It was several months after my wedding that my growing but still largely unconscious suspicions finally emerged into a realization: I had a rival for my husband's affections.
It was surprising, given how grateful he had seemed—after all, Eric had won a bride almost half his age—but I knew that he was possessed of a powerful sex drive and a taste for novelty and adventure. His first two marriages had ended, I imagined, because the two former Mrs. Cartiers had been exhausted and simply run out of ideas.
I was determined to be the last in the Cartier dynasty of wives; and, to seal the bargain, I proved myself to be an energetic, enthusiastic, and inventive mate for my husband. At 25, I could keep him going all night long and demonstrated this to our mutual satisfaction, several times each week.
For his part, Eric was a considerate lover and an attentive husband. We never fought, and he showered me with gifts, clothes, and sincere compliments. It was a genuine surprise, therefore, to begin to receive those little warning signals of infidelity—a waft of strange perfume from his suit jacket, an excuse for being late that doesn't sound completely convincing.
His devotion to me hadn't change in the slightest, but I began to feel the grip of that unconscious paranoia that a woman feels, when she senses another woman has laid hands on her man.
One morning, while Eric slept in, I decided to surprise him with a real English breakfast. Slipping out quietly in the early morning to go to market, I saw that his car was blocking mine, so I took his Infiniti Qx4, instead of my Saab. When I opened the door, I noticed a hint of perfume that definitely wasn't mine and several rose petals on the passenger's seat. Eric had given me flowers, the previous evening, but mine were red. These petals were yellow. Who else, I wondered, was my husband treating to roses?
I said nothing, of course, and Eric and I enjoyed a lovely breakfast, later that morning, and a leisurely afternoon of unbridled passion, beginning on the dining room table and ending, hours later, on the cool tile outside our sauna. But I kept a watchful eye, scrutinizing my husband's comings and goings with a vigilance worthy of how much I thought I could lose.
From the consistency of the signals and clues over the next several weeks, I concluded that I had only one rival with whom to contend. She never changed perfume, and her tastes and mine were so similar that Eric often bought two of the same gift, as I discovered in an examination of his platinum card bills.
I credited her with intelligence and style and, over time, deemed her a worthy adversary. And although possessive by nature, I actually developed an emotional camaraderie with this unknown woman. After all, I thought, Eric has never given me any reason to doubt his love and loyalty to me. He chose me as his wife, and his ardor certainly had not dimmed. If anything, maybe I should be grateful to this woman, who helps to quench my man's overwhelming need for sex. If he keeps her as busy as he keeps me, maybe I should even reimburse her for her time.
But I couldn't leave it alone. The audacity! The unmitigated gall of another woman's presuming to take my man, even on short-term loan! The alpha female was raising her hackles within me, and I knew I had to act.
So I started sending my rival covert messages—signals she would read unmistakably, while leaving Eric clueless. Not so much "Hands off, girl!" as "You may think you have him, but he's really mine!"
To begin, I started a campaign of ambushing Eric, whenever I suspected he was leaving for one of his assignations. I'd surprise him with one of his favorites—a quick, no-nonsense blow job—all the while, massaging my heavily perfumed hands over his cock and balls. A week later, I received my adversary's reply. When Eric was stepping into the shower after a late night supposedly at his office, I spied a ring of bright red lipstick—definitely not my shade—at the base of his penis. Grrrr!
We battled, back and forth, in this manner for several weeks, becoming ever more creative and ever more irritated with one another. I taped a tack beneath the leather on the passenger seat in Eric's Infiniti, when I was sure he planned to take her to dinner. The next morning, I was rewarded to find a tiny spot of blood where she had planted her presumptuous but unsuspecting bottom. Later that week, I found a pair of her stockings in Eric's glovebox.
When flowers were delivered to me one morning, I quickly telephoned the florist, pretending to be Eric's secretary, and changed my rival's order to a cactus. Retrieving the morning paper from our steps, the next day, I found a pair of Eric's silk boxers neatly folded inside, bound with one of her garters. This was getting personal, and she was carrying the fight to my doorstep!
She sent me a polaroid in the mail of Eric receiving oral sex, the woman's slender, shapely back to the camera. No note, but she did place a return box number on the envelope. I had to hand it to her: she played fair. We exchanged several more polaroids, before she finally sent me a photograph of her bending over, her backside toward the camera and her pinkish pucker of an asshole staring impudently at me. The message was undeniable. I returned the favor with a rear view of my own; and then, for several days afterward, the battle seemed to stall. I supposed neither of us knew what should come next.
The following weekend, I visited my mother and returned, exhausted, on Sunday night. Falling into bed, I thought I caught a whiff of another woman's sex, but it was fleeting, and I convinced myself I was being paranoid. Later, in the middle of the night, I awakened with the unmistakable scent of my rival in my nostrils. I smelled the sheets—they were clean—looked under the bed, looked under my pillow, and finally found a pair of her sheerest, silk bikini panties, smoothed out between my pillow and pillowcase. I had lain on them for hours, the warmth from my face restoring their pungency, until even my hair smelled like her pussy.
I doubted that Eric would have taken her to our bed, but she had clearly been inside our home. She had probably excused herself to use the bathroom, sneaked upstairs, and deposited her message, when Eric was otherwise occupied. This was the final straw! I was determined to meet and confront her—again, not so much to push her out of the picture as to re-establish who was first in Eric's life, who was the alpha female.
The following day was a Sunday, and Eric gave me a present of the sheerest silk panties—lavender, my favorite. Since he was jet-lagged from a business trip, I knew he wouldn't be seeing "her" for at least another day, so I took a chance and investigated his car. Under the front seat, I found what I was seeking—a gift box of sheer silk panties, sea foam green. I congratulated myself as I went inside to don them, along with my running togs and shoes. After a sweaty two-mile run, I returned home and decided to do a little gardening, before carefully returning the panties to their tissue paper and box and restoring them to my husband's car.
The next evening, after a passionate afternoon, Eric told me he had some business in town and not to wait up for him. While he showered, I pleasured myself mercilessly with a small French vibrator, covering my hands with my own juices. Just as he was leaving, I ambushed him at the front door with a goodnight kiss and blowjob, sucking him dry and leaving him with the unmistakable scent of a satisfied woman on his cock and balls.
I did not wait long for a reply. A perfumed envelope arrived for me by Wednesday's post with the now familiar return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper and a smaller sealed envelope.
On the sheet of stationery, a brief note was penned in a woman's hand: "Congratulations, Janey. Of course, he insisted I wear them, and I was treated to the scent of you on me for the entire evening. Your second message was received, as well, and I suppose I should be glad you didn't make him bugger you before sending him to me. The insult remains an unpleasant taste in my mouth, nevertheless, and I would like satisfaction. If you're interested, the terms of the duel are enclosed in the accompanying envelope. If you're a coward, then return it with the seal intact, and I'll not mention it again. If you accept, then let me know what terms are agreeable. Regards, Devon."
My god, I recoiled in horror, what was this woman proposing? Had I become embroiled in a triangle with a sociopath? What if she wanted to fight a duel with pistols or swords?
I supposed that I could always tell Eric I needed a vacation and quietly leave the country. But, in the end, the alpha female overcame my anxiety, and I decided at least to look at my rival's proposal. My hands were shaking, as I broke the waxed seal of the envelope and unfolded the one-page, word-processed document:
Rules of the Catspat
The catspat is a physical duel between consenting feminine sexual rivals. The goal is to dominate and humiliate, not to inflict severe pain or injury. At any time, either woman may call an immediate halt to the duel by saying "submit," if she wishes to capitulate, or "stop," if she wishes to disengage with a penalty or with the loss of a round.
NOT Allowed
(1) No intentional injuring, scarring, or causing gratuitous pain. (2) No biting. (3) No scratching. (4) No kicking with the feet or knees, and no punching. (5) No gouging of the eyes. (6) No scissors holds. (7) No locking of the arms or wrists around one's adversary.
These rules help to insure against injury. Any violation of them results in an automatic submission or loss of a round.
Allowed
(1) Stripping and tearing the clothes of one's adversary. (2) Hair-pulling of the head for control—not for injury. (3) Face slapping while standing.
