“I can’t believe you….” A strange mix of disbelief and something she couldn’t quite identify, is what Erica Dane felt at that moment.

“Kicked out of prom…. Really!?” The blonde mother continued in query as she drove, her narrow eyes keeping to the wet road before her.

“You are eighteen years old. Eighteen! You’re supposed to be the mature one in your class. Buuuut noooo, you just had to….” Erica stopped mid-sentence, too beset by emotion to even put what she had been told by the principle of her daughter’s school into words. She instead just shaking her head, as her gaze drifted across the rain-obscured night sky that lingered over their journey. Her focus at that moment spent on finding the strength to speak past all she felt.

“Mom, I’m sorry, I… She just….” Despite the youth-amplified intensity of the feelings that coursed through her, or perhaps because of them, Allison found it hard to breathe, let alone speak. Despite that, she continued, trying to explain herself, even if such was impossible in her mother’s eyes.

“She’s just always so mean to me! I wasn’t trying to get into a fight with her. I swear!” It was the truth, but even as she mustered it, she knew it wasn’t enough. Not enough to quell the growing anger of her mother, whose hands clung to the wheel, squeezing so hard that the leather of it began to squeal beneath them.

It wasn’t that sound that made Allison nauseous. For though the 18-year-old high school senior feared her mother’s rage, she was also beset by regret. As in a flash of tempers and torment, the young blonde had lost what she had always hoped would be one of the greatest nights of her life: prom night.

“Do you know how many people are mean to me, Allison?” Erica began, her voice having been found and her will to speak forged.

“How many people are rude to me on a daily basis?” Though they seemed like questions, Erica waited for and wanted no answers from her daughter, she instead just continuing to speak.

“A ton. And I don’t just…” The blonde mother again paused, as thoughts of what she planned on saying next entered her mind and froze her. Not for reasons she could identify in name, at least, not at that moment.

“…go around pulling their hair or rolling around on the floor with them.” When finally the words passed her lips, Erica’s eyes closed, as she tried to shake off whatever oddities of thought and imagination she felt nipping at her heels and tugging at her soul.

“What you … and that girl did, was just … just … childish! It was stupid … and … and … dangerous(!), for both of you.” Past the comment though she was, and open though her eyes were again, the lonely middle-aged woman could see it. Picture it. Another woman and she grabbing each other’s hair and rolling together on the floor.

And though that image played tease to Erica, in the resulting silence, Allison’s eyes welled with tears as she tried decide how to respond to her mother lecture. Not sure how to escape the consequences of actions she took in a split-second and at the height of overwhelming frustration.

The 18-year-old high school student, at least in her own mind and at that moment, only defending herself against a girl she felt was not only bullying her in general, but there at prom — the most important night of her albeit short life!

“Mom, where are we going? This isn’t the way home.” The blonde, curly-haired daughter asked in a panic. Her heartbeat beginning to increase alongside a quickly growing worry about the direction she and her mother traveled.

Without looking to her daughter for reaction, knowing what it would be, Erica just spoke. Telling Allison of her fate, in one pitiless sentence. “We’re going to do what you and this Nisha girl should have done: talk this out.”

“Oh my god, mom; please!” Terror. Absolute terror took the 18-year-old. “No… I can’t…. You don’t understand!”

“You can, and you will. It’s part of being an adult, — dealing with people you have disagreements with. You’re not a kid anymore, Alli, you’re 18.” Erica continued to speak sternly, even if in her voice there was a certain soothing — a tone to help her daughter understand. This was for her good, even if she hated the idea.

“You can’t just run away from your problems like your father did. You have to stay and deal with them.” Erica added as her own imagination began to settle, the statement unveiling the true reason behind her decision to force Allison to try to work out the issues that existed between she and her bully. That being a sensitivity to any decision that resembled one Allison’s father’s might have made. A father who had left them both when finances and parenthood got hard.

Revealing though the comment was, Allison was too young and too distracted by fear to catch it. “Mom, no, you don’t understand. Nisha hates me. She hates … us!” Without clarification or context, Allison pled, trying to convince her mom to turn the car around and just take her home.

“What do you mean she hates us? That doesn’t even make any sense. I’ve never met her.” For the first time, the wavy-haired mom seemed shaken. Not deterred, but confused. Off-put by the very suggestion that somehow, she played a role in what happened that night.

“She doesn’t like US! White people… I don’t know why, she’s just rude. Rude, hateful, and mean. Please, just take me home.” For a moment, after her own words ended and her mother failed to respond, Allison thought she had done it — successfully talked her way out of seeing Nisha again that night.

“Well … I’ll be sure to bring that up with her mother….” Like a an arrow loosed from a thousand yards away, the blue-eyed mother’s response drove through Allison’s heart and hopes of escape. And though Allison continued to plead and argue to avoid the humiliating fate of facing not only Nisha but her mother, Erica could not be dissuaded.

Set and certain as she was, after a few more turns and wet roads, did the two arrive at Nisha’s home. The address texted to Erica by the mother of one of the girls’ rare, mutual friends. Arrived though they had, Allison continued her efforts to talk her mom out of the meeting.

Even as they together exited their car.

Even as they walked from that car to the door.

Even as she knocked, her pleas only ending when the handle to the door turned and thereafter opened.

“Hello.” Was the greeting. “How … can I help you?” Was the question thereafter asked by the Indian woman who answered the door. Her skin a dark brown, and her hair a jet black. The strands of which were wet-sprayed in crisp, luxurious curls.

It was clear she was confused by what she saw in her doorway. Two women, one young like her daughter and the other her age though each of was a different race. Each standing before a backdrop of downpouring rain.

“Hi, Ms. Patel. My name is Erica Dane. My daughter’s name is Allison.” She could have said more. Could have gone on, and explained what had happened, and why she had come. But she knew. They both did. And in an instant, Erica could read it on the Indian mother’s face.

“Oh….” Ms. Patel responded knowingly, as she continued to study those in her doorway.

The response wasn’t what Erica expected, but as the chill air of the night began to wrap itself around her exposed legs, she pushed. “Can we come in? I’d think we need to talk about what happened.”

“Yes, my apologies. Come in.” Though her first reply was short, something in the request seemed to rouse the open-door-holding mother. One who wore a flowery orange skirt, a earthy brown singlet top, and bare feet. The flats she had worn placed neatly under a bench near the entrance.

“Erica, I’m Anjali.” She who opened her door wide introduced, as her eyes scanned the rain-damp body of her counterpart.

“I haven’t had a chance to speak to Nisha yet, but I heard what happened. Why don’t you two have a seat on the couch, and I’ll go get her.” Friendly, Anjali seemed. Calm, especially given all that had occured that night, at least as Erica entered and passed her. But still there was something in her voice — in her eyes that Erica could not quite translate. At least not yet.

“Thank you.” Erica said with a smile, as she entered the warm, yellow-red-hued home. Her own attire being very similar to Anjali’s. She wearing a black skirt, a belted white blouse, and red heels. Heels she took off, much like her daughter, the visiting pair wanting to show respect for what seemed to be the Indian family’s tradition.

“Mmm hmm….” Sounded Anjali, as she waited for Allison to enter and head to the couch with her mother. Only to speak again, as the blonde mother and daughter took a seat on the plush, red couch. “I’ll go get Nisha. I’ll only be just a minute.”

A minute though she said, Anjali was gone for much longer. Leaving Erica and Allison to examine and study the immaculately clean home. Each impressed, by not just its state of keeping, but how well-decorated it was.

All of the decor that surrounded them looking as if it had been taken out of an exotic finds store you might run into in the mall. Golden elephant heads made of wire hanging on walls. Beautiful, handmade carpets. And symbols each of the two blondes recognized, even if they were uncertain as to their significance in Indian culture.

But even in all of that ornate decoration, one particular placement could not be ignored or missed. A shrine, almost, one dedicated to the late man of the house. Nisha’s father. Anjali’s husband. A man whose portrait sat surrounded by incense, and fresh, petal-rich flowers.

A sight Erica let her eyes examine, and her thoughts to focus on, even as Allison paid it not a single moment of contemplation. She having no interesting in truly finding a cause for her rival’s social failings.

And though, at least up until that moment, the visit was not as awful as Allison had surmised, quickly, it became no less. For down the hall, in Nisha’s room, Erica and daughter could hear raising voices. Shouting. And then, barely audible whispers. Whispers which came to a sudden stop, only a moment before the door to that room opened.

“I am sorry, that took far longer than I expected. I just wanted to make sure I knew Nisha’s side of the story.” Anjali explained from behind the sitting Dane family.

“Not a problem.” Replied Erica in part, she stifling her own thoughts about the prospect of taking into account either of their daughter’s “sides”.

“Now, all of this sounds entirely foolish to me.” Anjali began as she walked into the living room, and then to the couch opposite their guests. Her daughter behind her. She still wearing her prom dress. One with a single strap, that rose high up the caramel-skinned girl’s narrow thighs, showing off her toned, muscular legs and red-toe-painted feet.

In that nubile state, the 18-year-old Indian girl entered the room, her eyes immediately finding and locking onto Allison in a glare. A glare the young blonde, in exactly the same state of dress (save for the color), fitness, and figure, avoided. She shifting her eyes down to the expensive carpet below her alabaster-toned legs and feet, fearful of getting into any more trouble than she was already in.

“I agree. Silly.” Erica said with a nod, she noticing Nisha’s targeted eyes, only to choose not to comment on them.

“It seems, you sent your daughter to Prom with the same dress as my daughter. A simple mistake.” Not once, during the comment did Anjali look at Erica, instead she kept her eyes firmly affixed to Allison, just like her daughter. Each of them almost boring holes in the young blonde, who tried, as best she could, to just sink in and disappear into the couch on which she sat.

“I’m not sure how it was a mistake — how was I supposed to know you were going to choose that dress for your daughter. I didn’t even know your family could afford a dress like that.” Despite all the talk of calmness, and control — maturity and acting like an adult, Erica felt a twinge at Anjali’s accusation of error. A twinge that pushed her, as her own eyes flared, to respond with a tiny jab of her own.

“But regardless…” Erica continued, before Anjali could respond. “…the dresses weren’t even the same color. My daughter’s dress was black, and Nisha’s…” As she referenced her daughter’s persecutor, Erica shot a glare in the direction of the same. The caucasian mother quickly finding herself irritated by Nisha’s antagonizing glare. “…was red.”

As Erica continued to speak, and her voice to harden, Allison looked up from the floor shocked. Not expecting her normally demanding and perfect mother to act in such a way. But something about it. The strength. The cattiness. The way she seemed to be match her rival’s mother’s comment with one of her own, gave Allison the opening to do the same. Not in words, mind you, but with a lifted head, as the high school senior finally returned Nisha’s hateful glare.

A glare Anjali missed, as she had found her own attention drawn to Erica, who seemed far less like the soft, white sheep, she assumed her to be. “It’s funny you say that, about my family not being able to afford such a dress. From what I hear, your daughter usually wears rags to school. Maybe even your hand-me-downs? From when you were thinner, perhaps?”

It was at that moment, and that comment, that Erica and Anjali’s interest in their daughters began to ebb, their eyes fusing together as the words and tone of the other became the new cause of the continuing conversation.

Despite that shifting of tracks, Erica made one last attempt to keep their mutual trains on track, by trying to ignore Anjali’s searing cut. “My daughter tells me Nisha doesn’t like white people. Did you know that, Ms. Patel?” No matter how those words read, or look on paper, each came like a brick dropped from a window. Their speaker barely in control of her quickly intensifying emotions and returning excitement from the car.

“No, I just don’t like her!” Nisha spat quickly, knowing she was not supposed to speak. And yet still she did, as she sat next to her mother, still in her prom dress, on the couch opposite the blondes’.

“You’re a liar!” Allison’s replied in no less of a burst.

And whereas Erica shot out a rebuke, “Allison”, Anjali simply placed a hand on Nisha’s thigh and patted approvingly.

“It is as she said….” Came Anjali’s answer, her face plastered with the most irritating of fake smiles.

“Look…” Erica began, the image she saw as she drove her daughter returning to her mind. Though the faceless woman she had been rolling with had been replaced by Anjali. By the woman at whom she glared. By the woman who glared right back at her. Each hanging on the other’s every word. “…I know it’s hard. We’re both single parents with an only child. But that doesn’t mean you can just let your girl be a bitchy little brat. You have to be….”

“Do not!” Anjali responded in a shout that quickly gave way to tone of lesser volume, though it held no less outrage. “Do not compare our situations. My husband loved me. He loved Nisha. To the very moment he died. Your husband, left you and your slutty little daughter.”

The comment was harsh, cruel, and reflective of what Anjali truly felt, deep in her core. And yet, as the words were spoken, their speaker’s eyes told their own tale. They speaking of a need, a desire, a hope that Erica would respond. That she would escalate the moment and the words used. Those windows to the soul flaring wider and wider, as the true poison of the rebuttal was passed from one mother to another.

Those missives were forged not by intent, but instead by instinct. The widowed Indian not even knowing that at that moment she wanted one thing, and one thing only: to fight Erica. To grab her. To pull her. To push their bodies together and war, just as their daughters had done. The idea planted, and in a blink, blossomed. Not only in she, but in the woman who must play a part, should that terrible, wonderful dream come to pass.

A dream hewed from loneliness. Cruel, soul-tearing loneliness that had plagued both mothers for years. Neither possessing the strength to find another man, even when the same had pursued them. Each still trapped in ended relationships. Erica’s by abandonment, and Anjali’s by fate and a dragon named cancer.

Two causes which left the women to sit in their rooms at night pining. Not for a man in particular or even their lost husbands. But instead for anything. Anyone. Some kind of excitement. Some kind of contact. Sensual or not. Touch, in any form. Passion, regardless of cause

And though that same subconscious desire had taken hold of her, not just on that couch, but as they traveled in the car, Erica too failed to understand what was happening. Even if, as a woman lost in a raging river, she was pulled by the rushing water.

Towards escalation.

Towards outrage.

Towards conflict.

“And that makes you better than me?” Erica asked hotly, as she shot up from the couch. Her jaw bent in an anger and desire she could no longer control.

“Oh, yes…. It does….” Anjali replied as she stood, she at that moment beginning to walk towards the angry white mother. Drawn to her, as a moth to a flame.

As the fire between their mothers grew and flared, Allison and Nisha were having a war of their own. Each mouthing silent curses and threats to one another, as those who would otherwise stop them argued.

“You aren’t better than me….” Erica said in a confident hiss, as she stepped forward, meeting Anjali between their parallel couches. The two mothers hearts pounding and pulses racing as the moment they each wanted, though without knowing it, came ever so close to being theirs.

“She’s not wearing any panties, mom! Tell her!” Nisha reminded in a sudden seizing of desire to hurt Allison. One that took her and pushed her to leave her couch to rejoin her mother, all in an effort to get closer to her rival.

“Bitch!” Allison screamed back at Nisha as she moved to her mother’s side, she too feeling the need to get near the girl with who she rolled at prom. A curse that at any other moment would have made Erica blind with parental anger. But then and there, all that distracted mother did was glare. Not at Nisha or her daughter, but at Anjali.

“She wasn’t wearing any panties either!” Allison added, her voice drenched with a desperate expectancy of punishment and anger from Erica. But that anger never came, nor were the words said even replied to.

For even as their daughters cast accusations about each other, Erica and Anjali were transfixed. Locked together in a moment unlike any they had ever experienced. They each leaning in, closer and closer, as they looked to smell each other. Their eyes looking deep into those of their rival mother, each trying to decipher what the other wanted. All as their clothed breasts hovered so close to each other that they could feel the fabric of the other’s top brush against theirs.

But even with all that had been said by their daughters, who now stood next to them. The two of them leaning closer and closer to snarl and hiss.

Each wanting to destroy the other.

To finish what they started earlier that night.

And though for a moment they each considered it. Lunging and leaping at each other. Anjali suddenly spoke, replying to Erica’s previous comment. One that had seemed to have been spoken years ago.

The Indian widow leaning in, and with her own dark-lips pressed to Erica’s hair-covered, ivory ear, she whispered. “Yes. I. Am.”

She WAS better, in her own mind. And though she had waited to say it, instead lingering in their staredown — their standoff, she wanted Erica to know. Wanted her to feel it, as her dagger of words pressed in.

At the hearing — at the plunging, Erica’s mouth dropped open, even as Anjali pulled back. She wanting to see the blonde mother’s eyes, as she processed what had been said. To examine her face, as she realized the challenge that had been issued.

“Cunt….” Erica muttered back, as her fists clenched and electricity shot up her spine once again. The moment was so very close — as was Anjali now. All they had to do was touch. All had they had to do is light the match of violence that lingered somewhere between them.

It was then that, intending to defend her mother, Nisha moved in on the glaring pair. The Indian high schooler looking to push Erica away from her mother. But as she reached, but before fingertips made landing, Allison charged. Tackled. And as her fingers dug deep into Nisha’s hair, sent they together down to the carpeted floor in a crash.

Despite the intensity of the moment, and their staredown, Erica’s jaw dropped as she saw her daughter and her rival lock together in a hateful conflict with her own eyes. Such a sight led the blonde’s maternal instincts to flare, and when they did, she moved to reach them — separate them, and keep her daughter from any further harm.

But at the very instant her head turned to effectuate such plan, a harsh slap crashed against her cheek. One that sent her stumbling to the left, just past the warring daughters.

“Fight me….” During the slap or after, somewhere in the madness she heard it. Anjali’s demand.

One might expect her to feel shock or panic — anger or desperation. But at that moment, all Erica felt was a deep, soul-seizing need. A desire so palpable she could taste it. A need and desire to do exactly as Anjali asked.

To fight her.

To make her the woman she rolled with.

To battle her, as their daughters did the same.

It was contrary to everything she would have ever believed herself to want. Adverse to what she would expect of herself as a parent.

But it had been so long since she rolled with anyone. Softly in bed, or in any other way. And she could take not another second of that absence. Nor breathe without her long loneliness coming to an end.

And so she turned — and so she lunged, just as Anjali did. The two meeting and grabbing for each other. Each pulling close and lacing their fingers through each other’s curly hair. Their lips parting as they cursed at each other in short, hot-breath laced hisses. “Bitch!” “Cunt!” “Fight meee….” “Yeessss….”

Their words were so similar in tone and tension, that neither could tell who said them. Each of them being exactly what they would have said, if they hadn’t been said by the other.

In that clench of desire and desperation — manifested solitude and mutual motive, Erica and Anjali drifted as they pulled. Wandered as they pushed. Back and to the couch on which the Danes had sat and then onto it. The blonde falling to her ass, with the onyx-haired rival atop her and in her lap in a thigh-over-thigh straddle.

A straddle that was taken on one couch, just as Nisha and Allison slammed into the other. The latter landing atop the former, each with ironclad grips on the other’s hair. They not lost like their mothers, but instead rabid, hateful, and violent.

In that state of loathing and rage, the two girls warred in their matching prom dresses. Dresses which had been kicked up so high in the intensity of their struggle, that their bare pussies could be seen by anyone who might look to them. And while no such eyes peered, the two high schooler’s bare legs desperately ran up and down those of the other, as each tried desperately to coil their legs around those of their rival.

“Flat-chested, bitch!” Nisha hissed, as she and her rival pulled wrapped themselves together.

“If yours are bigger, it’s just because you’re such a fat slut!” Allison responded as if she were a caged lion finally released from its bars.

One might think, that with those insults the girls would want away from each other. Distance. But instead, they used their grips on hair, and binding legs to pull as close as they possible could. Each trying to, and failing completely to understand the emotions that ran through them — emotions that made them feel as if what they truly wanted was to consume one another.

A mutual desire they gave into, when taunting mouths opened, and they bit at each other — the teeth of the two 18-year-olds catching on the other’s emotion-flushed cheeks.

Bites that lasted only seconds, as each, at the pain, screamed, released, and then pulled back. Their eyes meeting once and then again. Not in hateful glares, but with each contact of corneas filled with confusion and questioning. They wanted this. The battle. The closeness. The biting. But the pain…? Neither had been ready for it.

In the same way that Nisha, who stared up at the blonde laying atop her, was not ready when that same blonde attacked again. The blue-eyed 18-year-old doing so by yanking at the Indian daughter’s black hair. A yank that bent Nisha’s neck back, and chin up. An angle and opening Allison then used by leaning forward and biting hard — latching her teeth into her rival’s neck.

From across the room, and from their engaging daughters came a mutual scream and then a solitary one. The latter coming from Nisha, as some form of pain was inflicted upon her without immediate response. One might assume that at the sound, Anjali would want to break free, and march to her daughter’s aid, but instead she remained, pressing her beautiful C-cup breasts in Erica’s face. A face that could not be pulled back or the lips upon it find air, as it was held firmly in place by the Indian mother.

“You come to my home with your little bitch, and expect to talk?” Anjali asked, her tone cruel, and hands pulling not just to hold, but to hurt Erica, even as the same fought for breath. But even that breath-stealing torture was not enough. For only a single moment of pause after the question, the raven-haired mother yanked on blonde hair again and added. “Hmm…?! Bitch!?”

With her lips pressed hard to the strip of flesh that rested blissfully between Anjali’s perfect breasts, Erica tried to push. First at her rival’s abdomen, then her arms, then even her shoulders. But with each attempt, she accomplished nothing, save for entertaining her smirking foe. Despite those failures and driven by a need to not just earn some sort of parity or revenge, but also and most importantly to breathe, Erica tried something else.

That being to reach between she and her rival’s body, under the skirt of the same, and then to try and dig her fingers into Anjali’s sex. An attempt that in an instant made the mounted Indian mother release her smother, and with a quick push, move herself back and away from her threatening rival’s hands.

So great was Anjali’s speed, however, that instead of making it back to a stand, she just fell. Crashing down to the carpeted floor in a clump. A clump she pulled herself from as she tried to make it back to her feet. Her mind filled with a mix of outrage and excitement at the revelation that Erica would truly go there — there there.

Such an escape and attack being a turning of the tables mirrored by their daughters, except in reverse. For Allison, who we had left with her teeth sinking deep into her squirming rival’s neck, now found herself trapped between that same rival’s thighs. The alabaster blonde suffering in a seated position, as Nisha squeezed her toned, soccer-strengthened legs.

“Like that, bitch?!” Nisha asked, as Allison pushed at the brown-hued thighs that encircled her in desperation. The blonde trying to somehow get those vice-like legs to move from her vulnerable tummy and ribs down to her hips or further to lessen the pain.

“I can’t … fucking … BELIEVE you bit me! GAH! I HATE YOU!” Nisha raged, even in her control, before arching her back and sending a horrific pulse her rival’s way. One that caused Allison to groan out in pain and collapse from her seated position, back to the cushioning of the couch.

“Owe, owe, owe!” Allison’s announcements of pain bounced like a ball over the lyrics of a Sesame Street song. The word of the day being pain. And the letter: “AAaaaaaaAAAaaaaAa”. Nisha pouring it on and not stopping. Not for a second. She not even knowing how to show mercy to someone she loathed so deeply.

“Uunnngggghh … I–I swearrrrr to–to god I’m going to DESTROY you when I get freeEEEEEeEeeEe!” Allison promised. Allison swore, until she could do not but scream, from another pulse inflicted upon her. One that caused the blonde to collapse even further. That wilting of body leading the same to drop onto Nisha, who then quickly rolled. Sending their pressed bodies off their couch-made battlefield, and onto the floor below it in a thud.

A thud that came like a felling of a tree in the woods, with no one there to hear it, though such was not the case. For though it was heard, it was ignored. Taken in, but not acknowledged.

For Anjali and Erica were locked deep. Chained Heavy. And lost in every way the word can mean in an eye-to-eye glare just in front of the entrance to the home’s hallway. Each circling the other.

Not wide, but close. Not afraid, but entranced by what they felt was about to happen. What they KNEW was about to happen between them.

“Indian cunt.” Erica spat as if slinging such a hateful comment were of the same ease as breathing.

“White slut.” Anjali replied, her heart skipping not just beats but collections of them in the intensity of the moment.

A moment that saw each of them not just circling and cursing in the most vile of ways, but letting their eyes move up and down each other’s bodies. Studying. Memorizing. But most of all, wanting more.

“Take it off.” Came the blonde’s demand, one without explanation or context, but instead with a quick reach and quickly released tug at her rival’s top.

“You want to see what kind of woman you’ve challenged? Hmmm….?!” She didn’t need a manual or a guide. A walkthrough or explanation. For even though she had never fought another woman, or even thought about it before that day, Anjali knew exactly what the blonde woman who slowly stepped deeper into the hallway of her home wanted. Exactly because she wanted it too. So bad she could taste it. So bad that without more she reached down and grabbed the bottom of her top and then pulled up.

The Indian mother was not alone, however, for as soon as her head came free and eyes set once again on her rival, she found the blonde pulling loose her top as well. Leaving both in their bras. Erica’s red and Anjali’s white. Hues they wore proudly as one stepped backward and the other followed.

Not as predator and prey, but together in agreement. Knowing they didn’t want their daughters to see what was about to happen between them.

A happening Erica again could not wait for, a desire which pushed her to again reach. But as she did, Anjali stopped, and then with a quick tug, pulled her own skirt down to the midpoint of her thighs. Her eyes locked on Erica’s as she did so. The umber-skinned matriarch wanting to send the message clear — I’m ready for this, are you?

At the challenge, Erica scrambled. Not in step, but surety. Shaken at her rival’s confident advance.

A crisis of confidence that grew worse, as suddenly she felt her back press flat. Not against wall, but something else. Something not just cool, but cold and shifting. Something that came unfixed and then fell for a blink. The decoration, she surmised quickly, was a framed picture. Of who, she did not know, but that hardly mattered. For it was only held in place by Erica’s body, which flattened against it and the wall beneath it.

A position made worse as Anjali took one final step, and with eyes as fierce as a tiger, she reached forward and yanked down Erica’s onyx-black skirt. “Afraid, lilly bitch?”

The words were cruel and at the moment, perhaps even true, but as they were spoken, they were merely foreplay. At least compared to the boiling cauldron of malice Nisha and Allison were stewing in. Each having found their way back to their feet from the floor. Each having the other bound tightly in a neck-bending headlock.

A mutual hold each used to twist and turn — whip and wrench the other left and then right. Right and then left. Each whimpering at the pain they felt, while inflicting the same on the other without even a hint of mercy.

“Fucking bitch!” Allison cried.

“Stupid slut!” Nisha retorted.
And though they each would have held the other like that forever. Hurting the other, just for the satisfaction of it, their legs suddenly became entangled. And when they did, Allison tripped back and Nisha forward. The pair of hateful hangers-on falling in opposite directions until they stumbled to a sloppy stop. Each then turning and re-affixing their glares.

“I can’t believe you told my mom about my panties!” Allison blurted in seemingly hour-old shock.

“You told mine!” The Indian 18-year-old student replied like a child.

“Shut up!” With no more maturity replied the blonde.

“You shut up!” As Nisha hissed her reply, she and her rival seemed destined to go back back and forth in such a bratty manner forever, but something in the last demand for silence caused the blonde to charge. To grab. And then, with all of her might, to yank.

The blonde’s hand and the force with it applied, pulling Nisha’s beautiful red prom dress down and away. Not off cleanly, or just enough to stretch it, but instead hard enough to tear it straight down the middle.

“Oh. My. GOD!” Nisha cried out in despair, rage, and hatred. Emotions which pushed her to reach back, take hold, and then in the same way: rip.

She and her rival having split each other’s dresses so deeply that they fell from their bodies and hung mangled at their waists.

“UGGGGGGH! I HAAaAAAaAATE YOU!” Allison yelled, as she felt the same sting of anger that Nisha had not a moment before.

But as her words drifted and her mind should have filled with the drive to lunge and attack, it instead flooded. With something else. Something matched in her youthful rival. A mutual happening that left each frozen and staring. Their eyes locked on each other’s chests.

Not chests covered in bras, but instead the bare breasts of their rival. Breasts identical in shape and firmness, but opposing in color. Nisha’s centered with Kennedy half-dollar-sized areolas, tinted a river-deep brown. Whereas Allison’s displayed a light pink, barely-there nickel-tipped middle.

A conflicting comparison that immediately filled both girls’ minds with self-doubt and resentment. For the other had exactly what they wanted. What they saw as perfect and beautiful, even if the difference was one only they would see. Only they would notice. Feelings which filled them with a newfound jealousy.

A jealousy which made their fists clench, and their eyes to harden once again.

And as that pairing of youthful rivals began to ready themselves to re-engage, Anjali and Erica were already.

They two desire-bent mothers pressed together hard, with their hands and fingers dug deep into each other’s hair. Their once half-removed skirts having fully fallen from their frames. And their once threatening standoff in the hall becoming a hard body-to-body press against that picture-framed segment of wall on which we left them.

“Indian Bitch.” Erica hissed in their closeness, as her hands gave taut little pulls on her rival’s curly black hair.

“Weak. White. Slut.” Anjali returned with a voice drenched in the same malice. A malice at odds, and yet intertwined with her nearly-nude body pressing into Erica’s.

Their thighs parting, and hips adjusting, not with a intention but on instinct. Not driven by clarity but the fog of their mutual desire to feel.

To live.

To struggle with and against each other.

And struggle they did, for as Anjali kept her rival pressed and pinned against the framed family photo behind her, that same rival pushed back. Thrusting her body forward hard.

But with the Indian mother’s upper-body leaning in and upon, only the blonde’s hips moved. They slamming forward, and with a sudden and unexpected impact, brought each of the middle-aged women’s fabric contained mounds into contact. A contact that made each shudder, and in a sudden shifting, to slide, cheek-against-cheek. Their lips coming to rest just next to each other’s ear.

Lips which parted to let loose tight, hitched breaths of pleasure. Breaths which came again, as Anjali with intention fired back. Their mounds meeting once again, even as they continued to press bodies and pull hair. They each fitting in between gasps and gusts, their own hateful curses.

“Fuck you, cunt.” Anjali muttered as another wave of desperately needed pleasure washed over her.

“You’re the one who’s … hhhuuunnnnhhh — going to get fucked, bitch.” Erica replied sternly, until mid-sentence the wave reached her.

As their mothers fought — or perhaps began to purge the demons that controlled them, Nisha and Allison bounced. Not on a bed, but on their toes, circling each other. Their fists raised like boxers, though they had literally no clue what they were doing. Each stepping in and then out, neither ready to throw the first punch or kick. Neither having ever thrown one before in their lives.

That is until they heard it. A moan. Loud and desperate from down the hallway. Whose mother was it? What had happened to her to make her release such an animalistic sound? Neither knew, and neither had time to wonder, for as soon as the sound came, Allison dove forward and drove her tiny right fist through Nisha’s thin forearms. The knuckles at the end passing through and slamming into her rival’s mouth.

But make no mistake. The punch was not well-delivered or masterfully thrown. Instead it was wild and clumsy. So much so that Allison fell with it, almost into Nisha.

The latter, whose lip at the punch began to bleed, fired back, even as she yelped in pain. She driving her right knee up and into the blonde high schooler’s tummy. A blow that landed and bent Allison over, her black dress falling down and to the floor as Nisha struck again.

The Indian daughter of she who fought elsewhere giving a quick shove and then a hard left punch into Allison’s effort-reddened cheek.

At the strike, Allison collapsed to the expensive, Indian carpet below she and her rival. But even as she dropped to her knees, Nisha was upon her. Grabbing her by the hair and dragging the dizzy ivory-hued girl up.

But Allison was not ready to be dominated. Not willing to just take it. And so she drove herself upward, and put all her strength into a push. One that sent Nisha back hard. So hard, that she only just stopped herself from stumbling back into a table. The table on which her deceased father’s pictures sat. Not just on that day, but on every day, since his funeral.

“YOU BITCH! You almost made me….” Nisha began and then silenced, as from the table’s edge she charged. Knowing the meaning of the display would be lost on a dumb white girl like Allison.

A dumb white girl who rose from her knees, and dove. Her arms extending, hands grabbing, and fingers pulling at Nisha’s waist-bound prom dress. One which came off and down with only the slightest of pressure.

A pressure and a pulling that left each of the two young girls nude, and Nisha stopped dead in her tracks.

And whereas she stopped, and Allison rose to meet her, Erica and Anjali remained pressed and pulling. Erica tugging at the back of Anjali’s hair so hard, that the Indian mother’s neck bent at a most unnatural degree.

So unnatural was it, that as that pull and angling continued, Anjali’s body moved back and off of Erica’s. Their hips separating and their instinctual thrusting ended — even if both, in the deep recesses of their minds, wanted it to continue.

A desire that Anjali sought to enforce and by design seize, by trying to drive herself back forward and into Erica once again. But as she did, her blonde rival raised her right leg, and at the last possible moment, drove it into the onyx-haired mother’s ribs. Not in a hard, striking kick, but in a placement and then a shove. One that sent Anjali back and away from her.

While one stumbled, the other leaned forward and off. The large framed picture coming down with a crash on the carpeted floor behind her. The glass therein cracking, but not shattering. Leaving the floor clean, but the memories of a complete family — one with a father, desecrated.

“You disrespectful cunt!” Anjali accused as she centered her stance. Her fire-forged brown eyes searing flame-bit holes in Erica.

“Oh, do you miss him?” Erica mocked, her expression bent in the most insincere of expressions. “Tell you what…” The blonde began as she reached her hands behind her back and unclasped her bra. “…you can tell me about him after I’ve FUCKED YOUR FACE, YOU HINDU LOSER!”

“That’s what you want this to be about, huh?! You presumptuous white, slut?! FINE!” Anjali fired back as her heart bounded hard in her chest and her hands made the same journey to back and clasp.

“That’s what I want, cunt. To show you exactly how pathetic you Indian bitches really are.” As if the words were a series of hooks snagging in her rival’s skin, Erica smirked knowingly. An expression she maintained, as she took to removing her panties — as her bra fell from her chest to the floor below.

“You-you’re the one who’s race is going to be embarrassed here, you white whore!” Seething with anger and a desperate need to lock together once again, Anjali grabbed and tore at her own panties. Wanting them off. Wanting to be free to lock up with this woman who had been a stranger not hours before.

A stranger who had let her own pubic hair grow, just as the Indian mother had. Neither trimming or taiming. Just letting those most intimate of hairs grow. No man to keep happy. No pursuit to prepare for. Not until that moment. Not until Erica dared to say it.

“Let’s see it then!” Erica demand, as she raised her right arm into the air. Her lithe white fingers spreading in challenge.

Issuing a challenge though Erica was, Allison was on the verge of losing her mind.

“No wonder Jason didn’t want you? Your pussy is disgusting!” Nisha said it as if it were obvious to anyone who might see her nude as she was.

“Fuck you! You’re the one with an ugly brown pussy! It looks like someone smeared shit all over it!” Allison wanted to cry, but still she insulted back. She saying anything that came to her mind to hurt her rival’s feelings.

“Oh my GOD! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Nisha raged, she feeling instantly the same emotional anguish as her high school enemy. She having no confidence and no defenses. Only a thin veneer of the same, though feigned.

“YOU SHUT UP! I hate you!” Came the blonde student’s desperate shoutings of fully exposed insecurity. An insecurity that moved her to lunge at Nisha, wanting to punish her for the things she had said.

And as Allison came, her equally-hurt classmate did the same, she letting loose a quick, “I hate you more!” as she and her enemy came together in a maelstrom of flailing arms and unaimed slaps. Their hands landing on any and all surfaces. Some landing hard with a sting and other in a glance without effect.

A spree of smackings that continued until finally, looking to drive her rival away, if even a step, Nisha suddenly kicked. Driving her shin hard into Allison’s thigh.

As if that kick were some kind of betrayal or revelation, Allison suddenly stopped and stared, after a quick yelp.

“Bitch!” She then cursed before delivering a kick just the same, one that landed in a splash on Nisha’s tummy. That strike landing hard, causing the Indian student to stumble back with a groan.

With the distance, each of the two girls flashing back to where they first met. Where they first argued. Where they first fought: on the soccer field.

“No wonder you always foul me in practice! You can’t kick!” Nisha accused in a hiss, as she glared at Allison.

“Oh yeah?!” Allison replied without maturity, as she stepped forward and tried to kick again. But whereas her first kick landed, Nisha dodged her second and delivered her own. The brown-skinned girl’s shin driving hard into the blonde’s stomach.

“Owe! Fucking bitch!” Even as she found herself bent over from Nisha’s blow. One that saw itself followed by one and then another, as the Indian prom-goer began to deliver swift, short kicks into Allison’s legs.

“Owe, owe!” Each hurt. Each stung and thereafter ached, but even in such pain, the blonde student rose and retreated. Ready to deliver the same back to her gloating enemy. One who taunted, even as she gave her rival room to recover.

“Awww, poor Allison can’t kick….” The words were cruel and painfully condescending, and yet they came in what seemed like a calm between the girls.

At least compared to their mother’s who stood, mid-hall, leaning into each other. Their bodies pressed together. Their fingers laced above their heads as their breasts both met and mashed. Each with their heads on each other’s shoulder as they pushed. The contrary mothers trying to overwhelm and overpower each other.

The pair driven by the sudden suggestion that somehow, someway, their battle was about more than their rabid, unsatisfied desires. About something other than their suffering through countless months of unfulfilled sexual cravings. Their races. Their peoples. Indian vs. caucasian. Brown vs. white.

And yet only moments into the fire set by that flicker, both Anjali and Erica could feel it tugging at them. Tugging at the strings of their heart and like a leash on the collar binding their souls.

Desire.

Lust.

Their heads turned in and not out. Their lips pressed to the flesh of the other’s neck and not parting to gain desperate gasps of air to aid in their bare-bodied test of strength.

And though they still pushed. Still angled, looking to bend the other to their will, they paid only half attention to the affair. The rest of it spent on their breasts. Or more accurately their nipples, which they moved and aimed. Dragging them together, and then holding them the same. Forcing those sensitive sabres to clash, length for length, fighting to bend those of the other to their will.

With every second that such fencing continued. Grunts of effort became whimpers of pleasure. Not from one, but both.

Neither trying to hide their weakness.

Neither looking to obfuscate their needs. Not from each other. Not when every ounce of it was mirrored so clearly in their rival.

A mirroring that continued as each seemed to almost melt together, there in the hall. Body fusing to body. Lust entangling with lust. Rampant and unchecked desperation grabbing hold and refusing to let go.

That is until like a bolt of lightning it happened. A sudden brushing on adjustment. An unexpected touching of unkempt bush against unkempt bush. Bushes which tangled and caught. Just before Erica drove her hips forward, and at the tip of it, rammed her sex into Anjali’s.

“OoOOoohhhh, you bitch.” Anjali spit out as if her breath had been stolen away.

“Fu-uuUUUuck you.” Erica tried to respond, but found herself distracted by Anjali’s sudden reprisal of hips and hit.

“Your bush is weeeaaakkk….” Both in challenge and taunt, the brown-skinned matriarch spoke. Even as her head rested on Erica’s shoulder. Their hands still clasped together at the palms and pushing, high over their heads. Their arms quaking, as their muscles passed tired and in their continuing expenditure reached pure and utter exhaustion.

“Yours is the weak one…. UNNGGHH. Dirty brown cunt.” Mid-sentence and mid-return they gave it to each other again and again. Not wide, runway-taking thrusts but short, quick ones. Neither letting their pubic hairs part or detangle. Neither wanting eve the slightest distance from one another.

“No wonder –hhhnnnnn — your hu-husband left you….” Deeper than any cut and harder than any blow, Anjali drove the verbal dagger.

A dagger that cut through Erica’s fog, and caused in her to stir an anger. An anger she put into words as she responded not only harsh, but cruel. “Maybe if your race wasn’t so weak your husband would be alive!” Bad as the words were, they came with a sudden application of force from Erica.

A downward force of palm and fingers that Anjali found overwhelming, even as she tried to match it with all she had. She trying to drive up, as the blonde she struggled with sought to shove her down.

Said matching of might did indeed end the carefully maintained closeness of their bodies and bushes, but with each having said what they had — neither cared.

Not Anjali, as she began to wilt and bend. Nor Erica, as her opponent’s fingers began to loosen and the resistance in her pushing arms to lessen.

A state of things that continued as moment after moment, Anjali continued to weaken. She, thereafter dropping down to her knees with a yelp. A sound drug from her lips as she and her rival’s tangled pubic hairs suddenly tore apart.

Pain though such separation caused, it was of little import. For when the Indian mother found herself on her knees, she quickly abandoned all efforts to force her way back up For though it filled her with frustration and shame, to her it had become clear. That Erica was the victor, at least in their impromptu test of strength.

Relent though Anjali did, Erica continued to push and press. And as that victorious mother poured on the pressure, her daughter did too. Allison finding herself seated like a queen on a counter in the Patel family’s kitchen. Her powerful, soccer-toned thighs wrapped around Nisha’s neck like an anaconda. They being crossed at the ankles and squeezing.

“You fucking lesbian, let go of meEeeeE-AAAArrrrGGGGHH!” Nisha screamed, at first from rage and then from pain. Her view of naught but Allison’s shaved and glistening pussy. One so very close to her face that the trapped Indian girl could almost taste it.

Near though her rival’s sex was, Nisha struggled with almost all of her energy to keep it away. She mortified by the idea of finding herself pulled face-fist into her enemy’s tight little kitten.

“You’re the one about to eat me, bitch! YOU’RE THE LESBIAN!” Allison retorted as she leaned back, pouring all of her anger and jealousy into that squeeze. Wanting to punish Nisha for everything she had ever said and everything she had ever done.

“Owe, owe, ooooowwwweeee!! STOP!!!” Nisha squealed, not in submission, but immaturity. Knowing that should her rival do as asked, and relent, she would immediately attack. Immediately re-engage and hurt as cruelly as she possibly could.

“Fuck you! Shut up!” She didn’t want to hear it. Not just Nisha’s pleas but her voice. The voice that haunted Allison’s nightmares. The voice that had accompanied so many of the blonde’s most humiliating moments.

But as Nisha whined with her hands pitifully placed on Allison’s thighs. Their breasts covered in bruises and claw-marks. Their faces bent and bashed — the blonde’s with a black eye and her rival’s with a busted lip.

Wounded and welted though they were, neither had yet felt the sting of exhaustion, mental or otherwise. A fact evidenced as Nisha, suddenly jerked back, and with all the strength she could muster, pulled her rival up and off of the counter.

But do not mistake her success as a plan, for she sought not to powerbomb or piledrive. No, instead, with her blonde enemy in air, she simply collapsed. In the process and on chance alone, slamming the back of Allison’s head into the linoleum floor.

A blow that caused thighs to loosen, and bodies to part. As each laid momentarily broken on the kitchen floor. Nisha grabbing for her neck and Allison for the back of her head. Each in pain, and neither sure or even caring where the other was. At least at that moment.

Apathy by agony though their daughters suffered, Anjali stared down the barrel of the same gun her daughter just escaped.

“Do it, Hindu slut! Give it to me.” Came Erica’s demand, as the pressure she applied on her rival’s hands continued to increase. The blonde bending the fingers of her black-haired counterpart back hard, and at an angle that caused so much pain Anjali could barely think about anything, let alone how to escape the predicament.

So lost was she in the pain and the position, that even as she struggled to withstand it, she leaned forward and rested her cheek against the only thing she could find: Erica’s bushy mound. The fine hairs of which acted as cushion for Anjali’s pain-etched face.

“Do it! Indian, cunt! You knew that’s what this was about!” She knew! She had to, Erica thought. That their words, their battle, their test of strength was pretense to earning them both the pleasure and contact they had for so long been denied.

But as Anjali continued to rest and refuse, Erica bent not only her own body down, but Anjali’s arms back painfully behind her head. A change in position and pressure that caused Anjali to scream out in pain. Even as she continued to lean. Her cheek still pressed to Erica’s overgrown forest.

Demanding and angry though she was, Erica then ended her press and returned to her upright position. Not out of mercy, but instead so that she could release Anjali’s fingers from their lock, and then reach to take the head of the same.

The blonde certain that in her complete overpowering of Anjali, that their battle was over. And that all was left was to claim her mouth. Her tongue. And the very thing her life had lacked for so very long.

Despite that desire, and at the very moment Erica released Anjali’s fingers, the head of the same turned — the jaw of the same opened — and then the teeth of the same clamped. They biting down on Erica’s mound, sweat-dampened pubic hair and all.

Such a bite made it Erica’s turn to scream and suffer. A sound which echoed through the house, just as the same had when it had come from Anjali. Each such echoing reaching their warring daughters, even if they had little time to pay them mind.

For though they still found themselves on the floor of the kitchen on which we left them, no longer did they breathe and rest. No, instead they laid, side-by-side, each with two hands on their rival’s breasts. Sharp nails dug in and thin fingers squeezing. Not like an aggressive lover but like a tiger. Like a monster. Doing all they could to wound and waylay.

Snarling at each other.

Hating each other in the deepest way they could, at that young age.

Their digits manipulating in twists and pulls — digging in deep and and then dragging out and down. Neither settling on one tactic or method of attack, but instead choosing all of them.

Allison driven mad by Nisha’s larger breasts, and Nisha finding the color and shape of her rival’s nipples and areolae equally as vexing. Qualities in the other they let their glaring eyes focus on, rather than locking gazes with each other. Each of the two young women beginning to feel something shameful. Something not just unexpected but unwanted.

Something they had felt before, but only with each other. A fire. An excitement. One that seemed to spark and flare whenever they would lock gaze or share a touch — no matter how small or accidental.

And yet still, even awash with such rage and loathing — confusion and excitement, still did their sinewy legs extend in search and bind in need. Their calves hooking not harshly, but softly. Each needing such connection even as they tore at each other.

An assurance, even if minor, that that neither was leaving. A promise, instinctual as it was, that whatever their battle was or wasn’t, they were in it together. Enemies though they were.

One might think it odd that they would want such things, but only if that one did not understand. That despite their anger and jealousy — violence and vehemence, they were each scared. Not of each other, but of having their moment of contact and conflict taken away.

For this is what they wanted. What they needed. A release. A purging of their feelings they each held for each other. The feelings that caused them to glare in class and curse in text. Emotions that caused them to meet after class and between lockers and threaten. Such tuggings of soul did they unleash upon each other there on that floor as they whimpered and wailed in each other’s grasp.

“That’s right, cry for me, you ugly white bi-ttttccchhhAAAWWWeee” Nisha taunted as her hands tightened like vices around her rival’s nubile breasts. The dark-haired prom-goer wanting to make it clear that she had caught Allison beginning to cry.

“Shut-OWE! SHUT-OWWEEE!! Shut up! You’re the one who’s crying!” Allison retorted in what Nisha at first dismissed with a pained, but insulting smirk. Afterall, she wasn’t crying! Or–or wait…? Was she? As she asked herself, she felt it.

Tears rolling down her carob-colored cheek.

No! Damnit! Nisha raged at herself, though without words. At least until she felt and then saw. Allison’s left hand detach from breast and then move, reaching down and between. The blonde clearly looking to add one brown cunt to her rival’s list of blistered and battered body parts.

An attack Nisha copied as she lay naked next to her rival. Each with speed looking to clamp their clawed-hands down on each other’s sex. And though they expected the softness they felt. And the smoothness of the other’s freshly-shaven skin. It was something else that shocked them. Something else that made their hate-filled eyes fill with not just surprise but shame.

For though thumb, index, ring, and pinky drove into the exterior of the girl who ruined their prom night’s sex, each of their middle made their way inside. Into warmth. Into darkness. But to their mutual dismay, into a shared wetness that finally forced their eyes to meet, and their emotions to yet again take a wild turn towards the unexpected.

Unexpected though it was to Allison and Nisha, such feelings — such cravings were known to their mothers. Felt and chased like the first shimmers of a deep green oasis in a barren and harsh desert.

A chase that led Anjali to release her bite almost as soon as Erica recoiled and retreated. Only to then follow the blonde as she fell and scrambled on the carpeted floor of the hall. The curly-haired Indian mother catching and mounting her rival just as she passed under the doorway back to the living room.

She who had been on her knees and helpless straddling Erica’s left thigh, as she brought their bushy sexs together in a perfect scissor. The two warring mothers feeling their moist pubic hair meet and tangle, as their cunts came to an incredible and focus-shattering fuse.

The desire bent matrons letting out a loud, guttural moan of satisfaction, before immediately setting back to their hateful words.

“I knew what this was about, huh, you arrogant white cunt?” Anjali asked in a rage-hardened voice. One that sounded out her retaliation as she thrust herself down and forward, dragging her sex over Erica’s. Each feeling the weakest of their pubic hairs pulling and then snapping at the movement.

“Shit!” The blonde mother exclaimed as she collapsed back to the floor. Her hands, which had once moved to grab at Anjali turning back and pressing to her temples. She trying to process the feeling of finally having her netherbits contact another’s.

“Weak! You white bitches are!” Anjali chided as she rode, her right hand holding Erica’s left leg up, as her left pressed to the chest of the same. Keeping her down. Keeping her helpless and lust-addled.

“Fuck you….” The blonde replied with her eyes closed. Her own hips beginning to betray her by thrusting back into Anjali.

“No, bitch; I’m fucking you….” Even as Anjali said it, Erica came for her. Surging up from the carpeted floor. The blonde’s left hand moving to her rival’s hair and catching. A grip the white mother used to pull herself up, and into an equal scissor with Anjali.

The warring mothers’ foreheads coming together in a sudden and sweaty thud, as they settled pussy-to-pussy and eye-to-eye, there in the center of Anjali’s home.

And though lust had driven their mothers to both grind and glare, the same caused Allison and Nisha to freeze.

Their mouths not opening to insult.

Their hands not clawing as was the intention on placement.

No, instead the nubial half of the two warring families, Dane vs. Patel, just stared at each other. Studied each other. Their minds and malice stolen away by their own personal shame.

Oh god, she knows…. They each thought. She can feel it. I’m so wet!? WHY? Why does fighting her excite me? Why do I feel this for someone I hate so much? And though queries came at speed, answers came not. Each petrified to their very core of what the other would say, despite the fact that their state of humiliation was shared.

That terror grew by the second, until finally, from Nisha finally came sound.

“Stupid white bitch….”If was mean and racist, but it wasn’t what it could have been. It wasn’t a calling out or comment on the warmth or dampness Allison had between her thighs. And in that way, the insult was a lifeline.

One the young blonde lept for and grabbed as she responded. “Ugly brown slut!”

And though a moment before they had each been on the verge of pulling apart in absolute and utter embarrassment. As they together chose to ignore what they had felt, their coiled legs flexed. Each with their hooked calves pulling their enemy closer.

All as slowly — timidly, at least at first, their nails began to dig into each other’s cunt. Their eyes still locked. Eyes which at that moment instructed, guided, and without words, accepted their rival’s torment. Their rival’s sharp-edged nails pushing into them.

For that pain, at least to their 18-year-old minds, was better than admitting to themselves or each other what each felt happening in their bodies.

The nails of their enemy inserting into their most sensitive of flesh somehow a less painful alternative, when compared to what could have been.

They together choosing not just to ignore their wetness and dawning desires, but also to resist them, unlike their mothers.

Mothers who found themselves fused at the kitten, and thrusting. Rocking. Driving themselves together with hard, echoing slaps of inner thighs meeting and hair-muffled cunts slapping.

Moan though they did — melt though they did, there on the carpet. Each sitting, with legs crossed left over right and right over left, they still cursed and insulted.

“Fuck your weak Indian cunt!” Erica hissed, even with eyes closed.

“Your cunt’s the weak one, you white prude!” Anjali replied, though hers were shut just the same.

And though each of the tribbing mothers felt like they could stay like that forever, quickly did everything change. For in a blink Erica’s eyes opened and her hand reached. Her palm pressed, and arm shoved. She wanting Anjali on her back. Wanting to fuck her like the weak little slut she thought her to be.

And yet, as she pushed, Anjali snarled. The black-haired widow allowing herself to fall backward and to the carpeted floor. Then, as the blonde atop her shifted her legs inward, confident that Anjali would let her take control, the same showed what a mistake that was.

The coffee-colored mother firing her legs up in surprise and wrapping them around her rival’s abdomen — thereafter locking them tight at the calf.

“OoOOooooOOOOhhhhHHh SSHITT!!” Erica cried as she felt her moment of sensual bliss taken, but also a brutally harsh squeeze at her center.

“You think I would just let you fuck me, bitch…? I’m the one who will do the fucking…. NOT YOU!” As Anjali taunted, the blonde above her seemed to wilt. She collapsing forward, and onto she who squeezed. Her head falling just past her enemy’s and her ear perfectly place to hear. “After all, you white bitch … if you were any good at fucking your husband, he wouldn’t have left you….”

They came in a whisper. A hushed, delicate whisper laced with venom. A venom injected not a moment before Erica whimpered in pain.

A pain that though severe paled in comparison to that which her daughter felt. The latter brought on by Nisha’s hooking middle finger, which entered and drug inside of Allison’s wetness.

The dark-hued prom-goer having let loose of her inhibitions almost immediately after she and her rival’s unspoken agreement to continue their war was reached. Despite the way it made them feel. Despite the sexual consequences it may thereafter entail.

Such taboos forgotten and abandoned, she pushed through and in. Catching the sharp nail of her longest finger in Allison’s pink wall. Only to then drag that finger down, out, and over the clit of the same. That nail then stopping and stabbing there, at the center of all things — at least for her blonde rival.

A rival who screamed out loud and in horror as she felt the sting of Nisha’s cruelty.

A scream that still echoed as she who drew it gloated. “This is the last time you’ll ever get wet, you lesbian slut!” Just as her mother’s did, Nisha’s voice had coiled and then sprang from her lips like a viper. Soft and almost sensual — hissing and unforgettably hateful.

So stinging was the taunt, both in delivery and aim, that Allison once again began to cry. Her eyes closing as her hands fell from Nisha’s breasts and center. Unable to match her rival in such a contest of wills and wanton destruction.

It was then that she who still held, as a smirk formed on her face, decided to press her advantage. The high school senior doing so by leaning in and with a shoulder pushing Allison to her back.

And though the sobbing blonde rolled to as much with ease, as Nisha moved to mount her, Allison struck! She doing so by leaning up, in, and the latching her teeth onto Nisha’s right breast. Not just the flesh of it, or the dark ring that encompassed its center, but instead that center itself. The nipple. One that, erect as it was, found itself a perfect target to catch and then bite — bite and then chew.

“NNOOOoOooOOo!!!!! FFFUUUUCCCCKKKK!!! Get off me! STTOOOOPPP!!!” Nisha cried out, not even able to think of who she was speaking to, or what words she might use. She just needed it to end, and end it suddenly did.

As only a few seconds thereafter Allison reached up and shoved Nisha not only off of her but back to the ground. The blonde then using the distance to scramble back into the living room from the kitchen and A/C-chilled floor.

A trip which once again brought her mother into view. A mother who stood nude, and with a handful of Anjali’s hair, drug the same up from the floor and to her feet. The sight was enough to stop the blonde daughter dead in her tracks. She having lost all track of how she had arrived to this house or found herself wrapped around Nisha in a hateful embrace. Where her mother had gone, or why she had not attempted to break up their struggle.

Until that moment.

Until suddenly reality came back like a scythe-like pendulum. One which returned not only with a view of her mother’s naked struggle with another woman, but as Nisha suddenly attacked from behind.

An attack which unfolded with a grab and a turn — a spin and a fist, Erica mocked Anjali, even as she demanded her to return to their battle.

“Get… up … you cocky little bitch!” With every word Erica’s exhaustion was obvious, and yet somehow, she looked more sorted than Anjali. Who after a blow to the face, had found her bell rung and leg scissor broken.

A state that made her wobble as she reached her feet, and nearly collapse as Erica released her.

“No wonder … your men always go … for … white women…..” Almost drunk did the white mother sound, her muscles aching and lungs burning, and yet still she found the strength to throw a punch. One not to face or stomach, but directly into Anjali’s chest. A chest on which knuckles landed with a swift, clap of impacted wet flesh.

Anjali wanted to give up as she groaned in pain. To collapse back down to the ground and let the battle in which she found herself end. But instead, by some discovery of an unseen hateful reserve, she fired back. She too throwing her fist into her rival’s chest.

A punch which made the same sounds and caused the same desires to course through Erica. But she too struck back, with her fist landing in a blow so hard that Anjali’s left breast seemed to deflate before her very eyes.

“Unnnggghhh”Anjali moaned like a wounded animal, and yet she too, somehow, someway, sent a volley back. Her pecan-hued knuckles crashing into Erica’s left breast, and flattening her still-hard nipple.

“Nnnnuuuuuuggghhhh.” Came Erica’s resulting utterance of pain, one that she let loose, as she began to stumble towards Anjali.

“Bitch….” The Indian mother insulted, as she too began to stumble. And though it seemed at that moment, that both women were on the very verge of collapse, instead they let loose what they had left of their resolve.

Each throwing not one or two, but instead a flurry of slow, sloppy punches. None of which were blocked, leaving each to instead land fully and hard on cheeks and noses — eyes and abdomens.

Until finally, each of the two women collapsed into each other. Their arms wrapping around the body of their rival as they fought not each other but just to stand. Their newly bloodied cheeks flattening together, as their swollen eyes closed and fattened lips weakly chased what air they could find.

Like their mothers, Nisha and Allison held their fists before their faces, but instead of stumbling, they hopped. Instead of gasping for air, they took it in cleanly. For though they had struggled just as long and just as hard, they were still buoyed by their youth.

Each of them circling each other, trying to find the right opening to drive whatever limb they could into the body of the other.

Until finally Allison tossed a jab, and then Nisha in response a kick. Each dodging, and moving. Vigilant and focused, despite the sounds they heard coming from their mothers on the other side of the room.

And though for a moment they may have looked like kickboxers, deftly dodging and parrying, quickly thereafter did they descend into madness. As Nisha took one step too far, and when she did, Allison buried her left shin into the stomach of her rival.

At the impact, Allison moved in, but as she did, Nisha, even as she groaned, lashed out, throwing a hard punch up and into her enemy’s face. It was then that they in mirrored malice let loose. They two hate-filled 18-year-olds firing off whatever salvos they could.

Each sharing with the other, in the hardest way possible, kicks delivered high and driven low — punches landing at a glance and smashing home in a deep, sweaty thud.

And though they began such barbarism and battery still strong and still filled with energy, with every strike they both gave and took, they began to tire — to wane. Their quick, side-to-side steps turning into mutual stumbles. And their swift retreats and dodges slowing and then fading from their reality entirely.

The pair instead standing and slumping wearily.

Their faces continuing to swell and bleed.

Their bodies, even under a sheen of sweat, beginning to darken with bruises, both quarter size and a great deal larger.

And their lungs beginning to burn, not just from exertion, but from one blow after another finding their way to the other’s body.

Impacts they suffered, again and again, at the other’s hands as they fought their way deeper into Nisha’s living room.

But finally, when our two warring seniors could no longer stand and deliver, they collapsed forward and into each other. They two using both hands to wrap around and behind each other’s necks, and lacing at their fingers. Grips they then used to remain upright, though weakly, by hanging their weight on each other.

But even in that desperate, wandering semi-clinch, they continued to try and destroy one another. Driving, as their b-cup breasts dangled and pressed, their knees up and into the other’s stomach and chest. Not quickly, but slowly. Almost in turns, though only due to exhaustion. Each such collision landing with a visceral echo of pounding flesh, and a pitiful groan from she who absorbed it.

Such a state of mutual fatigue and failing continued, until in a sudden surge of energy, Allison fixed fingers to Nisha’s dark black hair and then spun. The blonde in so doing, twisting and dragging her rival around. The revolution so quick and forceful that it pulled the Indian student off of her feet, into the air, and then hard into the table shrine devoted to her father.

The body of she who flew smashing not only into the significance-adorned display, but then through it with a loud and unmistakable crashing sound. One born of shattering glass and cracking wood.

A sound which rung out only feet away from Allison and Nisha’s mothers, and yet still, they did not rouse to examine its cause.

No, for they were each and together broken. Laying side-by-side on the carpeted floor, though not truly mirrored. For as Anjali’s head rested just next to Erica’s legs, the blonde’s did the same next to her rival’s.

They two only breathing in deep, ragged gasps. Their lips slit and covered with dried blood. Their faces swollen and bodies bruised. And though they could hear their daughters fighting not feet away.

Hear them moaning.

Hear them hurting one another without mercy, they were too deep.

All of them. Too far engulfed in their little war.

It being a War of prides and desires — families and fervor.

And though they couldn’t fight through the madness that had taken them and their daughters, some semblance of their sanity still called to them. Still begged them.

Stop this, their hearts must have told them. What are you doing? Protect your daughter!? Their minds surely pled.

And yet finally, when they had found the breath and the will — the fire and the focus to move, Erica and Anjali just rolled. Not in part or in half, but in one contiguous motion. From their backs on which they laid, over onto their sides, and then after the lazy raising of their top-side thighs, smoothly into a mutual headscissor.

It was madness! Letting the other take them into such a hold.

Folly! Placing their heads willingly between the waiting and welcoming inner thighs of their enemy.

But just as Erica had said before, they each knew what their struggle was about. Not hatred or a desired humility, but satisfaction — but lust.

Each having baited the other into their battle because they wanted to touch — to feel the other’s naked body pressed against theirs.

Yes, in combat — yes, in struggle, but beneath it all, in such a way that their soul-wrenching thirst for sexual gratification would be quenched.

And so they entered their rival’s trap, and rested their swollen cheeks on the inner thigh of their rival. Willingly. Knowingly. Placing their faces, noses, and mouths only a tear’s width from their enemy’s sex.

Only to find themselves drug clitorous deep into the same, when each, in a simultaneous application of force, flexed their legs and clamped down hard.

“Mmmnnnnnppphh” Each mumbled into the other’s kitten, but without struggle. Their hands moving not to pull hair or dig claws, but instead to a soft and gentle rest on each other’s flexed thighs.

A flexing that continued to inflict and enforce, until nearly at the same moment, each pair of mirrored mothers extended their tongues and began to please. To satisfy. To quench, as they had agreed, in action if not words.

It was only then that their straightened legs angled, and their brutal squeezing ebbed. They only using the application of such force if they felt the other’s tongue recede, or efforts slacken.

The pair of mothers melting into their floor-bound sixty-nine. Each moaning weakly and blissfully into the other’s kitty. Though such sounds were then lost into the soft inner-thighs and sealed lower lips of their rival’s wounded body.

Squeeze and please each other, though their mothers did. Almost in a partnership of need and nature, Nisha and Allison were driving each other further and further away from any such possibility. For Nisha, even as she fought to a stand, after the collapse and clatter of her body being thrown into her father’s shrine, she raged. She seethed. Glaring at Allison with a wild and wide-eyed hatred.

“YOU BITCH!!” She screamed!

“I’LL KILL YOU!” She promised, as she began to cry. Not from physical pain, though such still riddled her body.

And yet, to that clammer of anger and unleashed and abject despair, Allison only smirked. Cruelly. Evilly. She loving the sight of tears welling in her rival’s eyes. Tears which began to rain, as she who shed them began to charge. Charge and then throw, a wild and careless punch.

A strike that Allison ducked, leaving Nisha’s body to continue off-balance and off-access, without any blunting of her momentum. A momentum which carried her into a spin, and then as her blonde adversary grabbed her and pulled, down to the carpeted floor.

The dark-skinned student landing on her ass in a seated position, with Allison coming down into the same, just behind her. The legs of the blonde then stretching out, surrounding, and snapping tight around Nisha’s abdomen in a harsh, rear-seated bodyscissor.

One that was met by rebellion and resistance by she who suffered its bite. The black-haired daughter of a mother moaning not but feet away leaning forward and with both hands trying to pry Allison’s legs from about her.

“Let go of me! I SWEAR, ALLISON! I’ll get you-you-you white slut! For that picture!” The words came as threatening as they read. Nisha’s voice trembling with anger and hatred as she spoke, even as she found herself trapped between her enemy’s legs.

And while Nisha’s words were loud and blaring, Allison’s were soft and came at a whisper. One delivered after the blonde sunk her hands deep in black hair and tugged the head there attached back, so that lips pressed to ear. “I’m going to make you swear, you weak brown bitch.”

“No! Fuck yo–OOOWWEEE!!” Loudly again, Nisha shouted her rebuttal, but as she did Allison dropped a hand from hair and reached around her enemy. An enemy who’s already wounded right breast was then grabbed and twisted by the malicious blonde.

“Owe! Stop! Biiiiirrrghghhh!” Nisha ordered, until a second hand left hair, and with the forearm attached, quickly wrapped around Nisha’s throat in a choke. A choke that cinched quickly, as Allison began to whisper again.

“Do you see them?” The blonde asked, as her lips pressed to Nisha’s ear.

And though she who was trapped and tortured could not answer, she did see them. Their mothers’ faces locked deep between each other’s thighs. Not fighting or cursing, but instead pleasing each other. Instead moaning for each other like the whores those same mothers had always taught them not to be.

“Mmmnnn, I’m gonna make you do that when you give up. Lick me…. Eat me…. So that everytime you see me at school you know I’m better than you, you shit-colored bitch.” at every word, Nisha bucked and squirmed. Her hands placed and pulling in a panic on Allison’s choking left forearm.

“But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it — you LESBIAN?” Still in a whisper, the blonde accused. “I felt how wet you were….”

Sputtered and spasmed though Nisha did, Allison wanted more. Wanted Nisha to beg her. To plead for her to stop. And so just as much to allow as much, the blonde let loose her choke, and when she did, even through coughs and hacks, Nisha replied defiantly.

“You were wet, bitc–NooOOOooO!!” Defiant though she was, Allison without pause punished her for it. The blonde digging her nails into her rival’s still-hard right nipple, as soon as its owner dared speak in such a tone.

“Liar….” Allison replied in a still sensually soft tone. One that only Nisha could hear. But not just hear, for as the word was spoken, she could feel it. The blonde thrusting her hips forward, and pressing her young, youthful sex against the brown girl’s ass.

A sex which was not just as wet as before, but more so. It leaving a hot, smear of excitement-born juices across Nisha’s rear.

Unwanted as such a thrust was, Nisha began to break. Offering nothing more than a soft, quivering. “Pleeeaaasssee. Let me go….”

“Give.” Is all the blonde gave in reply. She beginning her second thrust and then her third, quickly thereafter.

“Noo-aaRRRrRrgggHHh” Rejection and then groan came from Nisha, as again Allison tore at her breast on refusal.

Instead of focusing on her tormentor, the dark-hued hindu’s eyes still lingered on her mother and the battle that she waged. One which seemed to be growing more and more tense by the moment — soft and compliant though it had previously been.

For the delicate push and pull of desire and anger — sexual need and pride-generated hate, had begun to fray Erica and Anjali’s willingness to comply in their mutual headscissor. The gentle balance tipping one way too far and then the other even further. As each of the two inner-thigh-encircled mothers found themselves forced to resort to sending messages to one another. Not through words that could not be heard, but the most minute of movements.

A slight squeezing of thighs. A gentle pressing of the tongue. A tiny nibble. A quick reaching and light pulling of the other’s hair to keep their rival committed to their unspoken truce.

But moment-by-moment, as their stores of energy began to replenish, they each chafed at the other’s proddings. Flared at the other’s demands of service, even though they expected nothing less than complete obedience to their own such messages for more.

And though Nisha could not see which of those squeezes or pulls — bites or pushes set the flame, suddenly, with every ounce of strength either mother could muster, it happened.

A TIGHT squeeze of thighs from each. Not one that came and then left, but one that stayed and continued, as each middle-aged beauty retracted their tongues and groaned loud into the other’s cunt.

Muffled though those sounds were, they echoed through the room as Allison continued to pry at Nisha’s breast and whisper into her ear. But the daughter of the darker moaning matron did not hear her rival’s words. No, for she was lost in it. The site of her own mother and her enemy digging their nails hard into each other’s thighs and dragging. Each trying whatever they could to stop the other’s sudden rebellion — even though it mirrored with perfection their own.

Deaf though Nisha was, she had not lost all of her senses. And one of those she still possessed came calling, as suddenly, or perhaps not, she noticed Allison continuing to grind her molten hot and river-wet sex against her own ass.

“What are you…?” Nisha asked before stopping. Questioned before the answer she already knew came to her. A lesson their mothers were teaching them, as they rolled in quarter-turns in front of them. This…. This fight…. This struggle…. It was about more.

More than hate.

More than pride.

It was sexual, in some way. Some way Nisha did not understand, and yet still, she felt it.

The truth of it.

How at some primal level, and despite all she felt for Allison, she had never wanted anything more than to … own her. Devour her. And fuck her, just as was being done to her.

But as such realizations flooded Nisha’s mind, her ability to comprehend the words being spoken to her returned. “You know what this is about….” Allison hissed.

She did, yes. Just like her mother. Just like Erica. And as was made clear by every thrust the black-haired prom-goer felt from behind, just like Allison.

As that admission and hiss – revelation and realization came to pass, the same was being seared into both Erica and Anjali’s heart like a brand. For though their patience had waned and compliance was denied, the pain of it. Of squeezing, straighted, and steel-hard thighs. Of nails being driven in and ripped down, only to lift and re-engage, each of the two mothers began to wilt. To soften.

They two once again communicating, but in the opposite of before. Not through minor attacks and lesser retaliations, but in fingers flattening and resting. In tongues, once again extending, even as they found themselves encompassed by groans. Until, when each was confident the other would, and without question comply, they each let their legs loosen and tightening end.

Such an unspoken and unwritten accord reached, they each dove back into one another’s sex. Their tongues used at that moment as both spear and sabre. Stabbing in, and then like it were wielded by a master, fencing the other’s clit. Striking softly. And stroking with precision.

Each swordswoman devoted to their task — to the goal they had each been seeking from the very first words of derision and insult spoken.

Climax.

One that came for both of them as a dam bursting or like a black hole forming.

With power and perfection — pomp and circumstance, each of the two breaking into convulsions, as their lips parted to release loud, primal moans of pleasure. Their thighs shivering and opening, not to release the other, but because they had lost control of them.

But even with such an opening presented neither took it. No, for they were lost. Committed. They chasing the other’s carnal detonation with a ferocity they expected from the other. Wanting to take — to taste — and to drain from the other every last drop of pleasure-born beneficence.

Until finally, when they had it, they each collapsed back and away from each other to their backs. Their faces soaked and makeup in complete and total ruin. Their mascara more akin to Bucky Barnes than beauties such as they. Their foundation a fluid and running puddle. And their blush not just washed out, but absent entirely.

In such states of devastation and satisfaction they laid. Their wounded and yet still incredible breasts heaving as they fought to regain their long-absent, but much needed breath.

Such a site played out like a movie in front of Nisha and Allison. The latter behind the former, her choking forearm still placed, but her breast-attached hand moving. Down, the tips of its fingers gliding down Nisha’s stomach, and then between the Indian girl’s legs.

“I still hate you, bitch….” Allison again whispered with a tone laced with venom.

A venom Nisha tried to return, even in her state of bind. “I … hate … you … mo–OooOOooooohhh gooddd….” As Nisha tried to reply. Tried to return her rival’s taunt, she felt it. Allison’s index finger sliding down and then in. Softly. Teasingly. And yet still, that finger found it.

Nisha’s wetness. Her excitement. Almost overflowing at all that was happening. The hate she felt for the blonde. The passionate, wild fight they had engaged in. The sight before her eyes of their mothers trapped between each others thighs and with their mouths bringing each other to orgasm.

But cause aside, as Allison felt its moist consequence, she taunted again, “dirty brown whore….”.

As those racially-tinged words found their way from the blonde’s whispering lips to her rival’s ear, Anjali and Erica still laid. Still rested. Neither having spoken or even moved, save for a single hand down to their own sexs to massage and calm.

But just as Anjali began to formulate what she might do next in her mind — how she and her rival might move past their mutual orgasms, and perhaps bring an end to this desperate battle of two families, the choice was taken from her.

For Erica, without warning or word, sat up, turned, and then dove atop Anjali. The blonde mother’s hands moving to the Hindu’s wrists and pinning them.

“Bitch!” Anjali cursed, as she felt her rival pin her down and mount her. Not in a straddle but in the missionary position. Erica’s sex pressing to her own, as her husband’s once did in bed.

“Mmmm, too slow….” Erica cood, as she looked down into Anjali’s eyes with a confident and yet mischievous smirk.

“Get off m-” As the words formed in her throat and came rushing out of Anjali’s mouth, she found those same words knocked askew and astray. As Erica’s right hand suddenly lifted from wrist and splashed hard across the black-haired mother’s left cheek.

Freedom! At least in part, Anjali thought, as she fired her right hand up to Erica’s face. But as it traveled, the blonde, having delivered her slap, caught it, and slammed it back down to the carpeted floor of the living room.

“Cunt! I said get of-” Again Anjali protested, and again Erica released and then attacked. The blonde’s left hand moving with speed from arm to niiple, and twisting hard.

“Ooowwweeee!!! BITCH!” Rage! Anger like she had never felt before filled Nisha’s mother, as she once more tried to reach and strike with her right hand.

And like the rewinding of a tape and then played, Erica looked to once more catch and pin, but Anjali fought her. Moving and pulling her arm and hand away, the dark-skinned mother trying desperately to keep her herself from being pinned again.

But finally, infuriatingly, the free wrist was caught and shoved back down to the carpet.

That’s when it began, the thrusting. The fucking. Erica driving and dragging her hair-covered mound mound over Anjali’s, until their already wet and sensitive clits met, somewhere in the moistness of their fur-covered valleys.

“Unnggghhh, no! We came! Get off–Unnnggghhh!” The Indian mother complained, she feeling utterly betrayed by her previously useful rival.

“Nnnnmmm, take it, you dirty brown whore…. This is what you wanted. To be fucked….” As Erica taunted and drove, not only herself forward but a dagger into Anjali’s heart, Nisha found herself hopeless. She was trapped. Had been trapped. And now, even her mother — her strong, confident mother, suffered the same fate.

No time did she have to consider what options were left for her, if any other than surrender. For just not a moment after the coming of her despair, and the laying back of her head on Allison’s shoulder. Did the same lean in and bite. Her teeth viciously clamping down on the middle Nisha’s forehead.

At the attack, Nisha screamed, and yet as she did, and as blood began to trickle from driven teeth and clenching jaw, did two more attacks come. The first being the blonde daughter’s legs clamping down in a harshening of her of her laxed bodyscissor. And the second, being her soft and exploring finger curling into a claw and stabbing in Nisha’s tight, brown, pussy.

“NOoOOOoO!!! PLEASE!!! PLLEEEAASSSSEEE I GIVE!!! I GIVE!!! OH GOD!!! SSSTTTOOOOPPPP!!!” The sound of the submission, of the pained and awful cry echoed through the home of the Indian pair of mother and daughter. But it didn’t reach its worst and most pathetic until in a tearful whisper Nisha added. “I am sorry, Allison….. Please…..”

Mercy she begged for.

For a release from bite, scissor, and claw did Nisha plead. And though she received it. A quick and sudden end to the bite, a loosening of legs, and a removal of a sharply digging nail, it came with a comment so cruel Nisha would never forget it.

“You should be glad your father didn’t live to see what a weak and worthless pussy you arrrrreeeee.” As if spoken by with the forked tongue of a snake, Allison’s last word trailed. And though before the blonde had whispered and hissed, the last sentence she spoke aloud. She wanting not just Nisha to hear it, but their mothers too.

And heard it was, by Anjali and Erica. Who, even in their cunt-to-cunt struggle of applied dominance, stopped. The cry of one and curses of the other breaking through their madness and causing them each to pause.

What had she done…? Erica began to think.

What had she allowed to happen…? The blonde mother asked herself in the blinding light of a quickly returned clarity.

A clarity that made the hands of the same loosen, and her mound-centered pin to lessen in its perfection.

Allison! She was going to say it. Shout it. The name of her daughter. A daughter who had wrapped her light-skinned nude frame around that of her dark-hued rival.

But just as lips came together and curled — just as tongue flattened and lungs began to propel, Anjali drove. Up and over, hard. The formerly pinned and frustrated mother turning and then mounting Erica in a single, distraction-aided maneuver.

But that was not the only turn of body and bout, for only a moment or two before the pair of matrons turned, Allison released and relented. The blonde senior wanting what her mother had, when last she looked to her. Dominance, complete and utter — she wanting to mount her enemy, mound-to-mound.

And so, seeking to take that control, Allison shoved the wounded and wailing Nisha forward and to the carpeted floor of the living room. The fragments of the Patel’s once pristine living room toppled and torn apart about them.

Such destruction played backdrop to whatever horror was in store for Nisha, as she rolled onto her back and watched her rival leap upon her. And though she expected claws driven in or strikes hammered down, she instead found her enemy land and then stop. Adjust, and then drop. She of golden hair aligning and pressing her own wet sex into Nisha’s. The former’s eyes flaring with unchecked confidence and unrepentant desire.

A desire. A confidence that at any other moment in her life would have driven Nisha to the very depths of petulant rage and seething hatred. And yet, at that moment, after all the pain and her own expectations of further torture, that desire and the lust Allison so clearly felt, was the best she could hope for.

Yes, fuck me. She thought to herself. Do it. Just don’t hurt me anymore. Thoughts she wanted to put into words. Intended to put into words. To speak them as her truth. But just as Erica’s words of caution and cancellation had been interrupted. So too were Nisha’s of submission and invitation.

Not by a sudden flipping of fortunes and frames, but by a sudden thrust from Allison, who drug with an intentional roughness, her own, clean-shaven sex over the bested and broken classmate’s. A forceful stroke that caused both she who gave it and she who took it to moan out. Not from pain, but from pleasure. Their own built-up lust finally being satisfied. Their own desires for more than combat coming to the surface, when finally they understood what had so swiftly taken their mothers.

And though their mothers had sought to quench that thirst early, with such needs satiated, they had moved onto something more sinister. Something more cruel. Not at once, for it was Erica who leaped first. Diving atop Anjali after their mutual orgasm had passed, looking to control her.

To dominate her.

To fuck her into absolute and complete submission.

Oh, but then it came. Like a cold wind blown through an open window or the sudden sting of guilt after a once easy decision.

Regret. One that can only come after one has cum. The wash of reality that hits after the craze of sexual desire has passed. She was a mother! An adult! A businesswoman! And yet, somehow, she had been ensnared in a maddened dance of carnal cravings with a women she did not know!

How?!

Why?!

She would have asked. Could have asked. Had the moment not been taken from her. Stolen from her. As Anjali turned them. Rolled them. And within what seemed like an instant, seized firm and unquestioned control. She not only putting Erica on her back, but also climbing up and mounting her.

Not her abdomen in some arms-free straddle, but with her own, sexy dark thighs pinning those arms, and the hands there attached beneath her lower half. Leaving Erica with nothing to defend herself with, save for her mouth. One that opened in curse, only a moment after the blonde found herself pinned.

“Anjali, wait!” Came her words, as her eyes opened wide with shock.

“Our daught-” She spoke again, as reason flooded her mind and the fogs of desire dissipated. But before the blonde mother could finish her plea, she found Anjali’s left hand clamp down, palm-first, over her mouth. Ceasing her speaking, or perhaps more accurately, reducing it to a unintelligible mumble.

Irritating as that inability to speak and be understood was for Erica, it paled in comparison to the pain she suddenly felt in her right nipple. One which Anjali grabbed and twisted hard. So hard, in fact, that the divorced blonde swore she felt her nippled tearing off of her breast. A sensation, cruel and horrific as it was, that caused her to scream out into her rival’s pressing palm.

“You try to fuck me in my own home? Hmm…!?” It was fury that could be heard in Anjali’s voice, yes. But there with it, lurked something else. An excitement. A fire set ablaze by challenge.

Erica had made it about more than lust. More than a mutual need for a long-denied desire for sensuality and satisfaction. For when such had been taken not by one, but by both, the blonde continued. She dared. Making it personal. Making it a war for domination.

A war Anjali then reveled in, as she let her twisting ebb for a few moments, before she began it again. One way and then the other. Start and then pause. The brown-skinned woman, in all her sexual and physical glory watching Erica’s eyes well with tears as she squirmed.

“You weak white bitch. I’ll own you now….” Came Anjali’s words in more a hiss than anything else. She wanting her every syllable to slither into Erica’s ear and then with a bite inject their venom.

A venom which made Erica’s eyes close as tears began to fall from them. Her own head turning left and then right, as she tried, in the only way she could to resist. She saying no. Not only to Anjali’s threats, but all that was happening. And all she was unable to stop with their daughters, now that her rival was atop her and in full possession of momentum.

And though when she last saw her daughter and Nisha, they were still fighting. Still hurting each other. As Erica cried and screamed into her enemy’s palm, they were doing something else entirely.

Their eyes locked together in the most intense of gazes. Each communicating with the other, perhaps more than they ever had before, though not with words. No instead each conveying everything they felt with their eyes alone. Allison her own sexual desires and need control, and Nisha, her acceptance of the blonde’s dominance. Wanting it, not only because of the frenzy their battle had created within her, but because it was preferable to pain.

They two high school rivals locked together, pussy-to-pussy, in their own little world. Oblivious to all else that transpired around them, as Allison thrusted and Nisha took. As the blonde drug and her raven-haired rival coiled. She wrapping her toned but thin legs around the legs of she who fucked her. A hooking of calves that came just as Nisha, softly, timidly, and carefully lifted her arms and placed her hands on Allison’s shoulders.

The message of the placement and pressure being clear. Take me. Own me. Fuck me, Allison Dane….

And fuck her she did. Slowly. Forcefully. Each of the two learning from every stroke, even as they moaned for each other. Whimpered for each other. Their eyes softening with every passing moment. That is until, through their bubble of blistering sexual bliss the sound tore.

“AAAArrrrgggghhhhh!!! PPPLLLEEEEAAASSSEEE!!! NNOOO!!!!” It was so loud. So terrible. So ear-piercing and soul-shaking. But what was….?

Allison asked herself, as she, in shock, looked up and found her mother no longer on top of her rival but instead beneath her.

Beneath her and pinned.

Beneath her and screaming.

One brown hand affixed to her right nipple, and another behind the back of Anjali and buried between Erica’s thighs. Each hand digging. Each hand clawing. One into the base of the light pink center of the blonde mother’s breast. And the others digging deep into the sensitive pink walls of the same.

“I give! I giiiiivvvee!!! I GIVE!!” Erica screamed as Anjali tortured her.

In an instant, and at the very hearing of the words Allison tried to move. To stand and charge to her mother’s aid. But without fully understanding what was happening, Nisha’s gently placed hands grabbed. Not out of any rebellion, but out of desire. A desire for Allison to stay and finish what she — what they had started.

But in the restriction of movement, Allison found herself another way of helping her mother. A method of aid that caused her once soft eyes to turn hard once again, as the blonde soccer player suddenly grabbed Nisha’s wrists and slammed them to the carpet.

“No, no, what are you doing?! Keep going! Please….” Nisha begged, as she found herself lost in she and her prom night enemy’s transition from hate to lust.

But even as she begged, Allison moved. Climbing up her rival’s body and just as Anjali did the same. Each of the two women, of different ages and hues reaching a seated position on their opponent’s chest at the same time.

And while Allison watched Anjali, the latter only watched her enemy’s blue eyes. Eyes which flared with regret and submission. They being wet with tears, and the surrounding skin run with streaks of black mascara. That mismatched attention continued until the blonde daughter called.

“Get the hell off my mom, you dirty old brown dyke!” Allison demanded, as she grabbed a handful of Nisha’s jet-black hair.

“Mmmm…. No….” Anjali responded coyly with an amused smirk, as her eyes moved from her victim to the confident young blonde sitting on her daughter’s chest.

“I’ll sit on her face; I swear!” It was a warning — the only one Allison could think of at the moment. And yet just as she spoke it, the hook of Anjali’s smirk grew sharper.

“Do your worst, and I’ll do mine….” At the very moment she spoke, Anjali slid forward, dragging her excitement and orgasm-wet sex over and then atop of Erica’s quivering lips and sniffling nose. On which that sex then lowered. Driving the nose and lips of her rival deep within.

“Bitch!” Allison cursed as she hurried to mirror her rival’s mother, dragging herself forward, though with half the surety and a quarter of the confidence.

“Yes, girl….” Anjali responded before her sentence was broken by a soft moan. “….the bitch sitting on your mother’s face.”

“Arrrgghhh, you stupid….” At that moment, one in which she was too angry to even finish her insult, part of Allison wanted to stand. To run. To dive atop Anjali and tear her off of her mother. But even as that sequence formed in her mind, she had already begun humping. Wildly. Awkwardly. Slamming her sex down and into Nisha’s bruised and swollen face. A face which quickly became wet, both from Allison’s already coaxed juices and newly formed tears.

Tears of frustration, as the young Indian girl longed for what she and Allison had found not moments before. A peace. A pleasure. And a way through their seemingly never ending storm of antagonization and hatred.

Tears of pain, as the underside of Allison’s pubic bone slammed down into her already battered face with little if any control. The blonde face-fucking her in the only way she knew how — that being to poorly copy Anjali, in whatever it was she did.

But also tears from something else. A certain and burning shame.

She had been defeated by her rival.

Owned by her rival.

Not in some empty gym or in the back of a high school locker room, but on the floor of her own home, in front of her mother. A mother who could have saved her. Could have helped her. But one who instead chose not to, she focusing her efforts on securing her own rival’s humiliation, even as her daughter suffered the same.

And though the causes for Nisha’s tears were many, she shed those tears without eyes upon her. For rather than Allison basking in her rival’s subjugation and despair, the blonde only glared across the living room at the nude, brown-skinned woman who sat atop her mother’s face.

A woman who looked back with her onyx eyes and a cruelly confident smirk on her face. Each of the two victors performing for each other.

Anjali in perfectly smooth drags of her sex over face, and Allison in manic, poorly-timed thrusts of her own atop Nisha. One a perfect example of how a woman controls and uses her body and the other guide to the opposite end of that sexual spectrum.

The dark-hued mother, with every such shimmy and shift of her maternity-widened lower half, teaching Allison how to move and how to fuck. The later’s sloppy slams of pubic bone slowing with every thrust, as she began to copy with greater and greater effect the woman across the way.

Until finally, as Erica and Nisha whimpered and cried beneath them, Anjali spoke in a loud, commanding voice. “Mmmmnnn, fucking lick me, you weak white slut!”

With the words came with a hard tug at Erica’s golden blonde hair. One that drug her up and in, and sent a wave of pain through her body.

She hated it!

Hated her!

The Indian bitch that rode her face, and though if she were free and unbroken she would resist. At that moment, all she could do is beg as her hands lifted and came to a soft rest on outside of her rival’s pinning thighs.

“Pleeeaassseeee … not in front of my daughter.” Pled Erica, in the space of a quick lift by Anjali to adjust her position

And though Allison could not hear her mother’s words. Could not hear her cry in the most pathetic of ways. Still, only seconds after Anjali demanded, did Allison ask for the same.

“Li-lick me, Nisha! You-you stupid Indian bitch!” Stutter though she did, Allison made it through. Making the same demand of her bested enemy, just before she too yanked at splayed out hair.

“No, no, Allison, please….. Not…” Nisha sobbed. “Not … in front of my mom….” Her own hands moving to Allison’s soccer-toned ass to brace against its every coming and going. She hoping to save her nose and lips from any more damage than they had already suffered.

At that moment each on top had demanded and each on bottom had begged for mercy. And yet still, despite the pleas, came another harsh and malicious pull. One that, like a tug on the reins of a horse, set Erica and Nisha into action.

Each extending their tongues through their gasping sobs, and applying the same to their rival’s clit, as grief set in upon them.

But why would they care? After all they had done. After their wild battles. After their partaking of whatever sexual fulfillment gripped them without a second thought as to who watched them.

Why then?

Again, because it had passed.

The fog of fiery hate and unleashed lust. The passion and power that comes from two equal rivals struggling with one another.

Such glorious distractions from place and perception — taboo and timidity having faded with Erica and Nisha’s submissions. They crashed back down to earth with singed wings and wounded bodies

And though they had fallen from such grace, Allison and Anjali were still wrapped in it — wrapt by it. They two riding their shattered enemy’s tongue not just to the joy of having beaten their enemy, but to orgasm. As each, broke their locked connection of eyes — Allison’s hard and hateful and Anjali’s confident and studying. Each pair closing as they, both together and apart began to moan.

Neither able to focus on anything other than the pleasure that their enemy’s tongue gave them, as is lapped and licked, at first timidly and then with force. Each stealing only the tiniest of glances at one another, as they together rode — and together climbed toward the precipice of their separate victories.

They two face-fucking fighters forgetting, if only for a moment, what laid ahead for both of them when finally they came and their reciprocal punishment of rival had reached its conclusion.

A conclusion which rushed towards them like the sea and the shore — charged toward them like cavalry and the flank. The voices of the two skipping and hitching, as even their cries of pleasure found themselves broken by the same.

But those sounds, beautiful and terrible as they were, depending on one’s placement, built and grew — tripled and trebled. Until finally, in a moment of unintentionally shared orgasm, Allison and Anjali released in half-deafening screams of ecstasy.

Screams they released in joy as they reached for the hands of their rival. Grabbing them and pulling them up and to their own breasts. Each forcing their bested enemy to play once more the role of pleasuring pathetic, by forcing them to massage and rub their own hanging breasts through orgasm.

A rubbing and orgasm that began to ebb, just as the rolling of Anjali and Allison’s hips did the same. And whereas an expression of extreme satisfaction graced the former’s face, the latter’s once again began to harden and twist in malice.

For though she had let herself enjoy the punishment of her battered and broken high school rival, she was still mad. Still infuriated at seeing that same rival’s mother dominate her own.

And so, even though her body still felt weak. Still felt raw from the explosive and hard-earned release that had just torn through her, Allison rose. She, along with the difficulty of muscle control that comes when one cums, lifting her lower-half and pushing herself into a stand.

A wobbly, unbalanced stand, and yet on her feet she was. And though she was, Anjali was not. Not ready or wanting to remove herself from Erica’s face. She wanting to milk that moment and her rival’s despair for all it was worth.

But as Anjali could see it. The look in Allison’s eyes. Hate. Anger. And a hunger. Not for sexual satisfaction, with that third having been quenched, but vengeance.

Present and visible — clear and conspicuous though it was, Anjali only smiled, cruelly — mockingly, as she began to lift and raise. She making it to her feet and taking a half-step forward before she spoke.

“Come to me, little slut. Let me teach you what your mother should have.” As the words came from Anjali’s curled lips, she lifted her left foot from the carpet. Then, after bringing to just the right spot, and in what seemed like a split second, she kicked down and slammed the very point of her heel down into Erica’s forehead. A blow that forced the blonde mother’s head down and with a heavy force into the floor. A collision that caused a loud and unforgettable echoing thud.

At the sight of it.

At the audacity of it.

At the rage and virulent animosity it set ablaze in the 18-year-old’s soul, she charged. Almost dove, from just above Nisha’s tear-stained and bruised face, past the gap between them, and then atop of Anjali.

And as Allison arrived in mid-air, she began to strike. Not with discernible blows. Ones with a name or learnable method of delivery, but instead with wild, almost indefensible, undefinable attacks.

Attacks which came, even as the liquid leavings of their lustful lavishments of tongue and torture dripped from their sexs to the floor and down their fatigue-pained thighs.

Reminders though those drips were of their own respective victories, battle was upon them again.

For they two alone, and not the others.

Not with the rival with which they had rolled and roiled, but with each other. The daughter of one versus the mother of the other.

One fueled by a palpable fury. A fury that made her blood boil and eyes burn as she fired out arm and leg — fist and foot.

And the other, filled with a confidence so utterly resolute, that even as she retreated she knew. Even as she stepped back amidst Allison’s onslaught, she had not a single doubt. Not even when she fell back upon the couch on which Nisha and she had sat when their family “discussion” began.

And though Anjali was sure of her own strength and certain in her own impending victory. Allison felt the momentum swelling behind her, as she followed Anjali down to the couch cushions — leaping upon her sitting and sweaty form.

The young blonde keeping to her feet between the Indian mother’s juice-soaked thighs, as she did her worst. And as she did that worst — as she struck one frantic, svelte-strength-driven blow after another at Anjali’s side’s, she was sure. She was CERTAIN.

She was going to beat her!

Break her!

Then humiliate her in front of her own daughter!

“I told you to get off my mom!” Allison shouted.

“I TOLD YOU AND YOU DIDN’T LISTEN!” She screamed as she continued to whale away at her mother’s smug rival.

“NOW YOU’RE GOING TO GET I—AAAARRrrrRrRHHHHhhhH!!!” Just as she promised. Just as she SWORE, she felt it. Anjali’s legs wrap around and then contract hard — contract fast. So tightly and forcefully, that Allison found herself torn down from her feet, and slammed, tummy first against the edge of the couch.

In an instant the once-striking student knew. She had to withdraw. Had to escape. And so her striking hands opened from their states of ball and moved. Each looking to set down on Anjali’s thighs and push.

But as those hands traveled, they were caught at the wrists and then pulled back out wide to the battling pair’s sides. Anjali extending her own arms, to keep Allison’s at bay. To keep them from aiding her in any way. Leaving the prom-goer trapped between Anjali’s thighs. Thighs which then straightened in a mighty flex. One so powerful and perfectly-placed that the blonde girl collapsed forward and between her older rival’s breasts with a loud and soul-felt moan. “Uuuunnnnnggggghhhhh….”

“Mmmmnnnn, such fire.” Anjali mused, as her pulse of pressure lessened, and her legs loosened just enough to let Allison rest from the pain“It’s too bad your mother doesn’t have that fire.” An opening though she gave, as her sentence ended, the pain began again. As dark-skinned thighs straightened and squeezed at the little blonde’s insides again.

“Oooowwwwweeee-aaaRrrrrHhhhhH” Allison moaned once again, as the pain of Anjali’s bodyscissor ripped through her. A pain which came as each of the two struggled with their arms. The former to pull her hands free, and the latter to keep them kept and extended — far away from the thighs on which they sought to push. Thighs which again softened and loosened, as the sitting mother toyed with her prey.

“Let! Me! GO!” A toying that allowed the young blonde to demand. The final word of which coming as she suddenly surged forward. She hoping to move forward and through the momentarily widened gap between Anjali’s thighs, in an attempt to escape the crushing bodyscissor in which she found herself trapped. Or at the very least, leave its point of pressure around her boney hips and not her defenseless abdomen.

As Allison moved, however, her body met that of her mother’s rival. And when such occured, the breasts of the mismatched pair slid atop one another — their hard nipples crossing and bending at the center.

A brushing of breasts that occured just as the bare mound of one pressed and drug against the wet-haired mound of the other. A dual-pronged, and yet unintended consequence of Allison’s attempt at escape that caused each of the two still-warring women to moan softly for each other.

It could have been a moment, a swerve in direction from loathing to lust and hatred to heated sexual competition or release. But instead, even though they moaned together as one laid in the other’s lap, trapped. Still did Anjali’s legs once again tighten and torture. They crushing down on the blonde’s ribs cruelly, before relaxing again.

And when that relaxing came, Allison repeated her demand, though it came more as a plea. “Let me go….” And just as before, when the word go left her lips, she again dove forward, in an attempt to escape the wicked pressure applied by Anjali’s thighs.

A dive which once again drug body against body. Breast against breast. And mound against mound. Meetings of flesh and fixation that caused each to moan and each to whimper thereafter. Sounds set loose as Allison’s head came down to a rest on Anjali’s chest. A collapse mirrored by her thin, alabaster arms, which fell to the couch cushions below. They still being held tight at the wrist by the woman who kept her bound in sweaty flesh and squeezing limbs.

Bound, and then compressed once again around her center. A squeezing that caused Allison to begin to cry — her tears falling onto Anjali’s dark breasts before traveling down in her body in long, chaos-theory guided lines.

“Please….” The crying young blonde’s lips drug across the skin of Anjali’s right breast as she whispered. “Let me go….”

“Mmmmm….” Came Anjali’s response. A sounding out of her own pleasure at seeing — at feeling her daughter’s rival plead to be released. And though it pleased her. And though she loved every second of it, she wanted more. Not only more from Erica’s daughter, but from Erica.

Her defeated rival. A rival who still laid on the carpet, her head spinning and body aching. She still unable to move or to help as she looked on in abject despair as her daughter wept between the Indian mother’s legs.

“Let…. Her…. Go…. Please, Anjali….” Erica spoke through the tweeting birds and turning stars that she saw rotating before her vision.

From one mother to another Erica pled, and yet still, as soon as the plea ended, Anjali squeezed again, and in the process, caused Allison to cry out in a withering and terrible pain.

“You and she both must buy an end to her pain….” Anjali spoke, as she looked past the broken prom-goer between her thighs. “You will do anything I say for the rest of the night. Anything….” Anjali hissed, as she watched Erica slowly struggle to turn over onto her stomach.

A feat she accomplished, just as another pulse came from the Indian mother’s legs. One that, in turn, drew another pitiful, half-winded whimper from Allison as she sobbed.

“Fine…. I will…. We will…. Just stop hurting her…..” For not only herself, but for her daughter, Erica had accepted. She focused solely on trying to free Allison from the slow, lingering agony she suffered.

“No, no, you cannot speak for her. She must say it. This cute little slut of yours must give into to me and accept my terms.” At the command, Anjali finally let go of Allison’s wrists, but the defeated daughter of a defeated mother could not even lift those arms. Not to free herself, or to resist as she who released brought both of her hands to Allison’s hair and pulled her head up, so that she could look into her teary eyes.

“Give up.” Anjali demanded, her eyes filled with resolution and ferocity.

“Give up!” She demanded again, but louder, as her right hand released Allison’s hair and then splashed down across her cheek. “Tell me you submit like you forced my daughter to, you prissy white bitch.”

“I…. I….” Allison stuttered, as she tried to collapse back down atop Anjali’s breasts. But the latter held firm, and kept her there — looking into the eyes who demanded her surrender.

“Uuunnnnngggghhhhhh” At the delay came another squeeze — another pulse, and Allison groaned, just as she had before. But at its end, she said it. “I give…..”

Half-hearted and pathetic Anjali took it as, as so she tightened her thighs and flexed her calves once more! And when she did Allison screamed out her surrender. “I GIVE!! OOWWWEEEE!!! PLEASE!!!”

“Will you do it? Hmmmnnnn….? Whatever I say….?” Anjali asked with almost frustrated tone. She wanted the answer and Allison’s abject subjugation, and she wanted it immediately.

“What…?” In truth Allison was in too much pain to understand what was happening or what Anjali was asking. She barely having had the mental strength left to hear the words Anjali and her mother spoke, let alone process and understand them.

Despite that confusion, Anjali wasted not a second before she slammed shut her umber-hued legs once more, and delivered another harsh stinging slap to Allison’s already reddened cheek.

“OOoooooOoOOohhh YYEEEESSS!!! ANYTHING!!! PLLLEEEEEAAAASSSEEE!!!” She howled it! Her complete and total surrender. Her agreement to terms. Terms she did not understand or comprehend in the slightest. And yet, to stop the pain, she took them.

And at the very moment she did, Anjali released and relented. Letting her legs fall open and Allison to crash back down to her waiting body.

“And see…? Here I was thinking our families wouldn’t be getting along.” Anjali said with a smirk, as her free hands grabbed and then flipped Allison’s light frame over. Then, before the young blonde had even a moment to react, she was pulled back up and into her Indian tormentor’s lap.

Into her lap and against her — the victorious mother’s breasts pressing into Allison’s back, as the toned ass of the same settled into the V-shaped space between Anjali’s spread legs.

“Now watch me, Erica.” The wrapping widow called, as she brought her chin down to a rest on her victim’s left shoulder. She wanting to watch her rival’s face contort with anger and regret as she did what she was about to do.

As she reached down.

As she reached between.

As she lowered her right hand between Allison’s legs. Legs which quickly and defensively swung shut

“Ah, ah, ah, you are mine, little dove.” Anjali reminded softly with words, before doing so harshly with a quick tug at Allison’s matted and sweat-wet blonde hair, they opened once more.

“Mommie….” Came the trembling voice of the broken daughter. Words of fear and worry that came just as her legs reluctantly opened for Anjali.

“Yes … call to her. Call to your precious mommie. The one who put you here. Who let THIS….” Anjali’s final word came with a swift inhale and intentional emphasis as she drove her fingers into Allison’s sex without warning or softness. “…happen….”

“Ooooohhh gooOOooOOod.” Allison said in reaction, as her body seized as it pressed back into Anjali’s.

“A-Allison….” Erica muttered as she tried to crawl forward and towards her moaning, rival-held daughter.

“No, no, Erica. Remember what you said — what you agreed to. That you’d do anything I say, and what I say you do right now, is watch…. Watch me finger your pretty little daughter.” Anjali words were clear and her tone calm, if wanting.

Slow, though Erica’s crawl was, eventually she made it to the feet of the two couch-bound members of their impromptu family war.

To the legs of her bested daughter and victorious rival. Legs which Erica reached for, and used, with the little strength she had left. She trying and pull herself up.

But just as the broken mother had found clearance from the carpet, one of the beautiful dark legs she grabbed raised. As it did, the sole of the foot thereupon pressed against Erica’s forehead and pushed her back. The kick, if you could call it that, landing with not enough to hurt, but enough to send her back onto her ass — giving her a perfectly angled and seated view from which she could watch her daughter’s punishment.

A punishment that progressed slowly, though Anjali’s first stroke was hard. The Indian mother not wanting to rush through something so delightful. Something so perfectly humiliating for both Allison and her defeated mother. But it was not perfect, not yet. Not until Anjali had the attention of one other — one more.

“Nisha, child. Stop crying, sit up, and watch your mother break this pathetic little enemy of yours.” Called she who slowly stroked her finger in and then out of the prom-going caucasian in her lap.

One might have thought Nisha would have recovered from her loss and the face-fucking that came after. But still did she lay, sniffling and sucking in air as if she had been drowned. She still broken in the most intimate and emotional of ways. Not only by Allison, but by her mother’s focus on all else but her suffering.

And yet when that mother called, Nisha rose. Not to a stand, but into a sit, a few feet from Erica. Each of the two bent half-over. Their bodies and minds ravaged. Their ability to continue on lost. Leaving each only to watch Anjali as she worked Allison’s already orgasm-wet pussy. One which constricted and tightened around the dark fingers that drove into it.

A seeking for depth and driving that occured again and again, as Allison began to l0se herself in the moment and the passion of Anjali’s strength and control.

She finding herself focused not on the battles that had occured or her anger at the woman who hurt her mother, but instead only on the fingers within her and the pleasure they brought.

She moaning and whimpering once again. Not out of fear or pain any longer, but instead the ferocious hunger she felt for more.

More of what Anjali offered. More sensuality. More pleasure, even though it made her mother cry. Even though it made her mother weep from the cruelest of humiliations. Though perhaps not “cruelest” yet. Not until it suddenly stopped.

“NoOoo, what…? Keep-keep going.” Begged Allison in a flash, as her eyes shot open with panic.

“Mmmmnnn, beg me….” Anjali answered, as she looked over her young victim’s shoulder and locked eyes with her prey’s shamed and sobbing mother.

“I…. But…. Please….” Without another word, the blonde senior offered it. Her pleas. Her prayer for more of what terrified her so when it began.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk — call me mommie.” It was a dagger, a blade, driven directly into the heart of the mother who sat and watched her own daughter melt before her eyes. But surely, Allison wouldn’t. Not then or ever, Erica believed. Erica knew. Until suddenly such beliefs were shattered.

“P-p-please, mommie….” Allison, in what felt to Erica like the deepest of betrayals, offered after the passing of only a few seconds.

“Keep goi-UuUUUuuUUNNnNnNGggGGHHHHHhHhhh!” As if calling her that name — Erica’s name weren’t enough, the lust-driven soccer player continued, until in a flash, Anjali’s fingers drove into her once again. Fingers which came and went — came and went, gliding through the young blonde’s most sacred of places.

All as Anjali kept her eyes on Erica’s. The Indian mother’s gaze cruel and confident — mocking and malevolent. “Watch her, Erica. Watch her writhe for me. Watch her moa….” Anjali did not stop her taunting. Her hateful, venomous commands for Erica to watch. But somewhere between their beginning and their end, the blonde mother could hear no more.

Her world seeming to go silent, as the true weight of her defeat and her choice to come to the Patel home crashing down upon her. She feeling faint and nauseous — devastated and destroyed in the truest of senses. The humiliation of watching her daughter not only be beaten and then fingered, but to then watch her give into the pleasure and call her rival mommie was too much. Too harsh. Too soul-crushing to even tell the passage of time.

Not until Erica found herself woken from such a state by a loud and orgasm-brought cry from her daughter. A daughter who, as Erica could see when her eyes began to focus again, began to spasm in Anjali’s grasp.

Only then did Erica’s wits return to her. Only then could she hear and understand the words coming from Anjali’s mouth. Words that made her sick. Words that made the shameful fingering of her daughter, somehow, even worse.

“Now lick them clean for mommie.” Anjali asked in a soft, loving tone, as she lifted the fingers that had just been within Allison’s sopping wet pussy to the lips of the same.

“Mmmm, that’s a good girl.” As her mother praised Allison, Nisha began to break once more. Her eyes welling and her heart sinking so deep she felt as if she had lost it. Fuck Allison! FUCK HER! Nisha was so mad! So angry! Filled to the depths with hatred for her rival once again. And yet, unlike her mother. And unlike Allison. As Nisha filled with rage, all she could do was cry once again. Sobbing, almost uncontrollably, as she sat there on the carpet next to Erica, who did just the same.

But as they wept together and yet apart, suddenly were they woken from their loathing and self-pity. Not by an alarm clock or a crying rooster, but by a terrible scream. One that came from Allison, as Anjali stood up and with a handful of hair, yanked the previously ecstacy-lost prom-goer out of her lap.

“Spread your legs, Nisha!” Anjali demanded. “NOW!” She added in a shout.

“What…? I….” Nisha sputtered out. “What are you…?” She asked, as if her understanding played some role in what was happening.

“I told you to open your legs!” As she shouted in frustration, Anjali used her left foot to kick open her daughter’s thin legs, and then cruelly toss Allison down, face-first between them. The young blonde crashing down, with her lips only inches from Nisha’s still-moist sex.

“Lick her, you little slut!” Anjali demanded, every ounce of softness she had shown not moments before gone from her voice. “DO IT!”

As Anjali ordered and orchestrated, Nisha looked up to her terrified and timid. Her tears ebbing, if only from shock — only from a confusion that consumed her.

“Mother, don’t…. I….” Nisha began, not wanting — not needing whatever it was her mother had in mind.

“Shut up, Nisha! This little harlot is going to lick you, just as she would have done if you had been strong enough to beat her.” At the words, the cruel, shaming words, Nisha closed her eyes, and began to cry once more. Not softly, but wildly. Not one tear or a few, but oceans of them. All as Allison tried to push herself up off the carpet and away from Nisha’s sex.

But as soon as she did, Anjali lifted her right leg and pressed the foot thereupon down on the back of the young blonde’s head. Driving her face down and into Nisha’s pussy. “DO IT! Or I will hurt you and your mother, just as I did before. Is that what you want? Pain?!”

Allison did not answer with words, but at the thought of it, being stuck between Anjali’s thighs again, Allison began to lick. Began to serve Nisha. And when she began, and the timid young girl’s face made such beginning clear, she was given instruction.

“Grab her hair, Nisha. Keep her deep. Make her yours….” She didn’t want it, and yet still the words were a lifeline. A rope from which to pull herself from the depths of her last remaining parent’s anger. And so she did as she was told, reaching out with both hands and grabbing Allison’s golden locks. Using them to keep her close and buried in her young sex.

With Nisha and Allison dealt with, Anjali turned to face the mother of the girl she just condemned to eating her daughter’s pussy. And there she was found. Not sitting as she had been. Not weeping. But fighting her way to a wobbling and dizzy stand.

No doubt Erica meant to fight back. To take back, what she had said about “anything”. But as Anjali turned, Erica stumbled and fell forward weakly. Her face colliding against the flesh between the Indian woman’s breasts.

“And where do you think you’re going, hmmm….?” Anjali asked as she grabbed two handfuls of Erica’s hair. “I have more for you to watch you stupid white cunt.” As she spoke it, the reality in which the weakened and defeated mother was still trapped. The speaker lifted and then rounded, slipping behind Erica, before dragging her back down to the floor of the living room.

Leaving them one behind the other, with legs spread wide, one pair laying outside the other, only a foot away from their daughters.

The view alone was torture in the most intimate of ways, but Anjali soon made it worse. Doing so by lifting and wrapping her sexy, toned legs around Erica’s, from behind.

And as one pair of legs seized tight around another, so too did the Indian mother’s left forearm wrap around throat. It, like the snake that once offered an apple to Eve, slithering beneath the blonde’s chin and across her chest.

That grapple not a chokehold, but instead a taking meant to keep one rival from escaping another. The umber-hued beauty wanting Erica to see it, smell it, and hear her emotionally traumatized daughter pleasing Nisha.

“Such a good little girl, isn’t she? Doing as she’s told….” Anjali whispered as her lips pressed to the blonde’s ear.

“Licking my daughter’s pussy, just as you licked mine.” As Anjali taunted, in a low, hushed whisper, Erica writhed weakly, wanting freedom, but having no strength left to take it.

“Mmnnn mnnn, don’t fight it, dear. This is what you earned by coming into my house and challenging me….” Every word spoke was both bite and venom — waylay and wound, and despite her hate — despite her frustration, all Erica could do was listen. Listen, and against her most sacred of wills, watch.

Watch her daughter lay on the carpeted floor, between her prom-rival’s legs, licking as she whimpered. Pleasing as she cried.

And as she did, giving into that new punishment, Nisha began to awaken once more. Her hands grasping tighter on Allison’s beautiful blonde hair and tugging. The Indian daughter’s lips opening to set loose moans at first, but then, as the thrill of dominance, earned or not, filled her soul, taunts.

“Aahhhh, yuuussss. You stupid white girl….” She began, her voice as soft velvet and as quiet as a mouse. “Give me what I gave to you….” Weak though such words were, compared to those of her mother, they were what Nisha could muster, at least at that moment.

“Is that how how you speak to a girl you hate, Nisha?! Is she your girlfriend now?!” Anjali came after her wide-legged daughter, wanting to teach her how to be strong. Wanting to teach her how to be dominant.

“So-sorry. I…” Nisha began, as a shame-brought tremble took her.

“Don’t apologize, MOCK HER! Break her spirit!” No love. No empathy. Only demand. Only instruction came from Anjali, as she kept herself wrapped around Erica.

“D-do it faster, bitch!” Nisha suddenly shouted, as she gave a hard yank at Allison’s hair. Dragging her deep into soaking wet pussy lips. “NOW! Yo-you breastless snatch-licker!” Finally it came, the words of hate that her mother wanted, and when they did, Anjali’s focus returned.

Returned to the mother she held at bay. “There, see…. I’m glad you could see that, Erica. How to parent….” The dark-hued mother began, as her free right hand moved down Erica’s body, the fingers thereupon dragging gently down her sides, stomach, and then between her thighs. Thighs which were then pried wide, at the insistence of Anjali’s tightening grapevine.

“Let…. Us…. Go….” Erica demanded as her right hand moved to her victorious rival’s and grabbed. The blonde trying to stop it from completing its journey south.

“This wasn’t what we….” Began the caucasian mother, before she stopped, realizing their agreement had been unspoken. Their mutual desire to use each other and their battle to get off, after what felt like decades of loneliness, put not in words.

“What we agreed to? Is that what you were going to say…?” Anjali responded and queried, as her hand pulled past Erica’s weak resistance. The fingers on it finding their way between the still-moist folds of the sitting and spread-legged blonde.

“Well you changed all that when you tried to fuck me…. When you tried mount me in my own home…. After we had both gotten what we wanted….” Despite the obviousness of the cause, somehow, the thought hadn’t crystalized in Erica’s mind until that moment.

“Wha…?” And though she began to understand, she still asked in a mutter.

“You knew what this was about, and yet you tried to take more. Well now I’m taking more. I’m taking your EVERYTHING.” At the final word of EVERYTHING, Anjali drive her fingers deep into Erica’s carnal canal.

At the entering, Erica moaned out, her voice echoing through the lamp-lit home. Then a moment later, Nisha did the same. She giving off a deep, animalistic sound of pleasure as Allison continued to please her. To worship her sex, even as she sobbed.

“I’m taking HER everything….” As terrible as the last few lines were, when Anjali added Allison to the promise — to the explanation, Erica melted. She beginning to whimper and cry, even as her tormentor began to stroke her fingers in and out of her sex, once and then again.

Each pair of rivals then finding a rhythm and a pace. Nisha keeping Allison compliant and licking as Anjali continued to finger as her broken enemy mother watched.

In that state of perfected punishment the two families persisted and lingered. With Allison suffering the shame of defeat and subservience to her rival. Just as her mother, even through her despair and guilt, began to feel it.

Pleasure.

An unwanted. Unwelcome pleasure that made her nauseous even to contemplate, let alone feel. After all she had said. After all she had done and was doing, still, did Anjali’s fingers bring Erica excitement and ecstasy.

She hated.

Hated her.

And yet.

“OOOOooOOoo goooOOooOoOOd, mMmMmmnNNnNnNnnn.” It came upon her in waves and then in floods. Desire, passion, and worst of all a want — a NEED for more. A need to release once again.

An urgency and sexual demand for satisfaction that Anjali nurtured and coaxed. She going slow and then fast. Deep and then shallow. Working Erica’s clit and then the wet walkway to her womb in alternating intervals, that drove the shattered mother wild.

Until finally, when Erica was at the very precipice of orgasm — and the cliff-face of climax, Anjali withdrew her fingers without word. And when she did, Erica panicked.

“No, no … please…. More…. Finish me….” The blonde begged, she having given fully into not only her own punishment, but by the blinding light of erotic bliss forgetting about her daughter’s.

“Kiss me and I will.” Came the ultimatum. One that Erica surely would reply to with never — with refusal in the most harshest of terms.

And though she should have given such a reply, within a second or perhaps two, she complied. Without hesitation or resistance. She leaning her head up, back, and as Anjali leaned down, kissed the woman who was torturing her. Their lips locking and tongues swirling together in a maelstrom of saliva and maddening desire.

As that kiss continued, and as Erica moaned into it, Nisha began to whimper, then to moan, and then, at the end of escalation screamed out loudly in a desperate and incredible climax.

She, just as Allison had before, thrusting her hips and pubic mound forward, even as she sat. Slamming it into Allison’s swollen face hard, as the dark-skinned prom-goer rode her rival’s face not to but through her orgasm. Bucking wildly. Awkwardly. And on youthful instinct alone.

And as that scream carried, and as Anjali continued her soul-draining kiss with Erica, the same began to reach it.

Her own high.

Her own mountain top.

The intoxicating mix of hearing her daughter’s rival scream and feeling, in the most intimate of ways, the taboo nature of kissing a woman who was forcing such cruelty upon their family driving her to the edge and past it. Anjali’s mix of sensuality and punishment shoving the blonde mother off the edge on which she had lingered for oh so long. A fall from precipice that caused Erica to seize and scream, as she reached, with both hands, for Anjali’s arm. To take it. To squeeze it. And to hold on to the woman that at that moment owned her.

Try though Erica did, to pull away from their kiss, Anjali kept her. Their lips remaining sealed, and tongues remaining coiled, even as Erica came.

Even as her toes curled and body shook.

The orgasm intensified, and, in fact, made incredible beyond words by Erica’s unrepentant desire and logic-defying demand for Anjali’s sexual attention, shameful though it was.

And though that release of demons and expulsion of humiliation-built need made her climax both last long and linger hotly, eventually did it pass.

Erica coming down from her bliss, not moments after Nisha did the same. Each with their eyes closed, and bodies quivering. Their minds, losing track of where they were or how they had reached that highest of highs, until Anjali suddenly moved.

The Indian mother shoving Erica forward to the now essence-stained carpet, before standing.

Standing and grabbing. She taking Erica by the hair and dragging her to her feet.

Once there, as she wobbled and threatened to collapse, Erica asked in-part and weakly — in a voice drained of all strength and resistance. “What are you…?”

And as that question came and went unanswered, Anjali walked and then kicked. Shoving, with a foot on Allison’s bare hip, the young blonde over and onto her back, just as Nisha drug herself back and away.

Then, with her own daughter clear, Anjali, with force, tossed Erica down face-first between Allison’s thin, alabaster legs. That toss and resulting landing of tear-and-mascara-stained cheek against wet lower lips coming, just as she who caused it spoke, “now….”

  

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