that very phenomenon is known crassly as having one's "Daddy in jail". Still, I had agreed and typed my assurance, even as I planned for a major bikini wax. She continued writing, "And as for the stakes, I think someone could use a lesson in humility, dear."

"Funny, I couldn't agree with you more, although I'm sure you don't necessarily have the same pupil in mind that I do."

" Well, if you agree, then for stakes, I want you at my beck and call until I leave town. When I win, you are going to follow orders. If I decide you need to revive that seventies tradition of streaking, then you will sprint with your goodies on display until I say stop.

You will dress the way I instruct and if I take a sudden notion to do a little garment removal, well, you just might find yourself suddenly without something! So....still game?"

I have to admit, I was taken aback. What she was describing was the worst sort of embarrassment that I could imagine. At the same time, it was exactly the sort of thing I wanted to dole out to the bitch.

"Well, " I replied, "I assume you are willing to put up the same, when I win?"

"Oh, absolutely, Blondie!"

"Well then," I wrote, "may I suggest that we do this on a Friday so that I will have all day and night on Saturday to humiliate you."

She typed an LOL and agreed. She wanted a hotel suite reserved for the actual match, as it would be a neutral site and the loser could pick up the cost. I am generally very careful, I am a corporate attorney after all, but the opportunity to do this to that cocky wench was just too attractive. We traded phone numbers. I gave an office line for the resident's courtesy line of my condominium complex. Then we agreed upon a time to talk. It was understood that she would provide her cell number after the initial conversation. It was a Saturday, and fortunately that meant that I had a good shot at privacy during my call. I let myself into the main office from the resident's side found the courtesy phone not in use and waited.

As luck would have it, the phone rang just as another resident, a woman I did not know, entered to access the property's request book for maintenance. I had no choice, even though I wasn't thrilled at talking to Liz with others around, so I picked up the receiver. "Hello" I said.

"Dianne? It's Liz. Can you talk?"

"Uh, actually," I stammered still eyeing the woman who was now writing in the book, " not entirely freely."

She chuckled, the bitch. "Oh perfect. Embarrassing isn't it. Uncomfortable, huh? I mumbled an affirmation.

"Well, this will be a little taste of what you can expect when you lose." She laughed again. She had a voice that was sort of an alto with a touch of Latin lilt. She was enjoying my inability to fire back fully.

The woman finished with the request and left the book on the property manager's desk, and headed out of the office allowing me better expression.

"Oh my dear," I said angrily, "you have no idea how I am going to love taking you down."

When she spoke next, her tone had changed slightly. It was abundantly clear that there was some serious potential for a major blow-out between us.

"Tell ya what" she said, "how about we start the payoff on the stakes the very second the match ends? It will end when Michael and I leave town."

"You have a deal."

"Now about the hotel, we like luxury, and since you will be ultimately paying...?"

"I'll book the Adam's Mark. " I wrote.

We settled on the next Friday, six days away. With the both of us comfortable that we were what we claimed, we exchanged "real" phone numbers. Over the next several days, we exchanged taunts, and learned more about each other. The more I learned, the more I realized how much I was going to enjoy embarrassing her. She was really cocky, and emboldened by the fact that often when we spoke, I was at my desk, and because of the proximity to other people, could not fully engage her outrageous boasts and claims. Every morning when I came into work there would be a message waiting with an admonition that time was counting down and "humility" was nearly due.

I retaliated by leaving messages on her cell, with predictions about a soccer mom stripped bare in front of "God and everybody". Her next step was to begin the escalating war of email. The messages started off bragging, but soon were accompanied by pictures of brunettes either pinning or, if she was in a particularly nasty mood, stripping a blonde.


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