The well-aged house, one that sat at the very center of one of New York’s most prestigious and desired neighborhoods, was pristine, beautiful, and decorated in every way that a home could be decorated for the joyous December season. It was, in its lights and displays — pomp and circumstance, an absolute testament to how much planning and thought had been devoted to this day — to Christmas Day in the Budreau household.
Despite that attention to even the most minute of details and exiguous of minutia, the list of those things mother Budreau forgot to buy for this year’s legendary Christmas dinner, was … well … legendary.
Each item shouted in panic by mama, as around her rushed cousins and uncles — nephews and nieces. Each of them coming up with their own plan for the best way to get all that was needed. They, in a cacophony of unquestioned certainty and unchecked dismissiveness, squabbled in the pettiest of ways, about who should go and where — whose car should be taken, and whose black Master Card used.
To an outsider, the madness and manic of the conversation would have seemed like the summation of every terrible family event they had ever lived in real life, seen on TV, or watched on the big screen. A veritable swirl of words and wagers — offers and counters, that only ended when each and all of the spoiled and starving family Budreau ran out from their beautiful family home. The mass of them splitting up and heading to their own cars on exit. Each intending to get the brand they preferred, in the amounts they estimated, from the store they swore by, at a price they found appropriately expensive and unattainable by most. No compromise allowed. No compromise even considered.
In their exodus and haste, only two persons were left in their gleaming and glimmering home. Two women who had never met in person, or communicated in anything other than projected silence from the other side of other’s phone calls and family group texts. Two women who were known by all to dislike each other, though dislike is far too soft a word and caring a conjuration of language.
No, a better term would be hated. LOATHED. Each bristling at the very thought of being in the same house as the other, even amongst so many. And yet, at that moment, as every other soul poured out into the cold New York day to find what was forgotten, there they sat. In luxurious armchairs, painfully aimed to face one another. That positioning was only tolerable because each had been surrounded by family, with their views of one another not just obscured but blocked in its entirety.
But as moments passed painfully, in a silence only filled with the crackling of the nearby gold-gated fire in place, Victoria and Armanda sat. Each of the two thick, busty girls acutely focused on the presence of the other, even though they each pretended not to be.
Their eyes averted, and yet still affixed.
Their heeled feet extended and crossed over their own ankle, only inches from the other’s pair. Both the brunette wife of the eldest Budreau son and the raven-haired sister of the same, claiming the space between them, without engaging. Without touching. The frost-hearted sister-in-laws hoping, that just by refusing to withdraw their own powerful and skirt-exposed legs, the other would be forced to do just that. Neither willing to give the other even the slightest victory, even in a contest as petty and imagined as who controlled the space between their chairs, in a living room neither owned.
Well … neither owned, yet. That distinction being at the very heart of the two women’s feud. For though both mama and papa Budreau lived, they were both old. Both failing. Evidenced by all that had been forgotten by mama for that Christmas day’s dinner. A year prior, there was no controversy as to who would own. Not the house. Not the cars. Not the jewelry. Not the money, in its deep, deep reserves.
For all of it — every line in the ledger, would have gone to Victoria. For though she was only the second born, the first, Amil Budreau, had fallen. To drugs. To gambling. Into the gutter. And by the wayside.
That is until she found him. Until Armanda laid her hands on the lost Budreau and healed the addictions that plagued him. Not with magic or religion — medicine or machination, but with the brutally effective whip and yoke of sexual prowess. A tool she wielded well. Her impressive, and drool-worthy breasts dragging Amil back to his feet. And her round and powerful lower-half keeping him in line and on track. Back to work. Back to the family. And most importantly, back into the will. Not just as a bit player, but as one receiving one of two halves. One going to Victoria, and the other to Amil, or in reality, Armanda, as Victoria suspected.
Suspicions though they were at first and technically, Victoria was right. Armanda was in control. Full, unabated control of Amil. And though she did love him, and did plan on staying with him, even when his kindly old parents died, she would be taking charge of the money but of the family business. At least, the 50% she and her husband owned. The other half, being the inheritance of Victoria.
Facts, in line and together that slowly tugged at Victoria’s soul. Pushing and pulling the black-haired Budreau’s gaze to move from the stunning 15 foot Christmas tree to the red velvet couch, then to rows of Encyclopedias lining the shelves of a master-carved Chestmont oak bookshelf, and then finally, to the arm of Armanda’s chair. It was there Victoria saw the hand of the woman who had cost her millions. A Latina woman whose outstretched fingernails flashed with Christmas-themed glory, the designs of which were laced with silver and gold paint, more expensive than most could afford — save for Victoria. Each of the two inheritors already receiving sizeable monthly stipends meant to prepare them for life at the top of the ladder.
But as infuriating as those nails and what they represented were, as Victoria’s gaze continued to move across her rival’s body, it only got worse. For apart from their separation of purpose and division of interest, Armanda’s body could not be more alike her husband’s only sister than it was. A parity of beauty and frame each had recognized and stewed over every time they had seen each other in family photos or videos. Images, both moving and still, which were posted to Facebook with such regularity, that each was convinced the other had shared them and taken them, just to drive they, in particular, insane.
Such was the intensity of their similarity. Each sharing the same curves. Same straights. Same everything(!), save for their hair, eyes, and skin tones. Victoria’s locks laid across her shoulders night sky black, whereas Armanda’s did the same, but in a light, almost golden brown, that turned brighter and blonder at its tips approached. And where Victoria’s eyes were a beautiful crystal sapphire blue, Armanda’s were a rich, chocolate-coffee brown.
It was those disparate eyes that met without intention, as each let their eyes drift too far and too close to one another. Armanda’s drawn by her keen understanding of not only what Victoria believed her to be, but what the woman behind those beliefs had hoped for Amil’s future. That he would have stayed in his gutter, drowning himself in liquor and sorrow, and draining what little humanity he had left when his Latina savior found him.
What kind of sister would want such a terrible thing, Armanda thought to herself as she and her sister-in-law’s glares met and sparked in the air between them.
What kind of woman only marries a man for his money and then takes it from him when his parents die? Victoria festered over the quandary in a rage, as her narrowed eyes bored holes in the brunette interloper across from her.
The moment could not have been more intense, nor their locked glowers any more hot or hate-filled. And yet into that moment, the two women sunk. Finally free to be as they felt. Not needing to hide their resentment or contrary intentions. They were alone together for the first time, and finally, they could bathe in it. Their hatred. Their disgust. Their need to … to … neither could speak it or give it definition, but as that need grew, Victoria finally spoke. “I don’t think you’ve had the decency to introduce yourself to me, have you?”
Before responding, Armanda chuckled to herself, both irritated and entertained by the comment.
“Decency? To introduce myself? To YOU?” As Armanda spoke, her head tilted to the right, her eyes conveying how ready she was to speak her truth. “To the sister who wanted my husband to die? Who only cares about fucking money…?”
Armanda was not done, and yet Victoria was once again ready to speak, and as a result, the black-haired heir rudely interrupted the lecturing brunette. “I’m the one who only cares about money? Oh. My. God! Fuck you! You’re the one, who….”
Victoria did not pause, nor Armanda let her continue speaking, for, in a flash of their white-hot hatred being released upon each other, they each began to yell from their armchairs. Louder and louder, their words intermingling and crossing over until neither could hear the other speak or even the words they spoke themselves.
Each of the two hate-filled women leaning forward in their chairs and closer to one another. Their faces contorted with rage as they screamed at one another. Each revealing to the other in their blistering tirade, years of unspoken animosity and unsalved wounds. Until finally, the two soon to be matriarchs of the family could take not a second more. An inability which pushed them to launch from their chairs and towards each other, each bringing themselves to a stop with their ample and heaving chests only inches apart.
Yet even at that reduced, and in someways imaginary distance, each felt compelled to pull closer — push nearer. And though for a moment they resisted that urge, as their heads shifted from one side to the other, their hands raising and whipping in dramatic and threatening gestures. But then it happened. Then they heard it, as their yelling began to lessen, and their spewing of words started to slow.
“I will make your life a living hell in this family, cunt,” Victoria promised, her eyes as hard and hateful as a woman’s can be.
“The only hell I can imagine, bitch … would be if you had gotten what you wanted. Your brother dead, and out of your way….” Acidic though it was, the comment expressed exactly what Armanda believed — what she felt to her very core.
That sincerity, however, did little to lessen its effect on Victoria — whose eyes expanded from narrow to wide, just before….
“FUCK YOU, LIAR!!!” They were words, but the raven-haired daughter of the most well-to-do family on the block almost spat them — as if every syllable were launched from a swirling pool of wrath in the pit of her stomach. But the words did not come alone, for as they flew from lip to ear, Victoria attacked. Reaching with both hands, as she lunged, for Armanda’s bright brown hair.
And though Armanda wanted it. Craved it. The confrontation and engagement that was finally taking shape between she and her chief rival, the Latina did not grab back. Restraining herself, even as Victoria forced her backward and into a small gap between the Christmas Tree and fireplace. Even as her husband’s sister pressed her into that space, chest-to-chest, their faces only centimeters apart. Instead, Armanda just glared in silence. Even as her breasts and Victoria’s met and molded together through their tops.
“Take it fucking back….” Victoria demanded, her eyes hyper-focused on Armanda’s every expression and movement, intentional or not. Only offering the chance at peace, because Armanda had yet to react or retaliate.
Wanting to drag the response out of her, the daughter Budreau tugged at Armanda’s hair with those grips purchased by fingers deeply laced and twisted in her rival’s silk-shimmer hair. Tugs which bent the caramel-skinned woman’s head back and to the side painfully, her lips almost losing their sneer as she tried bravely to endure the pain.
“Bitch! Take. It. BACK!” Victoria demanded again, as she pressed her body into Armanda’s. Pinning her there, in that smallest of spaces, wanting to impress upon the interloper both literally and figuratively dominance. Control. Victoria hoping that if what she had seen so far was the depth of the Latina’s reserve, she might be controlled. Controlled not just in that moment, but going forward. In life, business, and all matters in which they would have otherwise tangled.
As that hope brewed, Armanda just remained, with her hands at her sides — saying nothing — doing nothing apart from existing there between the wall and her sister-in-law. Their thick, curvy bodies locked together, and their eyes fused as if they could look nowhere else. But just as it seemed as if the two women would be stuck there together for eternity, Victoria felt a deep gouging pain in both of her blush-reddened cheeks. A pain brought upon by Armanda’s Christmas decorated nails dug in, which the Latina had finally raised and used to retaliate. Using them to not only stab in but then drag down. Amil’s wife using her sharp digit-tips to cause thin, red lines to form on her raven-haired rival’s face, and a shrill, echoing, howl of pain to rip through her lips.
Enough, such an attack wasn’t, however, for just as Victoria’s expression of confidence melted away, Armanda spit. Not figuratively, but literally, as the Latina’s saliva landed in one of the freshly created wounds on the side of her rival’s face, just as that face turned away in anguish. Fingers releasing. Hands withdrawing, and a press of bodies ending, as the daughter Budreau tried to find the room to recover, but beforehand suffer.
But as she made that attempt, the heiress quickly found herself beset, as Armanda grabbed, and secured two handfuls of Victoria’s top. A grip Amil’s wife then used to try and drag Victoria back to her. And though the pull was strong, Victoria resisted, both on purpose and in effect, as she collapsed to her knees on the carpeted floor, clutching her cheeks. A sudden giving that caused her shirt to yank up and out of her skirt, and then in half, over her shoulders.
Being both resourceful and vengeful, Armanda decided to use the unexpected partial disrobing to her advantage, clutching and wrapping the top with her right hand around Victoria’s face, just as the arms of the same pulled free. There, over her rival’s eyes and mouth, the Latina kept it, as she bent her own body over her foe, and with her left hand tore down her sister-in-law’s bra.
“You trying to dominate me…?” Armanda asked as she reached for Victoria’s now exposed left breast, though she already knew the answer. “Huh, Vik-tooooooria…?” The angry wife added in taunt, as she dug her nails in deep once again — this time into much softer, more vulnerable skin.
Without even a second’s delay, the attack caused Victoria to scream out in pain. Her hands reaching not to her rival, but her own sweetheart top, which in its blinding placement, kept her from launching her own offense, or attempting escape. On it, she pulled desperately, even as her rival continued to claw at her breast.
“Owe, bitch! OOOWWWEEEE!” Victoria yelped and whined through the tightly pulled fabric of her top, as Armanda continued her vicious attack. And though she might have clung to her rival’s shirt, and its blinding and binding effects longer, the angry wife was focused. Focused not on that game of tug-of-war, but on destroying Victoria’s agonizingly similar tits. Such destruction satisfied multiple goals. Punishing the black-haired bitch for all the wrong she had done to both Armanda and Amil. Impressing upon her rival in both family and soon business that of the two of them it would be she who clawed, who controlled. Then finally, to give some distance between their bodies and breasts, and to provide some end to the comparisons they had each obsessed over.
Sensing each of those ends were near at hand, Armanda dropped to her knees, just as Victoria found success is ripping her top off and away from her face. Once there, and as she pressed her own, still-clothed bosom and body into the back of her husband’s topless sister, the Latina hellcat reached around to apply her second, now free set of claws to her rival’s right breast. It took only a crackle or two of the nearby fire for Armanda to take her target. And then, as she had with Victoria’s left breast, the enraged wife dug her nails deep, only to drag them down savagely a moment later.
As Victoria screamed in horror, and as small trickles of blood began to drip down her poor, wounded left breast, she panicked, and in desperation, slammed her head back. The rear of her skull slamming hard into her Latina tormentor’s forehead, a blow that not only forced her to retract her hands but also to collapse back onto the carpeted floor, just beneath the warm crackle of the fireplace.
At that moment Victoria could have run. Could have fled the battle, and the crazy woman who had so willingly torn at her soft, alabaster white skin. But instead driven by so many different things that she could barely understand them, let alone enumerate them. Mystery though they were, they still compelled. Still drug her, as if it were fate, to turn and dive atop her enemy — this meddler who had pried her way into the Budreau family, with the most ill of intentions and by the vilest of machinations. But given the thickness of body and bust each of the two women shared, when Victoria landed atop her foe, she did so in a crash. The underside of the enraged sister’s round ass and powerful legs, slamming down on Armanda’s kicked-up skirt and muscle-etched thighs.
The impact of the landing hurt both of the warring women, but more so she beneath. That being Armanda, who held her head as if it were a Qianlong Vase that had been cracked in twain. And while she groaned at the sudden and unexpected slam, Victoria endured it. She reaching and then ripping her sister-in-law’s deep V top from her skirt, and then pulling it up and over the head and shoulders of the same.
“YOU FUCKING, BITCH!” The raven-haired sister screamed, as she removed the cleavage-exposing top and tossed it away. The hands of the remover only a second thereafter moving to her rival’s bra. Wanting access. Wanting to do to Armanda what had been done so cruelly to her.
Successful though Victoria was at pulling the beautifully-laced Fox and Rose bra from her enemy’s tits, that same enemy abruptly fought back. She letting her bruised face be so that she might use her hands to reach up and take back what she had owned before — the breasts of the woman atop her.
But as the hands of one reached up, the hands of the other reached down — the latter with greater speed. A speed which meant that before Armanda could take her rival’s tauntingly abundant tit-flesh into her own hands, she found that of her own already grabbed and skewered by the nails of the same.
“AAarrrrgggghhhhh!!! BITCH!” Armanda screamed in agony as her hands, which had traveled up and towards softer targets, immediately diverged to grasp at Victoria’s wrists.
“How do you fucking like it, slut? HUH!?” The daughter Budreau asked teasingly, as she twisted and drove. Using her dagger-tip sharp nails into dig into the breasts of the woman who had only moments earlier done the same.
Armanda wanted to reply. To attack. To find some escape or counter, to seize control from her rival, but instead, she did all that she could muster: pry and whimper. Her eyes welling with tears, as her own flesh began to give way to wound. A small, pool of red forming between her mountainous breasts. And though Victoria believed said river was from Armanda alone, in truth, it was from them both. Each bleeding and dripping, from the effects of the other’s hate-and-jealousy-fueled violence.
Distracted by the sight of her rival’s bleeding and teetering on the very edge of anguish, Victoria focused more on hurting than balance. And as a result, when her prying and pulling enemy kicked off her heels and planted her left foot, she found the strength to bridge to her right. An incline that shifted the weight of her raven-haired attacker just enough to cause her to topple off, and fall onto the stonework lip of the fireplace. Free from her enemy’s mount though she was, the most critical aspect of her escape was the relief her breasts felt. No more gouging. No more twisting. No more rended flesh, at least for the moment. A moment Armanda sought to elongate, by wasting not a second in rest or recovery. She instead rolling to her knees and then diving at Victoria, who had already reached the same.
But as one dove, so did the other, and in mid-air, they crashed and grappled each other — their bare, wounded chests and the wounds upon them meeting with a wet, and splash-generating splat. Hurt, though that collision did. Yelp, though they did together at the connection. Each had no time to concentrate on such pain, for their accidental embrace caused the forward momentum of both to cease, and for them to crash down to the floor. Neither landing on carpet or stone, but on top of wrapped boxes and bows. Each on their sides, with arms wrapped around each other, laying on a sea of presents placed beneath the giant Christmas tree at the center of the room.
“Let go of me, cunt!” Armanda shouted!
“YOU let go of me!” Victoria replied hotly.
And though they both demanded the other to release them, with a vigor one might mistake for truth, the thought of separating terrified them. The women’s mutual terror stemmed from the brutality they had each unleashed on the other’s body, but in two distinct and yet similar ways. Firstly, that were they to be free from one another again, would they together or separately find a way back to clawing both breast and nipple? And secondly, how much would wounds that have bled and then dried together hurt, when forcefully peeled apart.
Those fears being foremost in their minds, they each resisted, both the urge and urgings to release. Each instead clinging to the other, as if the other’s body were a life raft, and they had been lost at sea. Leaving them, at least at first, with only their eyes to fight with. The two warring women glaring at each other once again — their foreheads sealed together and faces so close they could taste the other’s breath.
In that moment of stillness, the first in what felt like ages, they did not move, save to coil their powerful legs around those of the other. Keeping them and holding them close. They in their hateful embrace laying precariously atop gifts bought and brought across the country for this most special of days. Nor did they speak, though they had until that moment said so much, each finding themselves distracted by the feeling of their nearly identical breasts pressing together between them.
In that tight press, a new fear took them, as against their preference and to their own surprise they felt it — or perhaps noticed it for the first time. Their nipples, though coated with blood and aching themselves, were rock-hard and stabbing into their rival’s breasts. That bitch! They each thought, blaming the other for their arousal. Not knowing why they should be blamed, or why such excitement had taken them. Only knowing they hated it. Hated each other…. They were certain, resolute, and still filled with hate.
While all of that transpired in their minds and bodies, they remained still, almost lost in the moment. Neither noticing that seconds had turned into nearly a minute, as they laid there together, breast-to-breast and body-to-body. As it dawned on them, the length of their cessation of violence, each searched the other’s eyes. Eyes in which the previous fire of anger and jealousy had faded. Sanity, it must have been. Rationality, an onlooker, might assume. What were they doing? What had they done? Madness it was. Temporary and fading….
But as each opened their lips to bring voice to what they felt at that moment, those same lips brushed as they moved due to the closeness of the pair. The brush was soft. Glancing. And insignificant, given how much of their bodies were already sealed, and to use a word of the day, wrapped together. And yet, to them, it was match.
It was flame.
It was ignition, all over again, and all that was needed to turn their momentarily softened gazes into glares, and those same brushing lips to twist into snarls and sneers. Expressions and sights that quickly disappeared, as the two women separated their foreheads, shifted their heads, and then after a mutual tilt on either side, bit. Their teeth catching and jaws clenching on the flesh of the other’s bare trapezius.
“UUUrrrghghghgh” Came the sister-in-laws’ mutual and muffled cries, as each clung to their bite, even as the same of the other’s set in. Efforts which left them in a see-saw of force and frailty, as their bites intensified in one moment, only to weaken the next, as they together and in unison screamed at the pain the other’s bite caused. Leaving them not as much clamping down, but chewing — but gnawing on each other’s shoulder. Each finding the taste of their rival’s copper-flavored blood and the sound of their dismay as their only rewards, in a brutal battle of attrition. In that struggle they continued for minutes on end, clinging to each other — coiling around each other, tighter and tighter. Their powerful legs tangling and wrestling for leverage and control. A battle that with every exertion kicked up their skirts and left their panty-covered womanhoods to graze. Such contact happening not once, or twice, but again and again as they struggled beneath the shimmering tree above. A meeting of mounds that on each occurrence sent a sudden wave of pleasure throughout their war-torn bodies, whether they would admit that to one another or not.
Those shamefully welcome sensations the two women began to focus on, as their jaws tired, and their bites became little more than an additional hold they clung to. Willing though they may have been to lay there together beneath the tree as they were, holding, biting, squeezing, and “grazing” (though more and more often with intention), the surface beneath them suddenly gave way. As the large box that had rested just beneath their centers caved in, causing a cascade effect of one box after another doing the same. Such serial collapse caused the two to crash down to the red & gold tree skirt beneath, though with a myriad of objects stabbing into them, though far less painfully than the nails of their rival.
As they fell, they each braced, letting loose their wrapped arms, coiled legs, and biting teeth. Their bindings gone, the two busty, broken women’s bodies fell apart. Though “fell,” does not convey the pain they each felt. For the long, red trails of torn tit-flesh they shared had been sealed by pressure. In fact, not just sealed, but glued together by the blood left on the surface of those deep chasms of claw. A reality that each had not only feared but one they felt as their gouged and damaged chests tore apart. A tearing that itself was audible, though only if the two suffering sisters-in-law had not cried out as they did. Each grasping for their once again separated, but newly re-injured breasts.
It was that mutual pain and wail that led Victoria to believe, after a moment or two of recovery, that she could crawl out from beneath the technicolor masterpiece of a tree that towered over them both. One of her two still-worn heels, the one on her right foot, falling off as she tried, as best she could to traverse the myriad of broken, crunched, and somehow unscathed boxes in her path. After she had traveled only a foot or two, however, she felt a sudden tug at her hair. A tug that came from behind, and drew not only she whose hair was pulled back but she who did the pulling forward.
“No, no, n–” Victoria said in part before Armanda’s reached her right hand beneath and around and sealed the Budreau daughter’s mouth closed. Quickly upon application of that palm, did the raven-haired heiress reach behind with her left arm, looking to strike and repel. But as that arm moved, the wife with which its owner warred grabbed it, and pinned it behind her alabaster back.
“Mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm” Protested Victoria, as Armanda continued her advance — pulling herself to and then pressing her body against her squirming rival. An application of body to back, and most importantly pinned arm, that allowed the cruel Latina to free her left hand, and reach it around her sister-in-law’s squirming body.
One might assume that Armanda would immediately inflict pain upon Victoria. Wound her. Finish her there beneath the kaleidoscope lights that lit and colored their battle of bodies and wills. But instead, Amil’s wife, as she smothered Victoria with her hand, decided instead to tease and toy, whispering playfully into her rival’s ear.
“They’re going to come home and find you passed out, bitch….” Not in a hiss, but a hush, Armanda warned, letting her lips caress Victoria’s ear. The latter trying, with her nearly useless right arm, one she laid upon, to try to pry the former’s hand away from her mouth.
“That what you wanted, slut?” The Latina tormentor continued as she extended her left leg between Victoria’s, making sure her thigh rubbed against her rival’s in transit. Bringing that same thigh up thereafter, and teasingly rubbing it against her sister-in-law’s wet panties.
“Or is THAT what you wanted…? Hmmm…?” Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck for so many reasons, Victoria thought to herself as the oxygen in her lungs ran out, and those same lungs began to burn. She had to escape — had to get away from this bitch. How DARE she accuse her of liking any of this?! She thought even as she let slip a little moan into Armanda’s palm. That moan being too loud and too drenched in sensuality to be anything else but a revelation of her own pleasure and excitement.
Not lost on Armanda was her rival’s utterance of pleasure. In fact, it caused her to smile wide, as she prepared another whisper for the ear of the woman she took such glee in torturing. One the Latina was sure would be the last thing Victoria heard before blacking out. But as she so prepared, not just her taunt, but for victory, she felt a sudden pain in her calf. Not a prick or a pinch, but what felt like a blade being stabbed into her.
What? How? Amil’s wounded wife thought. “OWE! FUCK!” She then squealed, a quarter second later, as she released her handsmother of Victoria and looked down. There finding that her rival had lifted her powerful left leg, and drove the spike of her remaining heel right into the leg being used to embarrass her.
Not wanting to leave Armanda a chance to recover or to find some way of recapturing her, Victoria rolled. The topless body of the daughter Budreau moving through gifts and over them, as she sought to get out from under the giant tree that had loomed over them both for so long. But when finally the raven-haired heiress made it to the edge of the undertree, she reached back in and under and then grabbed Armanda’s hair, intending to pull her out. And though the Latina hellcat was still wounded and still worried about the fresh attack on her muscly calf, she kicked. She fought. Not wanting to find herself pulled anywhere, let alone by Victoria. Understandable? Yes. Wise? Apparently not. For as she kicked, her feet caught. And as she resisted, she pulled. Not back on her own hair, or on something to brace her, but the lights bound tightly around the giant tree. A pulling that continued and worsened as her rival tugged, only coming to an end when that same rival yanked Armanda out from under the tree entirely.
“Get up, bitch!” Victoria demanded with a wide smirk as she kicked off her last remaining heel. A smirk that faded, as Armanda stood. Not out of fear of she, though such might be wise, but instead something else. Something that in an instant changed their battle from one that was personally destructive, into one that was quite a different beast.
For at the pulling and kicking, the 15-foot tree they had fought under began to teeter, and then totter, and then as the sapphire eyes of Victoria went wide, fell. And though it did not fall directly into the newly standing pair, it did, indeed, slam into the back of the enraged and oblivious Latina. A blow that knocked her forward and into Victoria, and then as consequence, the pair away from the tree and into the hallway of the house.
There, for a moment, in a clump of disheveled hair and reddened and bloody breasts, they laid together. What had happened? What the fuck? How are we going to…? Armanda asked herself as she raised her eyes back to the destruction that laid behind them — broken ornaments, sparking wires, shattered glass, and a massive tree laid out across the fireplace wall.
Clearly, their fight had to end, after such an occurrence. The family would be home any minute, and when they returned they would find their beautiful home a wreck, and two sister-in-laws topless and injured.
But just as that thought cross Amil’s wife’s mind, the hair of the same was pulled again. “We’re not done here, bitch!” Words laced with venom spoke by Victoria as she again began to guide Armanda cruelly by her hair — the former pulling the latter down the hall and to the rear door to the home.
“Fuck you! UGH!” And just like that, it was all forgotten. The consequences, the family, the Christmas-ravaged living room, and most importantly, where the tree lay. For once Armanda had said the words, she rose to her feet, and dove at her rival. Each of the two blood-covered women grabbing at each other. Wrestling with each other. Not just where they and their still identical chests collided, but down the hall, as each pushed and pulled. Not trying to escape or throw the other the other away from them, but instead to control and dominate the other. For at that moment, neither remembered Amil, or ma and pa Budreau. This was finally about them. Two women who very soon would be locked together in life — bound by finances and family. Neither willing to let the other be their master or even equal. Each of the adverse pair wanting — each NEEDING to subjugate the other, before their new lives as business partners and familial matriarchs began.
That truth was something they each finally understood, as they careened down the hall, grasping and straining — pressing together tighter and tighter as they began to tire and slow. A slowness which took them as slammed through the unlocked door at the back of the house, and into the backyard. It was only there, as the Christmas lights strung about the house set their now sweat-covered skin to glisten and glimmer in red, white, and green that they released each other. The two of them giving each other an exhaustion-weakened shove, one that left them 3 or 4 feet apart.
Around them, night and snow had fallen, the latter covering every surface, save for the artificially warmed stone deck they stood on, and a single pathway trudged by the boys when they went to their old treehouse earlier in the day.
Cold and dark though it was, there was nothing either of them was focused on other than the last pieces of clothing left on their rival. Black skirts and white panties being all that remained of their original outfits. Articles of clothing each eyed as they circled each other in silence. The pair stepping towards each other to give a quick tugs at the other’s skirt. A pull not meant to pull the other’s skirt off, but instead to tell them to remove it.
When first they were left alone the tension between them was palpable, yes. So much pent-up anger and animosity. No one there to stop them, or guide their words. But after all that had happened, and as they circled one another there on the back deck — their rapid and heavy breaths coming out as steam, it was intoxicating. For each was committed. Not just because they had gone too far, or because they had no choice. They wanted it. All of it. Everything. Something each made clear to the other as in near unison they each reached for their black skirts, wet panties, and slid their thumbs beneath their hip-hugging bands.
And though they were willing — wanting — they each teased. Each toyed with the other. Watching the other’s eyes as they began to push down and then stopped, wanting to see how much they wanted it. If they wanted it. What did “it” mean? They did not know or care what it sounded like when spoken, because they felt it. That need they had always felt when they saw each other, but now it was different. Now it was real. Now it made their hearts skip, and their stomachs fill with butterflies. Their faces and eyes reacting in the most embarrassing of ways with every test the other gave. Neither able to hide what their battle had done to them any longer. Neither willing to disguise what they wanted, even if they didn’t really know what that was.
It seemed like an eternity that they danced around each other, playing with each other’s hearts as they threatened to disrobe only to stop short. A minute though it was, as it ended, and each finally pushed their black skirts and moistened panties down their wide hips, powerful thighs, and sexy calves, their eyes went wide.
Not in astonishment at each other’s bodies, though they were marvelous and breathtaking, but instead because as soon as their garments left their fingers and dropped to the heard it. The air filling with a series of pops and bangs — snaps and crackles and then a loud BOOM that shook their very souls. Souls that were shaken even more as the windows of the living room they had just left blew out, and fire began licking through their now glassless frames.
“Oh god….” Victoria said in a gasp, as she began to realize what had happened. The tree. The sap. The fireplace. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She cursed under her breath as the fire grew, and the house, once immaculate and beautiful began to go up in flames.
“Shut up….” Came Armanda’s rebuke, as she grabbed Victoria’s hair, and forced her to not only turn around, but come to her — their now nude bodies pressing together fully for the first time. “You’re mine right now..” She said with a soft, testing tug. “MINE.”
For a moment Victoria just studied Armanda’s face, almost as if she had spoken in some alien language. But after a few seconds, even as the warmth of the fire that went on behind her tickled her rear, the raven-haired Budreau responded. “No, bitch…. You’re MINE!”
As if somehow they had been insulated from it. The worry. The consequence. The chance of all the bad that might follow the family home burning down, they began again. Yanking at each other’s hair in a stumble, pressing their thick bodies together like high school girls with their first boyfriend. Their foreheads sealed together and breaths shared in the closeness of their struggle.
But even as they delved once again into each other — forgetting all that might otherwise distract, they heard a sound that terrified them even more than fires. Cars. The family! In an instant, their hearts seized, and then they seized, mid-revolution. Each clinging tight to the other, truly scared of being caught, though not so much about the well-insured house.
“God, uh…. Come with me! The treehouse!” Came Victoria’s instruction, as she grabbed Armanda’s hand, seeking to lead her. And though for a moment Armanda resisted, unsure what was happening between she and her rival, as yells began to ring out from the front of the house, she relented. She, thereafter deciding to follow Victoria into the long dark of the Budreau backyard, and along the trail taken by Amil and his cousins earlier that day.
Freezing! Cold! Sludge! It was awful, that path. That shoeless walk through a wet hell, and yet they took it, together, hand-in-hand. Neither talking, save for Victoria’s words of guidance as to where the tree was, and how much farther they had to go to find it. Long though the journey seemed, eventually they did find the base of the tree and the ladder secured to it.
For a moment, though they each wanted nothing more than to be out of the cold, and off the quickly freezing ground, the two women just stared at each other. Neither sure they could truly trust the other, or that they could make the transition from the bottom of the ladder to the top without the other using it to their advantage. Worries they contemplated as each ran their fingers across the scratch marks on their chest. Scratches the other made cruelly and without mercy. But as Sapphire and chocolate-brown eyes met and metered — eyes which had already conveyed so much, they decided.
“You go first.” Victoria offered softly, as she used her hand to keep the bottom of the ladder steady with her left hand.
Armanda did not respond with words, but instead stepped forward, stopping just short of pressing her body into her sister-in-law’s. There, in that closeness, the softness that seemed to have been growing between them both flowered and bloomed. Their lips, which had so often snarled, bent into nearly imperceptible smiles, and their eyes, which had held such hatred, glistened with something entirely different. And though the warmth of that moment they each cherished, when voices again began to rise, Armanda finally spoke.
“Please … don’t leave me.” The Latina said quickly before stepping onto to the ladder and setting herself to climb, fearing all that she felt and showing it most of all. As she went up and into the family treehouse, one that had been empty for years, Victoria watched her. The smiling sister letting her eyes wander across her rival’s perfectly shaped legs, round, toned ass, and still gorgeous breasts, which bounced with every rung taken.
For a moment, when Armanda disappeared above, Victoria worried. Would the woman she just allowed to go first attack her when she attempted the same climb? Would the high ground suddenly squelch whatever it was that seemed to have happened between them? Fears which were quelled as the wife which with she had warred looked down from up above and beckoned. “Come on!”
With that invitation, Victoria did climb, quickly. The once resentful sister chasing after her rival, with a heart beating so fast it was all she could hear, even with the sound of her family home burning in the distance.
That excitement ran headlong into a sudden and unexpected realization. That being that though the treehouse itself had been spacious and grand when she was nine, for two adult women, it was decidedly less so. So small was it, in fact, that the pair was forced to sit as they entered, with no room to stand or wander.
Despite the size of their surroundings, however, they were out of the cold winds, and off of the sludgy ground below. Not only that, but they were also safe, both from the fire and being found, as no one would search the treehouse — not any time soon, at least.
And yet, despite that distance and time, eventually they would each have to deal with what had happened. Would they lie? Tell the truth? How would they….? Their minds swirled as they sat in silence.
Sirens, shouts, and loud cracks audible even at their distance from it all. Those sounds began to take them both — prying them back from their focus on each other. And whereas before, whenever their focused had waned, the other pulled them back — drug them back into their bubble of combat and competition. Now, neither were able to pull the other back from the proverbial ledge — for this time they were both there together. Both of the two scratched, nude, and bloody women focusing on their separate futures and not their together present.
As they so succumbed as their eyes closed, and their wounded bodies began to quiver and shake. Each regretting all that had happened. From their first curse to their final claw. A regret that pried their eyes open, and pushed them to look to each other in question. What had they done? What do we do? They queried without words.
But when they found no answers in the other. No strength to lean on. No yank back into their battle for domination, their eyes began to drift. Not away from each other, but down. Down to the other’s breasts and stomach. Their glistening sex and powerful legs. Sights which began to warm their own bodies. Sights which filled them once again with that unique need which had always driven them to hate and obsess over each other. A feeling and a passion which lead them to look back up and into each other’s eyes — eyes in which they saw the same fire. The same desire. And as all of that began to course through them, they spoke.
“Come here….” “You’re mine….” They each challenged, not in a shout, or a whisper, but in a voice just for each other. Each reaching out for the other’s hair. Not in a hard, yanking pull, but instead in a grasp, each used to pull themselves together. Their breasts meeting, and foreheads sealing again as they pulled one another into a tight embrace. Each of the two giving the other’s hair the slightest of tugs as they studied each other.
“Fuck you….” Victoria whispered, as her quivering lips lingered only an eyelash’s width from her rival’s.
“Bitch….” Armanda replied as she pressed in even tighter, her focus at that moment spent entirely on trying to avoid giving in to the desire that coursed through her.
“Slut….” As Victoria’s spoke the words, her lips brushed against those of her brother’s wife. Not in a kiss, but instead because they had run out of space between them.
“I…. I…. Hate yo-” Armanda tried to say it — tried to speak it. But before she could finish the thought — the lie, she and the woman she considered an enemy only an hour ago, were kissing. Passionately. Wildly. Their tongues exploring each other’s mouths with wanton desire.
And yet still, Victoria pulled back, if just for a moment to reply. “I hate you mor-” Words that were again cut off as they dove back into their deep, breathless kiss.
A kiss they lost themselves in, tuning out all else for a period of time neither could estimate or even guess. Their cold bodies warming with passion and desire, as their hands gripped oh so tightly to each other’s hair. Each afraid, even after all their anger, confidence, and hatred that the other would leave them. That it was only they that felt as they did.
Only they that had been driven mad by the other since first they laid eyes on each other.
Only they who felt that despite all that had happened, and all they had felt for each other, it was what had occurred that night that they wanted. The fighting. The struggle. The red-hot passion that consumed them into forsaking all else. Their desire for control of and submission from the other all real, but not for the reasons they had assumed.
Fuck the business. Fuck the family. This was about they two alone, and their desire, shameful and taboo though it may be, to compete with one another — struggle with one another. Not just on that night, but forever. And though I tell you now that is how they felt, at that moment they cared not about that revelation but one far more important. One they found in the way the other clung to them. Held them. Tensing whenever the slightest gap might form between their pressing.
It wasn’t just them.
It plagued them both.
A realization that led them both to pull back from their kiss, and as they leaned into each other from their knees, and speak.
The words shard were so intensely personal and profoundly representative of what they both felt, that after they were said, neither knew who asked and who accepted. Who begged and who promised. But with their truths exchanged and accepted, they each took what they wanted — knowing they could have it.
A taking that came as Armanda with violence shoved Victoria back and away from her, and down to the treehouse floor.
And though one might have expected Victoria to be shocked or angry, the alabaster-skinned sister instead hissed back at her Latina rival. “Come get me, bitch.”
The response brought a grin to Armanda’s face, one that she kept on as she lunged forward and on top of Victoria.
And though she did so land, on top of her rival, in a flash that position was relinquished. Relinquished and then regained, as sister and wife coiled around each other. Their legs spreading and bare mounds meeting, as each began to bite at each other’s lips and mouths. The pairing of powerful women finding their anger, their jealousy, their adverse positions in the family to be an intoxicating brew that drove them absolutely wild.
Wild though they may have been, as their calves wrapped around and pulled forward each other’s asses, they settled. The sister-in-law lining up their shaved pubic mounds, preparing to press — to duel one another there on that treehouse floor. The pair teasing each other, by lifting that same mound, but not yet their sex — wanting to see their eyes close or roll back into their head. Their mouths open to suck in deep gasps, or hitch, and let out small breaths of excitement and longing. Play though they did, when Victoria could take no more foreplay, she thrust her hips upward and at an angle — aiming for Armanda’s, not in part but in whole.
And though on that attempt, she missed, when she came again, Armanda responded, then it happened: contact.
“Fuck….” “Oh god….” They spoke in what sounded more like breaths than words, each freezing as they took the moment, and the sensation in.
Magic though it was, and gleeful though they may have been, Armanda still demanded. “Fight me, whore.”
Victoria wanted to respond in words, in some comment fitting their fiery feud, but instead, as cold breaths turned to steam between them, she leaned her head up and bit her Latina rival’s cheek. The bite was not brutal, or skin-piercing, but it was enough. Enough to start their hips into motion, and for Armanda to gasp loudly in excitement, just before she bit down on her sister-in-law’s soft, white cheek.
With their teeth sunken into each other’s flesh once again, their hands began to wander. Not softly in a lover’s caress, but nails-first — nails deep, each leaving the slightest of scratch marks as they traveled across outer thighs and down sides — around compressed and bulging breasts. The pain of it all, from both teeth and claws, made their slow, methodical, dance of clits and wet sexs soul-rending. Life-changing.
With their need finally filled, and their obsession with each other finally understood and admitted, the two matriarchs Budreau bathed in the moment. Neither rushing. Neither hurrying to reach a conclusion. For that battle — that struggle — that war with each other, was what they wanted. And what they wanted, was glorious — each of the two women looking to make the other moan, whimper, and cry out in abject ecstasy. Not only with pleasure but a pain, they both wanted. A pain only they could give the other.
In that equality of body, drive, and purpose they began to roll together across the well-sealed and still-smooth wooden floor of the family’s old treehouse. Their bites on cheeks failing as they moved, leaving their lips to slowly travel in a trail of kisses from their previous teeth-imprinted softness, to the other’s mouth. Mouths which kissed softly for a moment, before tongues met and fought for space and control — always for control.
When that wasn’t enough, and their desperate need for struggle drove them further, they each bit — locking their jaws together in a hard, pressing chomp. A meeting of molars and more that occurred just as they ended their rolling and almost in a ball, they sat up. Their legs crossed at the inner thigh, one leg below and one above on either side. Their matching and mashed breasts pressing and shoving back and forth, each of the two contrary women seeking to dominate and deform the other’s tits in whatever way they could. But most important was the fact that their soaking sexs were locked together in battle, each using their wrapped, and flexing legs to pull their’s forward and into their rival’s.
In that state, as their fingers once again laced through each other’s hair, the two warring women’s mouths moaned, even into their mutual bites, which remained seized and secured to that of the other. The pair’s thighs quivering, and calves burning as they fucked each other, hoping the other would release not just first, but upon their dominant sex. And though slow they did take it at first, and for as long as they could, their passion took them by the hand and drug them to both speed and mania — fervor and failure.
Failure in the form of orgasms building within them, not just in the depth of their loins but in the furthest reaches of their minds, as the excitement of all that had and was occurring, took them. Stole them. Ravaged them, until they could cling to their bites no more. Until they released, and fell back, only remaining in their makeshift ball of limbs and lust by the other’s desperate cling. A cling they kept until finally, as certain defeat filled Armanda’s thoughts and lungs — heart and soul, she heard it. Felt it. Victoria scream and quake — shake and shiver, as she, the raven-haired heiress fell from their embrace. The sight of it, feel of it, hell even the thought of it, shoved Amil’s wife not only over the edge but across the ravine of ecstasy. The two women — two rivals cuming there on the floor to the tree house. The bare and broken sisters-in-law, in their sexual ruin, collapsing to their backs, as their soaked kittens fed one another their precious juices.
Moments passed with neither speaking — neither moving. Their only connection, save for the one between their drenched thighs, being Victoria’s right hand and Armanda’s left, which during their owner’s orgasms reached for each other and caught hold.
True that it was that neither could see it, in the still convulsing pairs’ eyes welled tears. For so many reasons, some joyous and some not, but somewhere in that maelstrom there was fear.
Had their fever been broken? With orgasm, had they reached their end? Both asked themselves in silence. Both wondered, though even the pondering felt like a dagger driving through their hearts. As with their free hands, they held their matted hair back and cried and sniffled. Not wanting to separate or speak, hoping that somehow, if they didn’t, the moment they had lived together on that Christmas night would last forever.
But finally, as the yard below finally grew silent, and when Victoria felt she could not take another second without knowing, she asked, “Does this….” She said as she choked back tears.” Does this mean you run the business…?” Asking only of the consequence of her defeat, and not what she really cared about — what it meant for THEM.
“Not me….” Armanda responded, in words neither would ever forget. “WE….”