Those fingers rivals move to each other’s pussies do not always claw, though they could. Do not always drive deep with nails, seeking to dig into what pink walls they might find.
No, for sometimes they move and place as a communication. A missive of how far each woman is prepared to go. This is a war. This is our hell, until one of us crawls free of it.
Other times, the cupping of cunt is a claiming. An acceptance of terms. I am yours and you are mine, until this is finished. Until one of us is left limp.
In some battles, however, it is an agent of ebbing. Each vying vixen pressing palm to mound and fingers to lips, as a threat meant to slow. I’ll wound your womanhood, if you make me. Make this threat real, if this becomes more than a contest of wills.Recommend0 recommendationsPublished in