Not Mercy

She isn’t unconscious, though she lingers at the edge of such defeat.

She hasn’t fallen asleep beneath your glorious breasts, but she is so very close to that oblivion.

And though she clings to that state of waking, it is only by your allowance. You pulling your magnificent tits up from her mouth and nose just long enough for her to take in a weakness-shortened breath.

Air she takes on instinct alone — her focus on your battle and fire to remain having faded from her mind so very long ago.

But it is not mercy that compels you to allow her to breathe. No, it is cruelty and hatred. You seeking to punish your small-breasted rival for ever thinking she could compete against you. For ever daring to question why you are her better.

DT Wrestling

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