With Each Clinch

At first they boxed. Throwing punches at one another with precision and then wildly. Some blocked and others not. Each trying, as best they could, to mimic the motions their trainers had taught them. Bobbing and weaving — ducking and dodging.

But with each clinch, their desire grew.

They, in those exhaustion-drenched leanings of topless body against topless body, finding their focus shift.

Not away from battle, but to a different form of it.

They two golden-haired warriors growing to want not a victory of fists but of breasts.

One pair against another until one of those pairs gave in.

Until their owner cried out in a whimper. “Stop. You win. Let me go….”

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