Breast is Best
by Rival's Rapture
It had felt like years or a lifetime since she had last
left her house, Neha using both descriptors interchangeably in
her online journal.
A journal in which she told the tale of a once-fit and
gym-devoted woman who met the man of her dreams, fell in love,
found herself pregnant, and then … abandoned. Left with a
yet-to-be-born baby, but otherwise alone by Mr. Perfect. Her
body quickly widening, as a hunger for pickles and ice cream
began to ravage her soul, unfulfilled. Well, unfulfilled only
until she began to have her groceries delivered by the newly
built Whole Foods in her dense Miami neighborhood.
Yes, normally, the US-born Indian woman could have gone
out herself and filled her cart and card with whatever it was
she wanted. Her job as a popular stay-at-home blogger keeping
her well-paid, if not well-sexed. Her fans, numerous as they
were, caring more about her words than her looks.
But whenever Neha tried to dress herself or apply her
makeup, she found her mascara running, her mirror abandoned, and
the keys on her keyboard wet with tears as she wrote of her
struggle.
For though the soon to be mother had a way with words,
she too had always prided herself on having a pretty face, a
stellar body, and particularly delectable breasts.
A profile she saw as having wilted, a body she saw as
having ballooned, and a bosom which at least in her eyes, seemed
to have gotten saggy and fat — tricks of the mind, but still,
they wounded.
That conflict, one of self-image vs. reality — of
before vs. after, is one all women face when they are with
child. But no two cases have ever been as acutely similar as the
tales of Neha and her gym rival, Holly.
A rivalry more in perception than action — shared
hatred more than force. One that began years ago, when one day,
their eyes just so happened to land on each other. Each of them
sweaty and pressing into their weight machine as hard as they
could, for as long as they could stand.
And though they had each beforehand been failing and
ready to give in, they held. Finding something in just the sight
of the other that pushed them to resist their weakness, and
fight their desire to be less than they desired.
Such inspiration, if jealousy could be called such a
thing, led them to search for one another whenever they went
back to their place of body-toning and figure-building. Knowing
that by seeing the other, they could work out harder, longer,
and build themselves until they had surpassed she who held their
gaze.
At first, it was only proximity they required, but
before long, they grew to share the same routines, the same
machines, and even workout clothes, so that their every curve
could be more easily graded and compared.
That’s when it began. The two women’s mutual addiction
to letting their idle eyes look to each other as they exercised.
The pair studying, grading, and contrasting their bodies against
one another. Every inch of exposed skin examined, and every
curve measured and analyzed with the most judgmental of
intentions. Deft though each became at such tests and reviews,
eventually their little game became known.
Known and then resented. Understood and then responded
to. Each flaunting their bodies for the other. Teasing and
tormenting. Challenging and daring without words, until even
those became necessary. A mutual compulsion which pulled each to
mutter at their every passing and hiss at their every encounter.
Encounters which began as accidental, but soon became
anything but. Each of the two using whatever excuse they could
to meet between sets. Not to chit-chat or commiserate, but to
insult and accost. Those hidden meetings quickly becoming the
spark they each required to get through not just their workouts,
but their days. A spark they began to covet. Meetings they began
to need.
Despite that shared and desperate hunger to clash where
others could not see or hear, neither Holly nor Neha ever dared
touch.
Instead they only threatened to, coming so very close
in their standoffs that they could feel the other’s hot, moist
breath and hear the pounding of the other’s heart. The hair on
their arms tingling as they glared and cursed, though their
flesh always remained apart.
As if each was terrified of the consequences of such
contact, or perhaps that once it was made, they could not live
without it. Without the pain that would have come next. Without
the sound of the other whimpering and crying for their mercy.
Despite the importance of those moments to both Neha
and Holly, one day, each vanished. The former for reasons you
know, and the latter, for reasons much the same. A man she
loved, a test with two lines, then a baby girl. Her man, despite
the love, leaving too. He not willing to be a father, nor suffer
the indignity of his girl getting fat for the same cause.
So similar were their tales, in fact, that neither
spent a day at the gym without the other. Each finding their
sudden need to retreat seizing them on the same day. Each
retracting into their own homes– their own lives.
A luxury available to each by virtue of their jobs.
Holly being a “social media coordinator”, a job which gave her
the same ability to work from home as Neha with her blogging.
Grand though working from the comfort of their own
residences may seem, each found their humiliating abandonment
and complete isolation depressing in the most crippling of ways.
The pair finding their lives, at that moment, to be bereft of
all joy and happiness, save for one shining ray of light: the
other’s suffering.
Each hearing the other’s woe not through friends or
family, but through their public Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter
accounts. Each stalking, as it is called, the other’s life as it
fell apart. Each celebrating the other’s every passive
aggressive post about being dumped, complaints of poorly-fitting
dresses, and their denial-rich justifications for staying home.
Neither caring or even realizing how much the other’s
pain mirrored their own. Yes, their own man had left, but surely
the other deserved it.
True, their own body had grown and bloated, but the
other must truly have looked like a troll.
Why else would she have restrained from posting
pictures for nearly a year? No doubt for reasons that differed
from their own.
It was those assessments and unspoken aspersions that
helped them through those dark times. Their disdain and
disregard for each other’s pain that carried them through the
worst time in their own, previously wonderful lives.
A time, like all others, which eventually ended. Each
working out day and night in their own personal exercise rooms —
a dart-held picture of the other on their wall being their
motivation to reclaim the body that had once been their’s.
As those bodies returned to their former glory, so too
did their confidence. And with that confidence, came a stilling
of hands and staying of mascara that allowed each to finally,
leave their homes and return to the world.
And though “the world” sounds grand, like they had each
left their respective houses and marched to Washington, or
boarded a plane to see the pyramids, they instead just went to
Whole Foods themselves.
Not together, hand-in-hand, but separately. Each
leaving their house, babygirl-in-tow, with no idea that the
other was making the same trip, at the same time. The two
emotionally-defensive women oblivious to the threat they faced —
the threat of once again seeing their rival. At a moment when
they could not be less prepared to resist the pull such meetings
had on them.
Looming though that threat was, most of their venture
to the store went without incident. The adverse pair choosing
for themselves whatever meals would convey the maximum amount of
nutrients to themselves, and then via breast milk to their child
— while still allowing them to maintain their newly re-earned
figure.
Neha, having finished her search for such food, made
her way over to the small, but still-present baby aisle of the
Whole Foods store. It was during that traversal that she caught
it, out of the corner of her eye.
Two men.
Young men.
Attractive men with beards that made her shiver with
the long-forgotten thrill of the hunt. But it was not how they
looked, but that they looked which made Neha smile.
Each watching her — ogling her like the same would
watch a red-hot, juicy steak. And though some women might have
rolled their eyes, or protest such uninvited sexualization, Neha
reveled in it. Slowing her walk, and exaggerating the swivel of
her hips as she pushed her cart to drive them wild.
It was true that she had her baby with her, but that
didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun. She was still a woman and
being alone for the last year, she was feeling not just
restless, but plagued by a thirst she could not quench on her
own.
Unbeknownst to her, however, those same eyes that
studied her, she had stolen from someone else. Someone who stood
seething, as those eyes left her body and moved to Neha’s. A
someone who was not new to fighting for attention with Neha. For
that someone was Holly — a woman who wasted not a second before
marching after her passing rival. The onyx-haired mother giving
a hard shove to the handle of her cart, all as her baby cood
happily beneath her swinging breasts and scowling face.
With Holly in chase, but without knowledge of the same,
Neha stopped in the empty baby aisle, and began her search. She
needed not diapers or wipes, but instead a cream, something for
her nipples which at times ached, after a full day of feedings.
Find it though she did, as she reached for and took it, a voice
called out from behind her. One that sounded as if it came from
a snake and not a human — it being more a gravely hiss than
words.
“Why am I not surprised you’d feed your baby formula? I
guess with breasts like yours, you’d have no other choice.” The
words seemed almost comically cruel, and yet they were no
different than the words Holly and Neha had spoken to each other
before. Neither holding back.
Not once.
Not ever.
Their every conversation acidic. Their every contact
cutting.
Standard though the tone was for they two, still, the
insult made Neha close her eyes and sigh, before responding to
her rival as she turned. “I would never…. Though I’m sure you’d
feed that trash to your wretched spawnling….” The Indian mother
paused as a smirk formed on her face. “But, I’m glad you finally
decided to crawl out of your hole, Holly. How brave of you with
all that baby weight still hanging…. You’re an inspiration to
fat women everywhere.” As if the words weren’t harsh enough,
Neha made them even worse by reaching out and pinching — yes,
PINCHING a small lip of skin that still protruded past Holly’s
skin-tight leggings.
“Ooooohhhh….”Holly exclaimed in a long, drawn-out
exhale, one she released as she pushed her cart forward, leaving
it parallel with her rival’s. “Fat, huh? I guess that’s how you
justify my breasts being so much bigger than yours now.” The
white woman began as she leaned in close and said in a hush. “In
fact, if yours weren’t filled with 2% milk, I bet you they’d
only be half as big as mine.”
As Holly leaned in, Neha’s heart raced. As the lips of
her rival parted, and a tiny gust of anger-warmed air was pushed
out, a shiver went up the Indian mother’s spine. She hearing
every word of insult spoken, with her eyes closed and body
shaking with both excitement and rage. But even as those
emotions swirled within her, Neha still grabbed for her rival,
and with a soft tug of shirt, kept her from pulling away. A grab
Holly matched, as she took the same, light, finger-grip of
Neha’s top.
It was then, that with the pair’s bodies gently
pressing together for the first time, that the Hindu blogger
whispered back, her cheek coming to press against her rival’s as
she did so. “You don’t want to compare breasts … or milk with
me, cuntttt.” Neha let the last word — the C-word drift, as she
and her rival clung not only to each other but the moment. The
first moment in so long that made them feel anything other than
disgusted and depressed.
Each of them could feel it. The absolute electricity
that at that moment existed between them. A spark and a flame
they had always had.
And though other women might flee from such a sensation
of contrary wills and requited rivalry, Holly and Neha, more
than they could have known in their long absence from one
another, missed it. So much, in fact, that the first thing
presented as a challenge, they accepted. They internalized to
their very core. Their respective motherhood. Their ability to
feed their baby. Their breasts, and the milk contained within
them.
To anyone other than they two, it would be madness. But
as they whispered their venom back and forth, it became the only
true logic left in their ravaged lives. The only truths they
cared to know: which of them was the better mother, and whose
breasts were better able to feed their own newborn girl.
A desire to know — to prove that coursed through their
bodies like a toxin they could not resist. The two newly made
mothers pausing and lingering in that semi-embrace, almost
shivering, as they pinched softly at the long sleeved shirt of
the other. Neither moving or pulling away, until finally, when
their pressed cheeks felt so hot they might scald, Holly pulled
back. The eyes of the pair quickly fusing into a white-hot
glare, one they kept to, even as Neha’s challenge of comparing
their respective prowess as mothers, remained unanswered.
A challenge that represented not just that question,
but every other they had ever asked of each other.
Who was better?
Stronger?
Sexier?
More fit?
Each boiled down to its essence, leaving only the
question of their worth as mothers. Why? Because it was the
question asked when they were weakest. The query posed when
neither had the strength to resist the urges the other brought
about in them.
And so despite all of their reasons not to agree to
such a contest and even the senselessness of the question.
Regardless of the fact that they were mothers
responsible for a life other than their own — one who should be
above the petty jealousies of the flesh. Still Holly responded.
“Bitch….” The black-haired mother growled, as she
reached for what she had felt brushing against her arm, as they
lingered together. She grabbing the item from Neha’s hand, even
as the same struggled to keep it, though too slow.
“You’re going to challenge my breasts and nipples with
yours, and you’re using this shit…?” As the white mother spoke,
her eyes narrowed, as her victorious hand lifted the item in
front of Neha’s face.
At the lifting, shame took Neha, who grabbed for the
item. Wanting it back desperately. Not because there were not
more to be taken off the shelf and purchased, but because she
wanted to rip it away from Holly. To take it from her by force.
To fight her for it, right there in the middle of the store — in
the midst of that lonely aisle.
For her own part, Holly was more than willing to fight.
To resist Neha’s attempt and finally — FINALLY engage her rival
in something other than words. Her sexy, post-baby body shaking
with excitement at the very thought of feeling the touch of
Neha’s body against her own once again.
Ready and willing though each of the two women were for
their struggle over nipple cream to go further, suddenly they
both froze. Their attention seized by the cries of their two
babies, who had quietly mumbled and babbled in parallel,
cart-mounted removable car seats. The sound stealing the two
women’s attention from one another, back to their sweet,
beautiful newborn girls. A reassigned focus they only broke,
when Holly said over her shoulder. “I’m dropping her off in 30
minutes, why don’t we….”
Before the white mother had even finished speaking,
Neha replied — the address of her enemy being one she knew well
from Facebook pictures shared and IG comments made. “I’ll be at
your door, bitch. Open it….” As short and snide as the words
were, the Indian mother didn’t even shift her gaze from her
gorgeous baby girl to her hateful rival.
“You’ll regret ever leaving your house, you
Hindu-bitch.” Holly responded in a hushed voice meant only for
Neha, before starting off down the aisle. And though she had
chided her rival for using it, the leaving mother still tossed
the nipple cream into her cart — knowing that on most nights,
she too needed its soothing relief.
The next hour seemed to pass so slowly in some ways,
and yet so quickly in others. For as each dropped their babies
off at the house of a loved one for pre-planned visits, they
thought about it.
The contact they had felt, ever so briefly. Their
surprise meeting and the excitement they felt during every
second of it. And then, the explosion that was to come when
finally they were alone together.
Since their men had left them, they had not had
another, nor even the chance at finding one. The two women
working out of their homes, focusing only on themselves, their
bodies, and their babies.
But finally, after a chance meeting in an aisle of
their favorite store, each felt free. Not because they succeeded
in leaving their house, but instead because, for the first time
in so long, they wanted something — each other.
Yes, they hated one another with a passion.
Yes, when they were together their only drive was to
belittle and wound the other.
But the confrontation each had just left, was the most
exciting moment either had experienced other than childbirth in
so very, very long. A fact that made them replay it again and
again in their minds.
Every word.
Every breath.
Every lean and every touch.
All of it they wanted again, and as quick as they could
have it.
But what did it even mean? Comparing breasts and milk?
Is that even what Holly had invited Neha to do when she arrived?
Neither knew. Neither cared what the intention was, or the plan.
They just wanted more. More of … whatever that moment had been.
More of of making their long-burning conflict real — regardless
of form and formality.
But that dichotomy of expectation and desire, did
little to stop each from preparing for each other.
The confusing way that each felt compelled to torment
the other, not stopping them from slipping into form-fitting
bodycon dresses; Neha’s green and Holly’s red.
Their willingness to risk whatever consequences laid
ahead of them, not halting their reapplication of makeup, each
hoping to outdo the other with their choice shades and lines of
contour.
The strange way their hate and excitement mixed
together and intoxicated, failing to hinder Neha as she entered
her vehicle and drove.
Nor finally, did the dampness of her Cosabella panties,
keep Holly from pacing in the entryway of her townhome. The
onyx-haired mother waiting for Neha’s arrival like a child for
Christmas morning.
A yearning she suffered from, until finally, the knock
came at her door. When it did, when that coveted sound echoed
through her wood-rich lower floor, Holly moved. And though slow
she had planned on taking it. Cool and uninterested though she
had intended on acting. Within what seemed like only a second or
two, her will had broken — her own excitement leading her to
yank the door open.
The Caucasian mother, in her weakness and need for
confrontation, thereafter reaching through the doorway and
grabbing Neha by her shoulders. A grasp Holly then used to pull
and then push her expected guest into the wall between coats on
her rack. The door shutting under its own weight, as the flurry
of movement gave way to the stillness of Neha’s sudden
placement.
One might assume that Neha would be intimidated or
shocked by such a quick and emphatic pull and pressing, but
instead, she just sneered as Holly’s hands retracted.
Each of the two rivals, one in red and one in green,
lingering only centimeters apart, their eyes fused in a glare.
Their cards played. Their need clear. There being not a reason
in the world to hide their hateful urges any longer.
“You’re leaking….” Neha commented cruelly through
gritted teeth, as she shifted her eyes down in a guiding glance
downward. She pointing out that Holly’s nipples had already
begun to drip milk, in the excitement of the moment.
For a moment, brief though it was, Holly felt shame.
Feeling as if her leakage was some sign of difference between
the two, but then she saw it, even as her rival’s eyes moved.
She was not the only one leaking. The same telltale spots being
visible on her enemy’s dress-covered breasts.
“You are too….” Holly, responded, as she turned away
from Neha. Not waiting, but instead moving with speed to to the
nearby staircase. She having already taken the first two steps,
before turning back to her still stationary guest.
“Are you c….” Holly began, confidently, but before she
had even finished asking, Neha responded.
“I’m coming, bitch.” With no more words spoken, the
Indian mother followed as her white rival leading her past an
all-pink nursery room, and deeper into her home. A trip which
came to conclusion when hallway ended and master bedroom began.
One decorated with art by the same artist that adorned Neha’s
walls, though pieces in a different hue and design. Decorations
that surrounded a large bed with a wood and wicker bed frame.
The comforter atop it black, and double-filled for comfort.
The room was immaculate, and large enough to house
whatever it was the two planned on doing to each other. The
carpet of the stairs and hall having given way to
ruddy-brown-wood flooring.
A surface on which the walking pair’s matching black
heels announced their advance in loud, echoing clicks. Sounds
which made them both feel powerful, sexy, and ready to engage in
a war like only women can have.
At least until, after an intentionally delayed and
dramatic pause, Holly turned back to face her rival from the
furthest corner of her room. But as she spun, the black-haired
beauty found Neha’s bodycon not only removed but thrown.
Not to the floor or the bed, but into Holly’s face. A
sudden stripping and tossing that angered she who received it,
so much that in a rage she barked. “BITCH!”
“Shut up, and take yours off,” Neha demanded, as she
stood glaring in her black panties and bra. The overly excited
mother not having even a moment’s patience with Holly’s little
show as dominant hostess.
A hostess that wanted to reply, to seize back the
control she felt had been taken from her, but instead, she
reached down, grabbed the bottom of her dress, and pulled up.
The white panties and bra wearing social-media manager peeling
it from her body before tossing it at Neha.
Heated and quick as all of the last few moments had
been, suddenly, with dresses removed, the two rivals paused.
Each studying the other’s new body. Comparing, if only in
theory, what they saw of the other. And though their eyes did
scan hips and thighs — asses and figure, it was the other’s
breasts they began to focus on.
The pairs of each having swelled since their last day
at the gym together. An increase in size and potency that
threatened their once deadlocked contest of bodies. A menace
that pushed each of the two to on instinct alone, lift the
straps of their bra and squeeze their breasts together with
angled elbows. Each wanting to make their own set look bigger.
Fuller. And filled to the point of bursting with milk for their
own infant daughter.
And though they flaunted their own bosom, within only a
few moments, they found themselves consumed with jealousy. With
anger. With a nearly irresistible desire to wound the breasts of
their rival.
Each, after kicking off their heels, stepping closer to
one another as they began to circle. Their hate-filled eyes not
locked together in some fused glare, but on each other’s breasts
and body. Neither speaking. Neither communicating with the
other, until finally, Holly broke.
“Show them to me….” The onyx said, her voice quivering
with a desire that she could not control.
For her own part, Neha wanted to both refuse and
comply, at the same time. Her own thoughts and intentions
seeming to blur and blend as her pulse raced and heart pounded.
Then, to her mind, came all the words she wanted to say.
The insults.
The wounding jabs about everything and everything her
rival held dear. But before she could utter even a single such
comment, she found herself already reaching. Already unclasping.
Already baring her tits for Holly.
Holly who had to close eyes, after only a glimpse, to
stop her own heart from exploding. Not because she was
intimidated, but because she could not breathe. She wanted to
hurt them. To gouge them. To claw at them. But instead, at least
at that moment, she had to wait. Wait and remove her own black
bra, letting it softly drop to the floor between their now
near-naked bodies.
How weak her white enemy was, for having to close her
eyes. How easy a prey she would be, if she could not even look,
Neha thought to herself. Until that same need gripped her.
Until, she too had to let lower her lids, just to survive and
endure a moment unlike any she had ever experienced before.
“Panties….” Neha finally spoke as her eyes again
opened, her voice no more firm than Holly’s — it taking
everything in her not to lunge.
The word, trembling though it was when delivered, hit
Holly like a blow from a sledgehammer. More delay? More to
remove? Why!? She thought in a despair she shared not. Pained
though it did, both she and her rival, together they reached
down and began to remove their final pieces of clothing for each
other.
At the very moment, their panties dropped to ankle, one
would assume, after all that waiting and wanting, they would
have attacked. Lept for each other. Claws first. Hatefully
spewing their words of derision like venom.
But instead, they found themselves frozen. Afraid of
beginning. Of unleashing all that they felt for the other. And
so they searched. For something to comment on. For anything to
delay the need for their feud to finally become real.
And yet, even there — even when all of their clothing
had been removed, they again found only similarity. Their
bushes, the guardians of their womanhoods, being of the same hue
and the same length. Obvious though that was, neither let it
stay their tongues.
“Even your bush looks weak.” The comment was childish.
Cruel. And ridiculous on its face, and yet still, Holly made it.
And with it spoken, they each found it. The fire that had always
driven them. Their moment of timidity fading, as they once again
began to speak.
“Yours looks weak, bitch!” Suddenly, as Neha responded,
the two rivals once again neared. Each reaching out to each
other. Not to push or slap, but to inflict small pinches, aimed
for the other’s pubic hair.
In what looked like a dance, the pair pulled back from
each other’s reach again and again, until finally, their fingers
caught. Not on air or skin, but fine, black hairs. Hairs each
pulled on, causing their rival not to pull away, but to step
forward. Their nude bodies finally came together in a clap.
A meeting of flesh made not in part, but fully, a
contact that stole their breath and left them holding. Not only
each other but the small tufts of pubic hair each had claimed on
the other’s mound.
“Weak…. Fucking…. Bush….” Holly began before she felt
it. The dripping. Not from her rival’s breasts, or her own, but
from them both. Each pair beginning to leak as they pressed
together. The pressure and excitement of the moment loosing
their flows for each other.
Something about that feeling. That moment. Of their
perfectly aligned, and rock-hard nipples dripping together
softened them. Each letting out the smallest little whimpers at
the sensation of it.
And though for a moment, that softness threatened to
take them, to quell their war and make it something else, Neha
suddenly rebelled. Doing so by yanking at the tuft of pubic hair
she held hard, so hard that it pulled from Holly’s mound. A
sudden retraction and reduction in bush that caused the white
mother to scream out in a flash of pain.
“OwwWWwWeeeee, biIiIiIititttccchhh!!!” It was then that
it all began, as Holly retaliated, by tugging her own little
finger-held clump of hair. An action that caused Neha to let go
of her own, painful howl.
“FuuUuuUccckk, CUUUUUNT!!” Words the blogger uttered,
as each of the two rivals retracted their hands, and then buried
them in the hair atop the other’s head. Then, as their fingers
laced, and then tightened, they each began to yank the other,
and as a consequence, themselves, back and forth. Violently.
Painfully. From side to side, as each sought to punish the
other, for everything she was — everything she had ever done or
said.
Attempts at punishment which came along with a steady
drip of breastmilk from their stabbing nipples, and compressed
breasts. Drips which coalesced and then traveled down their
writhing bodies, and down their flexing thighs or into their
quickly tangling pubic hair.
“White slut!” Neha yelled, driven mad by the conflict.
“Indian whore!” Holly retorted, she willing to say
anything at that moment to hurt her rival.
As the two women tugged on each other’s hair, their
nude bodies struggling for control, they stumbled together.
Their foreheads flattened and pushing for control. Their aching
breasts smashed and slamming forward whenever either of the two
planted their feet. A collision mirrored by their lips which
brushed together with every insult and caught and then peeled
from each other with challenge.
And though the moment, in many ways, was everything
they had ever wanted, it suddenly came to an end. As the back of
Neha’s calves ran into a small, backless seat in front of
Holly’s makeup table. A collision which sent Neha into a fall
onto, and then back over the wicker seating. She, with her grips
on hair, pulling Holly not just with her, but on top of her. The
white mother landing in a perfect straddle of Neha’s midsection.
One she was able to deftly twist into a tight, borrowing leg
scissor before they together landed on the hard wood floor with
a slam. Holly shifting to the side of her rival as she
straightened her legs, looking to apply as much pressure as she
could.
A leg scissor which immediately drew a cry of pain from
Neha’s lips. A cry that brought a wicked smile to Holly’s face.
“Yes! SUFFER, cunt….” Words of utter jubilation that came from
those same smiling lips, just as their owner began to pour her
every ounce of muscle and effort into that scissor.
“OOOOOuuuugggHGHGHGGGGH!!! FUUUuuUUUUUUuUCUcCcCCCCKKK!”
The Indian mother moaned as she pressed her palms to Holly’s
thick, flexing thighs. The two women looking like a T, as they
laid at intersection — Neha’s legs still propped up on the
wicker stool she had fallen over.
“Bitch! BITCH!” The Indian mother muttered and then
shouted, she being absolutely enraged that it was she who had
found herself caught deep between her rival’s thighs.
“Mmmmmnnnm, SCREAM FOR M-oowwwweeee!” As Holly spoke,
she once again flexed her legs with all her might. The
tan-skinned brunette wanting to hear her longtime enemy’s voice
pitch up and let loose in anguish. But just as her taunting
demand neared its conclusion, she felt it. Neha’s hands, at the
end of a long, desperate reach, latching on and squeezing
breasts.
Such an attack would have hurt regardless, but with the
sensitivity of her baby-chaffed nipples and the pressure of each
of her breasts being filled to the point of bursting with milk,
it was agony. An agony that led Holly to, on instinct alone,
abandon her body scissor, and as she rolled to her back, reach
for Neha’s wrists.
“Fuck… No…. GOD!” The brunette exclaimed as she
squirmed in pain, her legs kicking, even as her rival rolled out
from between them. A taken freedom that the black-haired mother
used to crawl atop her enemy in a straddle. The Indian woman’s
hands never releasing the swollen tits of she that laid beneath.
“Huh!? You like that, BITCH?!” In a sudden celebration
of rebounding momentum, Neha asked, her face still contorted
with hatred.
“AAaaAAAAaHhHHhhhhh!” But to the question came no
answer other than a scream, one Holly freed as she laid beneath
her rival with eyes tightly closed.
“LOOK WHO’S SCREAMING NOW, HOLLY!!!!!” A call back. A
curse, in the form of a suggestion. And it would have wounded,
had the grounded coordinator been able to think about anything
other than the pain she felt.
A pain that she could not end by pulling or prying. And
so, with no other options at her disposal or in her mind, Holly
reached up and grabbed Neha’s own, hanging, milk-stiffened tits.
A counter, desperate and late though it was, that made
she who suffered it skip from one cry to another in rapid,
broken succession. “AAaaahhhhh, nooo-shiii-aaahhh!!!”
A lamentation that Neha offered as she, at the pain and
without plan, collapsed. Falling from her straddle of Holly, off
and to the side of her.
Fall though she did, neither woman released their
squeezing grasps on each other’s breasts. Each clinging to the
grip as they laid there, side-by-side, on Holly’s master bedroom
floor.
“Let. Go. Of. Me!!” Holly demanded through gritted
teeth.
“YOU let go!” Neha responded with no more composure,
and in every bit as much pain.
Suffer though they did, neither relented.
Neither let go.
Each of the two maternity-obsessed women digging their
claws in, as deep as they would go. Not to scratch or gouge, but
to squeeze and compress.
A mutual tactic of destruction that brought to each a
sudden sensation. Warmth and wetness in the palms of their
hands.
A coming that was slow at first. A mere drip, followed
by a few more. But with every passing second and every hateful
squeeze, the flow of milk each extracted from the other
continued and grew.
A substance of sustinance that they stole from one
another, along with moans of pain and groans of despair.
“Stop!” Neha demanded.
“Fuck you! You stop!” Holly cried.
And though each asked and argued for their mutual
suffering to end, neither listened or obeyed. Each committing
more and more to their battle of breasts and milking.
So much so that as they tortured, they gripped tighter
and tighter, their legs extending, intertwining, and then
hooking at the back of their knees.
With such anchors, the two warring women pulled
themselves closer. Nearer, though only with their bottom-halves.
Bottom-halves which in a mutual and sudden need to
intertwine themselves further pulled, bringing both Neha and
Holly the rest of the way. Their bushy mounds meeting once again
in a muted collision of tight tangles and sweat-moistened hair.
“Bitch….” Holly muttered in a gasp.
“Fuck….” Neha replied with no more air.
Short though their reactions were to the quick and
intimate impact of their fur-covered mounds, far more was
communicated. For with those few syllables came an abrupt pause.
Not from their legs, which continued to coil and
clutch. Nor their hips, which began in opposing and off-kilter
rhythms to forcefully and maliciously drag. No, instead it was
their hands and fingers which ebbed their assault.
Not in whole or in half, but instead in a reduction
from violent squeezes to a slow, steady milking. One which saw
their fingers move from the base off the other’s breasts, to
their tip, only to move back up to make the same journey again.
And then again. All as a puddle of warm milk began to form below
them. A puddle over which each glared at each other.
“I’m going to take every last drop of your milk before
we’re through here, cunt.” Once more Holly’s tone turned into a
confident hiss.
“You’re the one who’s gonna be drained, bitch.” Like
her favorite hoodie and a pair of thick wool socks, Neha too
sank into the voice she reserved just for Holly.
Venomous and spiteful — endlessly self-assured and
vehemently hateful.
“You won’t have the guts to leave your house for
another year, after I break you.” Holly almost whispered. As
though they laid there together, pulling closer and closer in a
puddle of their own mixing milks, they still spoke. Still
challenged. Still promised each other the fate that awaited
them.
“I’d say the same, bu-but you’re gonna be heading back
to the store to buy milk for your little spawnling. I’m not
leeee-aaaving you with a single drop.” Focused though Neha was,
she could still feel it. The dragging. The grinding. Of matching
black pubic hair meeting, catching, tugging, and then pulling
loose as the pair of rivals continued to drive their mounds
together and then apart.
“Don’t talk abooouuttt my daaaaauuuuggghhhtteer.” Holly
demanded, as her rage at the comment trying to surface in a
welling sea of sweat and desire.
“Dooooonnn’ttt….” Neha went to reply — to fire back,
but as she did, a sudden wave of pleasure and pain washed
through she and her rival. Each pulling a tangled clump of each
other’s pubic hair free and loose, as they together surged,
pressing their foreheads together, their eyes closed and mouths
opened in a mutual gasp.
A gasp they lingered on, as again and again they
brought their quickly wetting pubic mounds together.
Neither repentant or ashamed of what they were feeling
or what they were doing.
Neither willing or even wanting to resist the urges and
desires that had gripped them both for so long.
Their feud. Their obsession with each other. Their need
to compete and compare with their bodies and lives exciting
them, despite its darkness. And in that truth, as their
sweat-matted pubic hairs caught, trussed, and then in silent
snaps pulled free, they writhed together.
Undulating, with wrapped lower-halves. Their once
asymmetrical thrusting coming to a synch, as a lust-driven,
deprivation-intensified state of madness overwhelmed them.
They were rivals. They were enemies. They were women
locked in a loathing they coveted, and yet still … at that
moment … all they could think about was the next thrust. The
next hip-centered joust.
A state that worsened as their eyes opened and their
returning glares locked. Each cursing breathlessly at the other
in pleasure-brought stutters.
“Stuuu-upid, whiiiite sluuut.” Neha hissed as her
fingers slipped from Holly’s breasts, and after a lifting of
arms, laced into the hair of the same.
“Faaa-at, Indiannnnn coooow.” Holly muttered hatefully
with lips only centimeters away from Neha’s.
“NOoOOOo wonder your maAaAan left yOoOOoouuUUU. You
don’t knooOoOowww hOw to fuUuUuck….” Cruel though it reads,
Neha’s words came out almost in a coo. Her firing hips picking
up speed with every word spoken.
“LoOoOOk whooOOooOoo’s taaaa-AAaAaalking, sluUuUut.”
Holly gave it back. Said it back. Returning the verbal volley,
though she too failed feigning the requisite tone. The brunette
being no less lost in her quickly escalating fuck-fight with her
chief rival.
And with every word they spoke and comment they shared
in loathsome whispers, they leaned closer. Their eyelashes
brushing, and intermixing, as their lips began to brush once
more. Barely. Softly.
A nearness that called to them. Begged them. Kiss her.
Please!!! But with every ounce of composure and will they had
left they resisted. They fought. Not each other, but to keep
their longing lips and craving tongues from engaging.
Even as each could feel a tsunami of pleasure building
within them.
A storm that grew with every spent second and offered thrust. A
tempest that sent shivers through their bodies and sparks up
their spine, until the very moment it exploded in a wild,
vicious orgasm that consumed each of the two rivals like a fire.
One lit at exactly the same moment. One that made them
stiffen and quake, as their lips met. Not in a kiss, but as
their mouths opened. Each letting loose broken breaths, skipping
whimpers, and agonizingly soulful moans. Not into the room, but
into each other’s mouths as they squirmed together in a white
puddle of their own making. Their bodies speckled and streaked
with expelled milk and dripped sweat.
Minutes passed in untold number, and in them neither
woman moved or even spoke. The pair of warring mothers just
remaining, with hands buried deep in each other’s hair as they
peeled forehead from forehead and lip away from lip.
Their legs still intertwined, and bushes still
hopelessly tangled.
Their hips still slowly driving forward and in —
forward and in. Matted and milk-splattered pubic hair padding
every interval, as each used the other as a tool for their own
after-release satisfaction.
That is until finally their orgasms and the
stilling-memories of the same had passed.
Leaving just the silence.
Just the eyes of their rival staring deeply into their
own
“Don’t think that this chang–” Holly began in warning,
before her stay-at-home enemy interrupted.
“Fuck you….” Neha spit back in words and then with
saliva — her lips pursing thereafter to shoot a collection of
the substance in Holly’s face.
“BITCH!” Holly reacted in a rage, one she tried to
manifest by making her soft hold on Neha’s hair hard and
yanking. But before she could seize and keep, the would-be
Indian victim set herself to roll back and away from her enemy.
A decision that in a blinding flash of pain, forcibly
ripped their essence-glued and entangled pubic mats apart. An
unexpected ripping that caused each woman to scream — one
rolling away and the other remaining, though in a state of
pain-sparked shock.
“Get up!” Neha demanded, as she made her way back to
her feet.
“Fine by me, cunt!” Holly said as she followed. She too
rolling out of the puddle both had drawn from each other’s
breasts and then fucked in. Not briefly. Not quickly. But for as
long as they needed to purge the demons that had for so long
plagued them.
“I knew you wanted me….” Came an accusal from the Neha,
as Holly made it back to her feet.
“Shut up! You’re the one who started humping me.”
Retorted the glaring, and half-wet onyx.
“Yeah, you’re the one who came….” As the Indian mother
spoke, she began to circle her rival once more.
“Fuck you…. We both did.” It should have sounded odd to
Holly as she said it. Not just odd, but abhorrent discussing
that both she and the woman she hated had driven each other to
orgasm. But in her state of complete inhibition and unchecked
desire, she said it without a second thought.
“You came first.” With no less reserve, and mired in
the same soul-wrenching dichotomy of hate and lust — desire and
deprivation, Neha dug for whatever advantage she could push
Holly to believe she had.
“LYING BITCH!! YOU DID!” Just the suggestion — just the
spoken thought that their mutual moment of weakness had been a
contest won by her rival, sent Holly storming forward as she
resisted in words.
“Mmm hmm, don’t even pretend!” With a confidence
feigned just to make Holly mad, Neha continued as she too
marched forward.
“I milked your flabby Indian tits!” Holly, beset by the
searing heat of her enemy’s brazen claims of advantage, fired
back in the first way she could think of.
“I still have plenty milk left, cunt.” Only inches away
from the woman across from her, Neha defended the state of her
own motherly merits.
And from an even shorter distance, Holly replied. “You
won’t after I’m through with you!!!” Words spoken as each of the
two milk-splattered matrons grabbed once more for each other’s
hair.
“Grrr, we’ll seeEEEEEeEEe about that!” Spinning and
stumbling though they were, still did the black-haired beauty
reply to her rival.
“Eerrrr, UGH!” And though Holly planned to reply, if
only to stop her enemy from having the last word, she decided
instead to turn her words into action. The jealousy-beset
coordinator doing so by pulling away from their tightening
body-to-body clinch, and then returning to it. Not with tits
pressing against tits, but with a knee slamming forward and into
Neha’s stomach. A blow that bent Neha over at the waist as her
hands fell from Holly’s hair.
“Huh!?” A question of dominance asked in a single,
grunted syllable. One that came from Holly, as she too let her
hands drop from hair and down to Neha’s back. A placement she
used to grab and then yank forward — the brunette pulling her
rival into another, hard-driving and cruelly-delivered knee and
upper-thigh. One not to the stomach as before, but instead right
into and across the black-haired mother’s cream-coated breasts.
“Ungh!” Cried out Neha, as she felt a spray of milk
exit her already wounded and now-worsened chest.
“You won’t have ‘plenty left’ for long, you
curry-loving cunt!” Holly’s words, hateful as they were, seemed
almost soft compared to another, brutal knee she hurled up and
into Neha’s leaking tits. A knee that upon landing once more
found itself coated with a violence-bought spray of
Neha-flavored protein.
At the impact and the loosing of liquids, once more the
black-haired blogger groaned. A groan that lingered as Holly
began to drag her. Pulling her from one side of the master
bedroom to the other. A journey that only ended when finally
they had reached Holly’s dark-wood dresser.
“No more milk for your brat-to-be, Neha.” Though she
spoke to her rival, Holly’s eyes were averted. As were her
hands, which moved from the Indian mother’s body to the
dresser’s top drawer. A drawer that Holly pulled open, as she
stood on Neha’s right — each facing the opening chiffonier.
Despite the walking and placing — opening and
positioning, Neha still wobbled, she trying to regain the air
and stability Holly’s knee lifts had taken out of her. A state
that lingered as the latter pressed the former forward, hanging
her darks-skinned tits over and into the dresser drawer’s
outward-facing lip.
She could do it. She could slam the drawer closed, but
first Holly wanted to gloat. And so she leaned over and in,
pressing her lips to Neha’s right ear before whispering in a
hateful hiss. “Ready…?”
“No!” Neha replied in a loud and defiant tone. A
strength-affected voice that came just as Holly felt a firm grab
of her still-damp pubic hair.
“UuuuuuuuUUuUU….” Not a scream, a whimper, or a groan,
but instead something else. A vibrating, volume-shifting,
announcement of worry. One that Holly offered, knowing that at
any moment, Neha might do worse.
“Plea….” Holly began, readying her plea of ‘please’, as
her hands moved from drawer to the wrist of her enemy. Not
wanting to feel the pain that her rival threatened to inflict.
“Fine.” Neha replied, unexpectedly. Shockingly. She
sounding an acceptance of Holly’s prayers for mercy. And though
for a second the response filled the lighter-skinned Floridian
with relief, in a flash and with Neha’s next comment, such
relief disappeared.
“We’ll do it your way.” Is what the Indian mother said
as she reached over with her free left hand, grabbed Holly’s
hair, and then drug her forward. Not just her head, but her
chest. A chest which, just as Neha’s had before, slipped over
and then hung on the forward-facing front of the dresser-door. A
door which an instant later slammed closed, or at least as far
as it could, with a pair of swollen breasts bracing it open.
“AAAaaAaarRRrRrRhGggggGGGGGGGgggGGgGHHHhhhhH!” Holly
cried out like a dying banshee, as her breasts compressed within
the three-quarter shut drawer.
In agony though she was, not a single moment after it
did Holly move her hands — one to the dresser’s frame and the
other to the dresser drawer. A movement intended to allow for a
freeing of her breasts from the newly milk-doused hell they were
caught in.
But as she moved, so did Neha. Who, after releasing her
rival’s pubic hair, slid behind the body of the same. The
mocha-hued mother pressing her breasts and body against the back
of Holly, to ensure she could not yet free her trapped tits.
“Mmmm, I can almost hear your breasts emptying.” Not in
a hiss, but a hushed, sensual whisper, Neha mocked her
dresser-stuck prey.
“But you can feel mine, can’t you…? So full and swollen
with milk….” With every word spoken, Neha dragged her breasts
across Holly’s back. Each nipple leaving a small trail of white
as they traveled.
“BiiIIIiiIIittttccCchHHh, I sweeeeaaaaar, I’l-I’llll
destroy you when I geeEeEEEEeeEt free….” Her voice quaking, and
body doing to better, Holly threatened.
And when she did, her rival went to respond. “That’s
the plan, cunt. Body-to-body until one of us is
drrrrryyyyyyy-aaAaRrrrRgggHHhHhH!” From acceptance and threat to
a sudden pained scream, Neha stumbled backward after Holly with
all the force she could find, slammed her head back and into
Holly’s forehead.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Finally without her rival pressing
against her, and as she exclaimed in both pain and
desperately-found relief, Holly Pulled the dresser door open.
Her poor, half-milked breasts aching worse than they ever had
before.
“Come here!” The chest-fallen onyx screamed, as she
turned back to face her rival with raised fists.
“Ohhh, what…?” Neha, asked in part, as she shook her
head from side-to-side, trying to recover from Holly’s headbutt.
“You want to box? Fighting like a woman was too hard for you, I
guess….”
“SHUT UP!” Yelled the brunette as she charged and threw
a wild, aimless haymaker at Neha. Imperfect though the punch
was, the mocking woman who it was thrown at only barely dodged
it. Neither of the two having any experience throwing fists.
Barely though it was, Neha still avoided the strike.
And when she did, she threw one of her own. A quick, oddly
angled strike into Holly’s exposed kidneys.
“Unnghh!” The Caucasion mamma groaned as she spun back
around, and then through the pain punched again. That attempt
landing hard against her rival’s left breast.
“Aaarrrgghhh! OWE!” Came Neha’s complaint, as she
grabbed for her struck breast.
“More coming, cun–NNnnmmmppphhh….” Mid-taunt and
mid-punch, Holly found Neha’s fist bury deep in her tummy. A
blow that knocked whatever breath she had in her lungs out and
into the warm, sweat-scented air of the master bedroom they
warred in.
With every punch came a sudden spray and then slow,
air-carried drift of liquids. Not just of that same sweat that
stained the air, but the milk each had forced out of the other’s
body.
“This is how you wanted to fight, huuu-uuunnnnggghhh.”
Each being addicted to the feeling of mocking and talking to
their rival as they fought, Neha too tried to speak as they
circled, strafed, and struck. But she too found her words
interrupted by a tummy-seaking fist. One that landed hard,
causing Neha to wobble as she took sloppy steps backward.
Back though she went, Holly gave chase. Each of the two
desperate, loathing-filled women firing punches at each other
without regard to defense. Their fists landing hard on stomachs
and breasts — cheeks and lips.
Again and again.
Without regard to what their fists were doing to each
other or what the cost of each strike might be.
That is until it seized them hard. Like the sudden
effect of a rattlesnake bite. Exhaustion. Confusion. Aches and
pains, wherever the other’s fists had landed.
Pain that came with bruises and blood — discoloration
and extreme sensitivity to any follow-up blow.
And yet still, despite all of those costs, they each
continued to punch at each other. Even as their movements slowed
and punches came without speed.
The pair just standing. Just striking out with quaking
arms and red-knuckled fists. Neither speaking. Neither taunting.
Their only thoughts spent on continuing to batter one another.
Until, after a series of half-fought-off stumbles and a
seemingly shared groan, they each collapsed into each other.
Their milk-covered breasts slamming together with a wet clap and
even wetter spray. One that coated their bruised and bloody
cheeks, just as they sealed together. The broken and blistered
nemeses bringing their heads down for a rest on each other’s
shoulder as they together fought the fatigue that had taken
them.
“Get…. Off…. Me….. Bitch…..” Holly muttered as together
they stumbled.
“You…. you, get off meeeEEeeEe, slUuuUut….” Neha
replied, from swollen lips that rested not an eyelash’s length
from her enemy’s ear.
Both having demanded only to be denied, the two women,
even in their clinch began to drive, slow and yet forceful
punches into each other’s sides.
“I thought … you didn’t want … to box … bitch…?” Broken
and beleaguered, Holly mused in an exhausted mutter.
“I’ll fight you … anyway you … want to fight …
cuUuUUnnntttt.” Neha replied in a weakened but resolute
deriding.
Standing though they appeared to be, in truth each
simply laid. Not against a wall or on the floor, but against one
another. The force of the other’s collapsing body against their
own being the only thing that kept either of them upright.
Spent and bruised though they were, the mothers tried
to right themselves. Tried to pull their heads back from the
other’s shoulder so they could look into each other’s eyes as
they challenged and dared each other.
Invitations for more that slipped through lips that at
their corners began to meet. A meeting that threatened them both
with another awakening of the lusts that had overwhelmed them so
completely when they fought on Holly’s floor.
Still, through that threat, they pushed literally and
figuratively. The pair shoving each other away, before they
raised their blood-and-milk-splattered fists once more.
Ready though they pretended to be, neither could stand
straight or even step forward without nearly collapsing. And yet
in that state they began to throw weak, ineffectual punches at,
or perhaps the better word is near each other.
But as they say about clocks and monkeys with
typewriters, eventually they each landed punches. Not apart or
in turns, but simultaneously, with their fists smashing into
each other’s noses hard. Blows that caused each to collapse once
more into each other’s arms and against each other in a
cream-clap splash.
Together they felt it. The pain of smashed noses, that
each believed to be broken. Though somehow the force applied
stopped just short of that face-altering injury. Unbroken though
their noses were, blood still trickled from them, as once more
they laid cheek-to-cheek.
“I…. Hate…. You….” Neha muttered weakly.
“Not…. As much…. As I hate you….” The brunette replied,
though through dizziness and trembling.
Even their loathing was a competition. And though it
was, the two competitors could do naught but lean into each
other. Their bodies frail and desperate to collapse. Their arms
moving to and then around each other’s waists for extra support,
as their foreheads came together once more.
A support that let them focus once again on the one
thing that mattered, each other’s breasts and the milk within
them.
“Not so swollen now, are they…?” Holly hissed as their
breast to breast contact made it clear — in their battle of
fists, she had won. Not ultimately by breaking Neha, or by
points, by landing more punches. But instead by focusing her
strikes on the Indian mother’s breasts. Which, as they sat
pressed into and against Holly’s, felt no more full. Their score
of drainage having been equaled out.
“Shut up….” Neha replied with a sneer as the pair
glared deeply into each other’s eyes.
“Make me….” Dared Holly.
A dare the black-haired matron accepted as she grabbed
a tight grip of her rival’s hair, and then with it, bent the
same back at the neck. A bend Holly too inflicted, by wrapping
her hands in Neha’s hair and pulling down. Leaving the two women
standing body-to-body, and chin-tip-to-chin-tip.
“Ready…?” Holly asked once more, knowing that their
brief moment of rest was coming to an end.
“Are you…?” Responded Neha, though she waited for no
response. She instead using the grip on her enemy’s
charcoal-black hair to pull, and with the force of the tug, send
her careening backward one step and then another.
Once apart again, and as each tried to gather their
strength and balance, the Indian mother spoke. “Like women
again…?”
To the question Neha expected an answer in words, but
instead got one in a nod. Not up and down, but instead side to
side, as Holly shook off the request as she stepped forward.
Stepped forward and then threw her left leg out and into her
rival’s shins with a thud.
“Owe! You bitch!” Neha shouted in anger and pain. “What
are we going to do next, arm wrestle?”
Despite the dig, Holly continued to kick. Shooting her
legs out in sloppy, untrained kicks, which landed, but did
little but irritate Neha.
“Fucking fine!” The shin-bit Indian woman exclaimed
before she too began to throw kicks. No higher. No harder. But
with each thrown, the two continued to exhaust themselves.
Driving their bodies deeper and deeper into the clutches of an
already hungry and body-ravaging fatigue.
And as that fierce and relentless weakening took to
them, they began to stumble once more. Apart, as they circled
each other — throwing whatever kicks they could muster. And
then, after a sudden trip by Holly, together hard. Their
colliding bodies crashing through the still open door to the
bedroom and then into the hallway. Their hands lacing once more
into the locks of their rival.
Grips they took as they fought for control and
leverage. A battle they waged even as they careened from the
master bedroom, into the hallway, and then across into Holly’s
daughter’s bright pink nursery.
But even when they had reached that room of brandished
and brazen femininity, they still fought. Still wrestled with
each other. Neither kicking or punching, instead only struggling
with their naked and battered bodies to overtake and overpower
their enemy.
A war that escalated and intensified, even in their
exhaustion, until finally, in a simultaneous throw and collapse
they fell to the hard-planked floor in a heap of tangled and
naked bodies. Their legs intertwined and thighs crossed as they
together pulled one another into a mirrored, and yet barely-kept
seated position.
One in which both dangled off of each other in the
hottest of messes. Groaning and whimpering, both in exhaustion
and pain. Hanging off the other, each with a single hand
gripping the others shoulder. Their upper bodies leaning back as
far as they might, without such a grasp being released.
And though there, they lingered for a moment or two,
breathing and moaning softly from the pain that still lingered,
eventually Holly spoke.
“This…. This isn’t … over, bitch….. Till one of us is
dry, remember….” Reminded Holly, who began to pull herself back
up and towards her darker-skinned enemy.
“Till one of us…. Is…. Dry….” Neha mumbled back in
words. But unlike her rival, words that came with no action. No
sitting back up from her weak hang or pulling herself forward
from her pathetic dangle. No, for she was too tired. Too spent
at that moment to move, let alone fight.
It was a window Holly took, by continuing her lean. Not
only to the point when she was sitting straight up, but then
past that and further. She, in fact, leaning all the way down
until she could seal her lips around the nipple of Neha’s left
breast.
Then, with them so applied, she began to suck.
“Oooohhh, god…. Nooooo” Shivering, despite the heat of
the house and their war, did the Indian mother respond. Her flow
of milk starting in an instant, as Holly abandoned the hope of
continuing to pain on her rival through blows and battering.
“Get…. Get off me….” With those words came a push, a
weak one at Holly’s shoulders. The dark-skinned blogger seeking
to free herself from her enemy’s sudden and spiteful siphoning.
But it was too late, and they were too deep. Their
stores of energy having been spent. And their ability to battle
in more taxing ways having been lost in the wildfire of their
violent sojourns into fisticuffs and kicking.
Leaving them one option. One ending towards which to
rush. The draining of their rival’s still milk-filled tits.
Mutual though that goal was, as in a sweaty mess they
sat at an angle, only Holly could chase it. As Neha, in her
weariness, began to falter and drift into allowance.
Her hands moving back and to the hardwood floor as she
struggled to keep even a semblance of sitting. All as the woman
she had pitted her body against leaned down and in, to continue
sucking at her nipple. Not with a bite to inflict, but to coax
and then empty.
At first, the taste of Neha’s milk, and the thought of
imbibing it gave Holly pause. But as her rival’s milk began to
flow, not only quickly but in a veritable torrent, the
aspirating mother committed herself.
She would take it.
She would drink it.
Every last drop of Neha’s remaining cream, if need be.
A venture Holly took to, as the woman who she drained
began to beg. “No, we can’t…. Please, I need….” From one plea to
another, the Indian mother jumped. She knowing full-well that
she had wanted this when she was strong. That she would do the
same to Holly, if it were she who had the energy and position.
And yet as Neha implored softly — weakly, Holly began
to push. Not forcefully or harshly, but gently — as she eased
the defenseless blogger to her back on the floor.
At the suggestion of touch, Neha began to lean back and
then collapse down. And when she did, Holly advanced — crawling
forward and on top. She never letting her lips pull away from
nipple, or the flow that came from as much end.
She was winning.
She could sense it.
She could feel it.
She could taste it.
But that truth was not her’s alone to understand. For
Neha too felt her own defeat’s approach. Despite that knowledge,
however, she was too weak to push Holly away and too exhausted
to re-engage her the same in some kind of violent affair.
And so, the grounded mother of darker hue simply
remained. Beneath Holly, as the same suckled at her quickly
emptying right teat.
Neha had wanted victory. Dominance. And to feel the
indescribable excitement of owning the woman who she had pitted
her body, soul, and even life against.
And yet as Holly hovered above her, pulling the milk
from her breast like her sweet baby girl had done so many nights
before, the fading Floridian did not feel frustration or regret.
Sadness or anger.
Instead Neha felt turned on. Her fatigue-broken body
and combat-shattered mind finding a pleasure and an excitement
in giving up control to her enemy. She had fought so bravely and
ruthlessly, and yet now — at the end of all of it, she could do
naught but lay. Naught but whimper and moan pathetically as
Holly stole the life-giving milk from her breasts.
Feelings of debility-born submissiveness that pushed
the back-laid mother to reach out and up, and to then to cup
each of Holly’s breasts with one of her hands. Hands which did
not then squeeze or scratch, but instead massaged.
Sensually.
Tenderly.
As one might do to their lover.
And Holly was willing to take it. As a sign of
submission and allowance. Once again, Neha was lost in lust and
desire, just as they both had been when their fur-obscured clits
met again and again on Holly’s bedroom floor.
Yes, at the sensation and manipulation, milk began to
drip from Holly’s breasts. But the pitter-patter droplets
landing on Neha’s tummy, inner thighs, and pubic hair came
slowly. And so the all-fours and finish-focused vixen above
continued her good work.
Neha’s right breast expelling its last few drops of
milk, before Holly, without a word spoken, lifted her head and
moved to her next target: her rival’s left tit.
At the switching, the half-bested matron of a
threatened-to-be-starved baby girl moaned out loudly, both from
the pain of her tit running dry and the intoxicating and
expectation-defying pleasure of submitting to an enemy so
completely.
A dichotomy of mixture that Neha still spoke through,
though her voice quaked and mind skipped in the effort.
“Holly-Holly, pleEeeaaAase…stoooOoop. M-my daughter,
sheeeEeeeEe….”
The sound of her nemesis moaning and begging was music
to Holly’s ears. A music that played as she remained lifted just
above Neha, her two hands flattened with splayed fingers atop
the nursery’s darkwood floor.
And though Holly’s palms were anchored, she wanted to
use them. Wanted to run them, up and down the body of her
seemingly defeated enemy. To feel her. To take her. To ravish
her.
Yes, Holly hated the woman beneath her entirely, and
yet there was something about that moment that began to affect
her, just as it had already affected Neha.
Their’s was a heated, malicious, and nasty feud. And
yet Holly was drinking the milk of her rival. Imbibing her
motherly gift. As if Neha was her mother, and she her baby girl.
Neha still begged. Still pleaded for her to stop. But
Holly could see when her eyes opened and feel it in the
massaging hands and softly squirming body of the woman who had
for so long transfixed her.
Neha was giving in to her gentle, exhaustion-drenched
dominance. But even more enthralling than that unspoken
submission, was the fact that her rival seemed to be enjoying
it.
The chance to be weak.
The chance to be vulnerable and in that vulnerability
controlled.
To most, the draining mother’s thoughts and desires
would make no sense, but to her — they were crystalline.
Crystalline and compelling, to not only drink. To not
only take and in that way subjugate. But to scoot her lower-half
forward, and once more go bush-to-bush with Neha.
Each of the two warring mothers moaning with a quiver,
as their blood, sweat, and milk-wet carpets met once more. Not
in violence or lost control, but in acceptance and agreement.
An agreement that though the end was near. With Neha
flat on her back as her enemy milked her last filled tit;
pulling from it all the milk left therein. There was more to
their struggle. More to their feud.
Not love or friendship — kinship or sisterhood, for
they still hated one another to the very depths of their souls.
But in those depths lurked more than loathing and grievance.
No, for there was also swirling passion and hate-earned
lust — an endless thirst and a boundless hunger.
Their jealousy, after its churning and boiling, having
turned into a desperate need to experience and consume.
Their competition, so wildly out of control, that they
had no choice but to salve each other’s wounding pruriency, even
as they chased each other’s destruction.
Shifts in the hue of their rapturess flames that led
them each to connect womanhoods once more and then writhe.
Without comment or accusation — protest or hesitation. It being
the price of their combat. The cost of their contest.
A contest Holly saw as one-sided as she thrust and
verging done as she shuddered. The confident onyx taking her
time as she suckled and fucked — counting her lead in the
emptying of breasts as insurmountable. And her role as imminent
victor as unassailable.
But as she above continued on in such surety, letting
her mind drift deeper into she and her rival’s mutual meetings
of heavily furred mounds, she missed it. The deepening. The
intensifying. The increasing force of Neha’s massaging hands.
Hands which at first moved gently and without threat,
having begun to slide up and then stroke down. Once and then
again. Without inflicted pain, but still with steady intention.
They having moved from an instinctual and passion-born caress to
a true milking. Like a farmer and her cow.
A cow whose teats dripped at first and then soon after
began to flow. The substance gained, or perhaps more accurately
stolen, collecting in a pool on the Indian mother’s tummy and
the floor below her.
A pool Holly knew not of, when she lifted lips from a
nipple that still offered its cream freely, and began in a
breathlessly cruel mutter. “I’m going to….uuunnnggghhh….” She
stuttered and then moaned, as their bouncing kittens met to
greater effect. Not more quickly, but in river-deep drags and
focus-shattering bindings of one rival’s clit with its
counterpart.
A hardening of contact and extending of collision that
the social media coordinator fought through to finish her
thought, malicious as it was. “I’mmmm gonna take every last
droppp of your milk, NehaAaA. Your baby girl is going to starve,
because I’m the better mooooottthhheeerrrr-0h-gawd. Oh
shiiiiIiiit. Whhaaatt…? Nooo….”
From the height of overconfidence to the low terror
that sets in when victory begins to slip away, Holly’s heartless
comment descended. A rapid and harrowing crash that came when
finally on-all-fours matron could feel it. Through the pleasure
of their tribbing. Through the excitement of their battle. Her
breasts were nearly empty. Not one of them, but both of them.
Her plan was to pull away! To Lean back and escape her
tricky rival and with deftly milking hands. But before she
could, Neha leaned up, over, and then without removing her hands
she rolled them both. Holly to her back, with their mover just
above her.
A mover who then in a flash of action, moved both hands
to the left breast of the newly back-laid beauty, and with them
expelled hard. The darker-hued Miami mother pumping every last
drop of milk from its Holly’s tit in a sudden and sputtering
spray. One that tapered off to a slow drizzle and then an
audible puff of protein-scented air. A scent let loose as Holly
groaned out in pain and desperation.
“No, Neha! Please!” The onyx begged, though she had
been certain she would always remain strong. Her mind in an
instant fixating on her poor baby girl and the nourishment she
would lack if the fate the Indian above her threatened became
real.
But as if it were a nightmare that she could not be
woken from, Holly, as she reached to push Neha away, found her
wrists caught, and then after a slam, pinned to the hardwood
floor.
“I’m sorry…. Look…. Don’t…. We can….” Before the
grounded mother’s plaintive words could be spoken or even heard,
her rival had already lowered her head and applied her lips to
Holly’s nipple.
Neha wanting to end her enemy’s supplies, just as that
same enemy had threatened to do to her. In a slow, craven
drinking.
“Ohhhhh noOoo, noooOoo, I need….” As if she was lost in
a fever dream, Holly whimpered and protested weakly, as she
squirmed beneath her pinning rival.
A rival who never stopped fucking her. Bust-to-bush and
clit to clit, even as she mirrored the position the two had been
in only a moment and a roll before.
“God! Fuck! FuuuUUcckkk!!” The panic of her emptied and
now emptying tit fed the orgasm that began to take Holly. She
letting her hate and passion — excitement and despair stir
within her like a growing and uncontrollable storm.
Until finally that storm turned to maelstrom and
maelstrom typhoon. One that washed over Holly as she suddenly
seized. Her eyes closed and toes curling. Her lips parting in a
loud and animalistic scream of bliss and agony as the last few
drops of milk were pulled from her right breast.
Drops, which like those before it, Neha swallowed as
she lifted her head and claimed victory. “You’re dry–” Neha
began as she withdrew her sex from Holly’s with a snapping of
hairs and displacing of droplets. “Now to make sure you stay
that way, cunt….”
The words were haunting, merciless, and wicked in their
own right. But they paled in comparison to Neha’s actions.
Actions which saw her leaning down once more to reapply her
mouth to Holly’s nipple.
Not in another suckle or in a heavy chomp or a piercing
bite, but instead in a sustained and cold-hearted chew. One she
used to seal off Holly’s nipples. Rendering them inert and
unusable. By pump or baby — device or dependant daughter.
“You bitch! Stop it! No! GOD! GET OFF ME!” Holly raged
as she fought with every ounce of energy she had left. But in
their mad struggle and after her most recent orgasm, Holly had
given away too much. Leaving her too weak to break Neha’s
pinning of wrists, or to wriggle free from the same.
And so, Neha continued her silent, methodical, chewing.
She using just the right amount of pressure to cause Holly’s
nipples to swell shut, with only a few droplets of blood finding
their way into the mouth of she who fought to close off.
A making real of threat and promise — feud and finality
that played out as Holly cursed and begged — struggled to reason
and in tears implore. Not only with one breast, both both.
The merciless Indian mother only ending her assault
when she knew her bested enemy’s tits were not only empty, but
worthless to her baby girl. Not just one but both.
“I hate you….” Holly muttered as she sobbed. Her
tear-filled eyes still glaring, as she put every ounce of her
loathing into a gaze of true contempt.
But as Holly conveyed that hate, Neha did so with her
own. She collecting the blood, milk, and saliva that coated her
mouth before spitting it in the broken and yet beautiful bitch
that laid beneath her.
As that collection of battle-drawn liquid splattered
and dripped down Holly’s tear-stained and battered face, Neha
stood.
“Mmmm, I know…. I’d hate me too, if I were as worthless
a mother as you are.” The words were cutting, and yet Holly did
not respond. Not until, Neha added.
“No milk in your tits, or even in the fridge….” It was
those words that drew a reaction from Holly who was too tired
and too physically spent to move. Those words that truly struck
fear into her heart, even as her rival made her way out of the
room.
“YOU BITCH! No! Please! PLEASE!! Neha!!!” Neha could
hear Holly’s cries as she walked down the hall to the bedroom to
collect her things.
As she dressed herself in front of her broken enemy’s
own mirror.
And even still, as she walked down the stairs with her
heels on once more. She making her way to the kitchen. A kitchen
with a fridge that Neha emptied of Holly’s stored frozen breast
milk. She knowing all too well that any mother worth her salt
puts their excess expulsions away for a day when they might be
needed.
But one by one, Neha collected the frozen bags and
tucked them into one of Holly’s fabric-made Whole Foods bags. A
bag she then slung over her shoulder before she walked out the
front door.
The sound of Holly’s lamentations and tears still
echoing behind her.
Sounds Neha would remember with excitement and moans.
As every night, after her beautiful daughter had been put down
to sleep, the victorious matron would sit in the chair next to
her own bed. Her right hand placed between trembling thighs, as
she sipped slowly from a cold, perspiring glass she held in her
left.
Her defeated enemy’s stolen breastmilk being the
perfect aphrodisiac. The taste of it bringing her back to the
day and the moment she conquered her rival.
The day she proved that she was not only the better
mother, but the better woman.
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