Alana Quill vs. Jennifer “The Better Woman”: Catfight at the Party

Alana Quill vs. Jennifer “The Better Woman” from FCF

Preamble by Jennifer “The Better Woman”

I only had the privilege of writing with Alana this once, though we planned and setup a titfight sequel to this story. A sad note, given how much I loved writing with her and how alike our styles are (something I’ve been told many times).

But setting those laments aside, I think this is one of the sexiest catfight chat-logs I’ve ever been a part of — though there isn’t any overt sensuality in it. I hope you agree, and that you enjoy reading it, as much as I did writing it at Alana’s side.

Jennifer “The Better Woman”:

I just met Lauren, and yet at her invitation I came. To a little gathering of friends, as she sold it to me. Though it looks an awful lot like the parties I used to attend in high school and in college. And just like at those celebrations of youth and taboo, I awkwardly move between waves in a sea of people I don’t know. Each holding a solo cup of their own, filled with one hastily crafted mixed drink or another. Drinks I try to avoid as I use my affecting smile and bubbly, cute personality to sell myself to everyone I meet.

Confident that I can make anyone I meet love me. Not in some scheme or narcissistic drive, but because I’m palpably sweet, painfully adorable, and possessing of  a sexual confidence that entices, but doesn’t threaten or push away. A confidence placed in the frame of a long sleeve black dress that climbs just high enough up my thighs to let everyone wonder and want. My black, wedge heels coming down on the hardwood floor of Lauren’s home with a sound more like a ‘clock’ than a ‘click’. Sounds which are indecipherable under the deafening music and cacophony of talking that saturate the 2-story house. 

And though those noises cannot find me, somehow, you do. Not everytime I speak to a person, but whenever I dare speak to a person of the opposite sex. My red-sticked lips barely having opened before you appear and interrupt me. Doing your best to pull the attention of whatever guy I find away from me and towards you. Not once or twice, but as of my current count 7 times in a row. SEVEN! 

A number that pushes me, the sweet, sensible, forgiving Jenn, to fume. Fume and plan. Not to come at you in front of that lucky number seven, but to move onto an eighth. A hunky, tall, good looking man, just at the edge of the living room, and at the very bottom of the stairs that lead to the upper floor. There, and with his back turned to you, I angle myself so that you can see me. 

Then, I open my lips, and pretend like I am speaking to him. Faking a giggle and then a flattered smile, as out of the corner of my eyes I watch you break away from that previous target of mine and then as consequence yours, and towards me. Your eyes almost panicked, as you try to close the distance between yourself and the distracted and oblivious man I pretend to talk to. 

A man, who turns and takes a step just as you arrive. Allowing me the space to reach out, grab your hand, and with a force just short of violence, pull you up the stairs with me. Dragging you down the hall, and then into Lauren’s master bedroom. The heavy wooden door to that room I shut and then lock, after I release you and you stagger forward.
“Alright, Pippi Longstocking, what is your problem…?” I demand to know, my fists clenched and eyes narrowed in a glare.

Alana Quill:

If there was a singular word to effectively describe the feeling I was experiencing from the moment I set foot in Lauren’s house it was clearly: boredom. In college places like this had been my hunting ground for far more entertaining things. Sorority parties and other larger get togethers. Maybe in another life I was a serial killer and it had just been a natural carry over to do the same sort of stalking. The difference was that my prey now was an enticing fight. Someone who clearly had a presence. The body, the necessary drive, and of course the ability to have a violent response. 

Categorically Lauren’s female friends were a bit sad. I’d started with a top heavy blonde and easily snatched her boyfriend. When she had reacted with a pissed off huff I dropped him in search of other prey. Some were too drunk to fight. Some lacked the body or obvious ability. Another blonde was all that until I tried to move us somewhere to get into it. She folded like a lawn chair under pressure. 

In annoyance I decided that perhaps getting drunk was the only thing that this night could be used for. While I was trying to secure my first drink I finally found something of note. Brunette, appropriate curves, easy socially, and apparently on the prowl herself. Leaving the guy I’d absently attracted while hunting for alcohol I moved off to rattle her cage. After the first boy I was mildly disappointed in the reaction but I finally decided that you weren’t drinking and at least I could push your buttons. 

After seven guy’s attention fell upon me; you finally moved off to an eighth. Your patience was certainly incredible but I got the sense I might be finally making progress. As I crossed the distance at the last possible moment I realized that you’d laid some sort of trap as the guy you’d walked over to abruptly walked away. 

Check. But not mate yet. 

With a firm my wrist I was abruptly led upstairs. Pulling the back hem of my rather short back dress down to avoid a show for those below I found myself in Lauren’s bedroom with you going off. It was all I could do to keep the gleeful smile off my face at the irritation in yours. And then the name calling. 

“Do I have pigtails that I missed? As for what my problem is. I don’t have one but you seem to that’s for sure. What is it? Mad because you can’t keep a guy’s attention?” Flicking my waterfall of blonde hair over my shoulder I level an obnoxious smirk at you. “Too bad you don’t seem to be able to do anything about it. You’re what. 0 and 7 tonight? That’s gotta sting. But then again if you don’t have any kind of spine then they’ll always appreciate a superior female.” There is absolutely no mercy in my verbal jabbing. All I need is the right button to push and hold down until it makes you snap. Maybe Lauren’s party isn’t so bad after all.


I’m not easy to anger, I’m sweet. 

Not cruel and vicious, but kind and caring. 

Not willing to throw bows and blows at the first moment of irritation, but instead someone who turns their cheek and walks away. 

And so I did, again and again. Letting you have whatever is that you wanted from this party and the men stumbling around it. 

But now that I glare at you across Lauren’s bedroom, I’m ready to be all those things I have never been to. To fight you. Hurt you. And punish you for everything that transpired downstairs and everything you just said. 

“Oh, fuck you, Pip….” I begin as I step towards you, my eyes narrowed in menace. “I wasn’t going to sit there and have a batted eyelashes duel with some half-drunk slut in front of an entire party. Those guys weren’t worth it, ESPECIALLY if they were interested in you….” With every word that I growl more than speak, I get closer, and then when finally I am within reach, I extend my left arm, and shove you. Back and towards the wall behind you, my feet still carrying me towards you, as if our roles of predator and prey have switched.


I can see the look in your eye at my words. The processing that happens behind those lovely eyes and then it boils to the top as you make sense of it all. It makes me thrilled for a moment and then my survival instincts kick in as you cross the distance between us. “Half drunk- ah!” You shove me towards the wall and my back smacks into it. “Oh is that how you want to play this.” I can see your steps carrying you towards me like I’ve finally brought at the cat in you. Curling my lip and pressing my back to wall I shrink down a little bit as though I might actually be unsure about this now that you shoved me against the wall. 

As soon as you’re in range of right arm I lash out with an open handed slap taking a step with my right foot and driving my body weight behind it trying to Crack you across the face hard. “I’ll let you know the reason they were interested in me is because I’m better than you. That simple. As for drunk, why don’t you come find out just how drunk I am. I’m happy to show you the real reason men like me better.” I could care less about the guys. I’ve been stalking you all night. Hopefully you don’t crumble. There is no way Lauren only has one hot and feisty friend.

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You stumble back, and then collide against the wall with more of a gentle thud than a crash. But ever as you make that unstable trip and unwanted landing, I can see that you aren’t afraid or even angry. You’re excited. Expectant. And ready for this. What I believed to be an impromptu blowing of my top and losing of my cool. 

Before I can process that unexpected reaction, however, you haul back and then unload a harsh, stinging slap that splashes against my cheek in an echoing collision of flesh against flesh. 

At the impact of it — the pain of it. My head turns, and then remains at the angle. My eyes closed and left hand pressing to my flush and maybe even welted cheek. “You…. Fucking…. Bitch….” I growl once more, low and under my breath. Trying to take stock of everything that has happened and is happening now. 

You wanted this. To make me mad. To make me confront you. And now for this a fight. A catfight. And though I am normally soft and sensual — gentle and giving, I want the same thing. And so as my head turns one more to face me, and your eyes bore into me with a barely restrained glee, I fire back with my right hand, crashing my palm across your right cheek. Delivering a slap with no less force or volume. One that still lingers in the room as a dissipating collection of sound waves, as I step forward and into you. 

Leaving no more room for wind-ups or slaps, as I press my body and forehead against yours.


The resulting slap to the is phenomenal and I can feel my fingers tingling from it. As you stand, face turned. Its all I can do to restrain the glee. You turn back and thankfully I wasn’t biting my lip for this part because you crack me with an equally stinging slap. It burns and stings at the same time as you rush me pressing your body to me. I’m not thrilled that I’m pinned against the wall already but it could be way worse at this point. I feel your chest mash against mine. My dress has already sort of been protesting this evening and I’m sure its not happy with this. As you push your forehead to mine I bare my teeth at you in a hissing snarl. Using the fact that my back is to the wall I lean into it as you press on me. Snaking my hand up your back I grip the end of your hair and pull it straight down. Moving my hips against yours I slide my right thigh between yours trying to force it between to take your stance away from you. Left with little direction my left hand bunches the side of your dress finding some purchase on the fabric. Breath hot against you I hiss out. “Darn right” and pull your hair a second time back and down trying to peel you off of me.


Once I was in a fight in high school, but other than: never. Not a surprise, given how willing I am to look the other way when someone bothers me, and yet still, at this moment, I have never wanted anything more. 

Your words, your actions, all leading me to want to use every ounce of energy I have to make you pay. To make you scream. To make you beg me to let you go. And so, as I press my body into yours, and then you press back. Extending your leg between my stance-distanced thighs, I reach behind you and grab two, deeply-rooted handfuls of our hair. Doing so, just as you grab for mine and yank it back, pulling me off of you. 

But as I move back, you move forward. And without the wall to stop it, I too drag your head back hard and at a sharp angle, just as you do to me. Our chin tips meeting between us, as we each seek to wrap our legs and trip. 

Try though we might, our dresses, even with your attempt at pulling bind us. And so we step out from the wall heavy and awkwardly. Until finally, I feel my heels coming loose, and when they do, knowing I will fall, I twist, looking to spin us, and throw you to the floor beneath me. Using my grip on your hair to both hurt and hurl. Wanting to take command of this battle, though I know anything could happen, as we together begin to fall.


You haul on my hair as well with the double grip and as we step from the wall it becomes clear we are absolutely going to the floor. With a quick movement I release my grip on your dress and hook it into the side of your right arm feeling you sink in the grip on my hair. Sure enough our legs tangle and we tumble. You yank on my hair but the grip on your elbow stifles anything more than a moderately painful pull. I twist at the waist and fight your attempt to land on top. Its not exactly a success as I feel my back thud to the floor and it is not aided by the fact that you land part way off my left side. The pull worked just not enough as I feel your hips across mine and your legs still tangled in mine. Winding your hair around my hand I yank. Once, twice, three times as I whip my hand through the air like I’m starting a lawn mower. At the same time, I press my knee to your thigh and shove trying to displace your hips from on top of me. Keeping my left arm tucked in close I press my face in close to you trying to give you as little room to really yank my head as possible. 

“Skank, hands off the hair!” It hurts like a stretched out burn creeping up my scalp. Never underestimate a serious hair pull. Hopefully I haven’t seal my fate by letting you get your fingers in mine so early and so firmly. 


I would be ashamed of myself, if someone told me what we were doing. Fighting like cats in our mutual friend’s bedroom without her permission or even her knowledge. And yet here we are, Hooking legs, displacing dresses, and pulling hair. All as we collapse down together — me atop you in a messy straddle. My thighs and yours coiling around each other and locking tight, neither of us wanting the other to gain even a sliver more of an advantage, even if avoiding that means we are trapping ourselves together.

Then, in the closeness our struggle has earned we growl and hiss, until those animalistic sounds become words. Telling me to let go of your hair, even as you continue to pull mine, like you’re playing tennis somewhere behind my back. “Fuck you! FUCK YOUR HAIR!” I shout as with all the strength I can muster, I bind my fingers in your locks and tug. Towards me and away from you, as to the right and then the left we make, tiny, 16th turns. Not breasts flattening against each other, and oozing into and against our pulling biceps. “I’m going to rip out every last strand, bitch! Then who’s going to want to talk to you, HUH?!” 

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The party is clearly still in full swing as no one has come to investigate the two solid bumps from the room above it. Poor Laure is never going to know if I have my say in things. Then again. Who knows at this point if it will be my say. With you pressing against me I can’t help but marvel a little at what I’ve discovered. I couldn’t possibly have guessed you had almost no prior experience. The feeling of struggling muscles and soft skin sliding against dresses that were not meant for this sort of abuse is to say the least exciting and I can hear my blood singing in my ears as we struggle for position. 

Yanking my hair left and right as we roll mashing our chests together and squeezing thighs and legs together you yell at me about no one wanting to talk to me with my hair ripped out. Hissing and spitting it turns into words “you need all the help you can get!” Planting my left hand on your face moving it from its place on your right arm I shove hard and arch my back. At the same time I jerk your hair to the right trying to roll you over so I’m on top. I need to extricate your hands from my poor hair.

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I can feel it growing inside me. An excitement. A growing electricity not just from the adrenaline rushing through each of us, but from our bodies pressing and straining for position. Our dresses from friction and frantic action having worked their way up to our hips and then above. Allowing the deepest recesses of our thighs to drive forward, compress together and then bind as we try to stop one another from gaining advantage or getting away. 

But as I focus on that instinct-forged sensation and tearing your every hair from their root, you reach up and shove me, while you, in unison, bridge and turn. Rolling us up and over, my back pressing down to the carpeted floor as you take the position above me. And though I could keep my hands in your hair, I move them. My fingers on either side of your face curling and then digging nail-deep into your soft, effort-reddened cheeks. 

“You think you’re so much hotter than me, huh?!” I ask as I glare at you with the heat of a thousand suns. “That you’re some hot fucking shit and I’m nothing?” I ask again, as every word I make clear is a threat, A threat that I will drag. A threat that I will dig deep red ravines in your face. “Huh, bitch?!” I ask, not wanting an answer, just wanting to see an expression of fear on your face, as you press down upon me. Our hips shifting into place and alignment on instinct alone, our panty-covered womanhoods coming together as a fulcrum for our warring bodies.

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As I roll you I can feel my dress protest and it finally slips over my hips. Thank goodness, it’s clear yours has done the same as our thighs lock together. Rolling my hips forward I press into your hips driving my thigh up into you as I bare down on top of you. Suddenly my hair is released and I can feel your nails digging into my face. Releasing my grip on your hair I press into your body hard, ramming my chest down on top of yours. My hands instantly snapping to your wrists. With my biceps flexed I pull on your wrists keeping your nails from furrowed further down my face and gouging lines that I’ll get to see in the mirror for weeks.

At your spitting words and rage fuel stare I feel my lips jerk and twist into something approximating a pain tinted smirk. “Absolutely not.” It’s a strange admission to have in the middle of a fight that by her nature my opponent is deeply attractive to me but its truth and at the core of every battle is unadulterated truth. Who is the better and that’s why I sought it out. “It’s because you’re ridiculously hot. I’ve been searching for you all night. I didn’t know it would be you but it turned out to be. You’re the only one who could have possibly been of interest. I’ve ground everyone else under my heel this evening.” Leaning into the nails slightly despite holding them in place “so don’t mistake this as anything other than a compliment” and with that I haul on your wrists trying to slam your arms to the floor and away from my face before they can maul it any further.

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I would have done it. I would have maimed you. Pushed through your grabbing of wrists and drug my perfectly hewed nails down your precious little cheeks, just so I could hear you scream for me. 

Why? Because I hate you. Because you look down on me, both literally at the moment and figuratively, as your biting words from before still linger in my mind. 

But to my questions, questions that needed no answer, you reply in such a way that I find myself freeze. As in an instant you go from the pretty popular girl who used to pick on me in school, to someone whose motivations I misread. A ploy? A lie to sedate me and quell my fury?

Maybe? But regardless, in that moment of shock and confusion, I relent. And when I do you pull, push, and then slam my wrists down to the carpeted floor. My eyes having softened as I look up at you, not quite sure what to make of you or this body-to-body struggle we are having. 

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With a satisfying thunk from your wrists I inhale and stare down on you pressing hard against you unrelenting in my endeavor to master your body and force submission from it. Catching your eye I pause and shiver. That’s a different look from the fury that was there only moments before. It stops my grinding assault for the briefest of moments and I can feel my body screaming to keep trying to crush you. 

Holding your arms firmly I raise my body and drop my chest onto yours again as my thigh wriggles further up between your legs to press into your womanhood. Flicking my eyes to yours again I battle the urge to scowl “what? Did you really think I wanted those guys? They were just the easiest available way to push your buttons.” With that I firmly jam my thigh between your legs and continue to press down on top of you. Unsure of  what my words have done but certainly not content with just ending a battle like this. If the terms change that’s fine but I came here looking for a fight one way or another and I’m certainly not planning on getting off you until I get a submission or am firmly defeated myself. One way or another.


For a moment, as you settle into your momentary dominance, I study you. Your sparkling eyes. Your pursed and smirking lips. Even the way arch your back like a proud lioness, as you keep me pinned. 

Then, as that examination of force and fire continues, you shift and shimmy your body against mine. Placing your leg between my thighs and driving up into me. The cap of your knee, nestling against my clip and quickly wetting pussy lips just as you slam your chest down on mine. Your nipples and mine as hard as pebbles as in a collision of titflesh they fight against their fabric-made restraints. 

And though you talk to me, in a voice and volume far more calm than I have been or would be, it passes over me like a mist over hills in the distance. Your words, at that moment, far less important than what I want. And in truth, what you want. Desires I try to determine as beneath you I lay. Trapped by distraction and pinned by revelation of plan and purpose. 

Until finally I decide and act, by suddenly pressing up with all my upper body strength — looking to push you up and off me. Not so that I can escape. Not so that I can be free of you and your undulating placement. But instead so that I can turn the tables and trap you — just as you have trapped me. 

A plan I put into action as I speak, not with softness or understanding but an intentional, and maintained hiss. “You wait till I get you off me, bitch. You’ll see you chose the wrong Latina to mess with.”


With my bare knee I realize a difference in texture. It would appear that the closeness and the pressure of my legs has done its work. As if to confirm this the movement of my chest against yours shows me just how hardened your nipples have become. Poking through the fabric despite our dresses attempts at restraint. The thoughts in your eyes swim below the surface and I only marginally attempt to divine them as my brain is focused on how best to use this new information your body is giving me. The snap in your eyes comes too late for me to do anything about I can see your plan crystallize mere moments before I can complete mine. As I lift my chest again to further scale your curves I feel you surge off the floor beneath me. If you’d just pressed straight up I could have slammed your body back down but not so. The motion is curved and suddenly I feel you roll me over as I hiss trying to keep your wrists locked in my hands feeling your body press into mine this time. Hard nipples drive into my chest down as mine respond in kind. It’s hard to ignore the thrill in my stomach. Everything about this confrontation more than I could have hoped for. Reality sets in just a little as your weight falls into place atop me. Forcing my back to the floor as I fight your arms. “Ahh!” Some of the air in my lungs betraying me with the switch in position.. Feeling my legs strain and battle to keep position entangled with yours

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With every second our tangle in Lauren’s bedroom is becoming both more and less. Less about those men we spoke to at the party downstairs and more about us and what we want. And what I want — what you want — what we want, is to fight. Is to struggle. Body against body, and woman against woman. Until one of us gives in. 

That won’t be me, I swear to myself as up and over we roll again. Me turning the tables, just as I had planned and just as you did before. Our dresses, which once clung so tightly to our hips, now ride in messy, bunched up rings around our stomachs, just above our belly buttons. A displacement that lets more of our flesh come into contact, as on the floor we struggle. 

You struggling to keep our legs tangled, as I try to pull my arms free of your holding wrists. But you’re too strong, ir instead we’re too equal. And so my efforts to free myself fail But I won’t just give up, and lay there on top of you. No, I have to act. Have to take the advantage, even with us bound so tightly together. And so I pull my arms in, against your resistance, stretch my hands and fingers as far as they will go, and then with my right I pinch your nose closed and with my left I cover your mouth with my palm. 

Then, as I do each, I mutter to you maliciously — our bodies writhing as I seal you off from the air. “Just nod, and I’ll let you breathe again, bitch. Though I will count that as your submission.”


Rolling me and climbing on top we writhe together scrambling for position in this struggle for dominance neither of us wanting to go down stairs the lesser in this battle of wills and bodies knowing that we met our match and were mastered. As you struggle with my arms you finally opt to draw your arms in close before suddenly clamping down on my nose and mouth sealing off my air and then murmuring to me how I should submit by nodding. I glare at you over your hands for a precious second. I slacken my body beneath you slightly as though giving into the trap. Loosening my grip on your wrists. Before suddenly driving my hands downward to grab the top of your dress. Yanking down hard I scrape upwards with my nails across your breast flesh before I secure two holds on your rock hard nipples. Still pressed between us. And with a heave of my hips, a snap of my head and a sudden sharp buck forcing my thigh between your legs and a knee into your exposed ass. I try to dislodge you and disrupt your grip on my nose and mouth.


Mmm, how sweet would it be to just lay here atop you for the next five minutes, or even ten — maybe even the next our, slowly draining you of all of your strength. Letting just enough air seep past my fingers to keep you awake and suffering, but unable to escape. It is an image and a hope that plays out before my eyes and in my mind again and again as you begin to soften. 

I having not met you before, or even the slightest familiarity with your fighting spirit. Still I can taste it in the air, see it in your half-dimming eyes, and feel it as your hard, flexed body goes soft. 

“That’s right….” I whisper to you almost sweetly. 

“Just let go, and admit I’m the better woman between us….” I instruct as I see your end nearing. 

But then in an instant you rebel against me, reaching down and grabbing my dress. Reaching and grabbing at my nipples. Driving a knee up hard and into me, as you shake your head back and forth to taste the perfume-scented air of Lauren’s room once again. 

All of which works to both throw me off and make me want to abandon my claim atop you. My body rolling off of yours and to your side before I frantically crawl away from you and to my knees. I, in a panic, then turn back towards you. Unsure of what you will be doing or where I will find you. Only knowing that this cessation of contact and catfight is momentary, and that I will stop at nothing to get back at you.


As you are dumped unceremoniously from on top of me part of me wishes that had lasted longer. Its a bigger part than I’ll actively admit that’s for sure. As your hands come away I inhale sharply and roll. Instinct taking over, you’re somewhere to my right. Rolling to my knees I spring rather blindly as I see you coming up onto your knees and turning. Grabbing ahold of the top of your dress, I shove and yank hard trying to swing you to the floor of the room while I brace on my knees. Continuing with the movement I shuffle them backwards along the carpet doing my abject best to pull the dress up over your huge rack, arms, and face. As I pull I rock back and onto my heels like a member of a tug-a-war team. I want that dress gone. I’m not sure If I’m doing it because having your dress over your face so I can pounce is a great advantage or if I just want more skin contact with you. Whatever. I shove the thoughts aside, discard the end of the dress and pounce trying to scramble on top of you.


I got away. I let you go. And yet I could not feel more vulnerable as I turn back to face you. 

As I hear you coming, your clodding knees only barely audible over the music pumping downstairs. 

Smell you coming, your soft perfume and mine having mixed as we rolled and writhed on Lauren’s floor. 

And though I know for a fact that you and I are about to reunite, and battle once more, I wear a wicked, excited smile. One that only grows wider as instead of diving into the air and tackling me, you grab my dress, and then begin to pull it up and off of me. 

For a moment I try to resist you, to keep what is mine if only to keep you from having it. But finally, when I know I can cling to it no longer, I release it, and for a second it blinds me. And yet still, I know where you were, and can guess where you are, and with both locations in mind, I move on my knees to the right, as I work my dress completely off.

Then, with it free, and after having just barely dodged your attempted pounce, I reach down and after you. Grabbing the bottom of your dress, and then yanking it up, up, and then over your head and arms. Pulling it free, as in a panic you scramble away from me.

And though I could chase you, I wait as I make my way back to my feet. Waiting for you to do the same, as I move my hands to my hips. Wanting to see those glorious tits of yours, and for you to see mine. Neither of us having worn a bra for a reason.

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With my dress free I stand and move smoothly from the floor. Truthfully I wasn’t expecting you to react as such but I’m happy to be free of the garment letting it lay where it fell. Sure enough you aren’t wearing a bra either and I smile enjoying the view of your large full chest. Nipples hardened by the conflict and arousal. Circling you like a stalking cat I take my hair and push it behind my shoulders and out of the way. I can see it in your eyes, smile, and how you move that you’re as committed to this now as I am. I flash you a smile and its an obvious tell as I lunge sweeping my arms up under yours and seizing you around the waist as I drive with my legs locking our bodies together. Our womanhoods passed against each other stopped only by the scant fabric of our thongs. My ample and naked chest splashes against yours in a ripple of flesh as I press into you everything from my hips to my chest in as much contact with you as I can manage. My snarl back I shove on you trying to drive you back with my body.

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I’ve had so many experiences in my life already. Moments I will cherish. Moments I will remember until the day that I die. And yet none of them compare to this. To the excitement I feel as we circle each other, there in the middle of Lauren’s bedroom. Each of us smiling like the Cheshire Cat as we close in on each other. 

Each of us wanting it. 

Both of us needing it. 

More. More flesh. More fighting. More struggle and strain. Desires and demons to be fed that you move first to quell by lunging at me, just as I charge back at you. Our bodies colliding in an audible clap of newly sweat covered flesh. 

Flesh we work and fight to bring together as completely as we possibly can. Our foreheads, just as our still covered womanhoods pressed together. Our nose-tips glancing just below our fused glares. And our arms wrapped behind each others back to keep us both close.  

“I can see … why you worked so hard … to get me here….” I say in a low, effort-broken voice. One that has only barely trailed off by the time I lean by upper body back and then slam my breasts into yours.

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“Mmm-aah!” You slam your breasts into mine telegraphic it by the sudden slick peeling feel as your skin separates from mine. Practically growling at the assault on my breasts I continue to meet your gaze. Its longing and mild hate wrapped over something I can only guess at being lust. For what however remains to be seen. The hit sends me a step backwards and I smirk still locked up with you. 

“You’re -uhhh- welcome. Mmmrah!” I drop my knees slightly and with a lift and shove I slam my own chest into yours from below driving upwards and backwards as I lift with my arms. One part slam to your chest one part and attempt to drive you into the wall and splatter your chest with mine. 

I want this. I want you. I stalked, I hunted, I played the game out and now it was in the end game with writhing limbs and sweat slick bodies pressed together. I need only overcome and I could take my prize. Dragging submission, humiliation, and pleasure from your body. If. If I could defeat you. The biggest of if’s. Could I do it? You were powerful and sensual. I could feel it through your whole body. I knew I could match it but would it break before I gave out and was crushed by you? The thought drove a stabbing curl of nervous and lustful energy through my stomach and into my womanhood. Only one way to find out. I flexed everything into the slam and push.

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This and you are exhilarating, passionate, incredible, and intense, and leagues more of each of those things than I ever thought I would find at just another party. Just another gathering of strangers with a drink in their hand and a need to find their next post to scratch on. 

And though yes, we are scratching in one way or another, this is war. A war of prides, attrition, and feminine strength. One that sees our breasts slam together, flatten, spill out to our sides, and then come apart, only to find their way home again. 

Share though we do, one such collision and retraction, in a sudden and unexpected drop, you position yourself below me, and then shoot up like the sexy little rocket you are. Your tits smashing into the bottom of mine so hard they almost lift me off the floor.

My landing a moment later unstable, and unsettled, to the point where after a charge you push me back and then slam me into the wall of the room. My body and breasts pinned beneath yours, as I growl at you. Not hatefully. Not petulantly. But with an irrepressible excitement and desire for more. 

Even this pin and the battle end in my defeat. I couldn’t want anything more. A truth that does little to stop me from challenging you, even as I lay there against the warm master bedroom wall. My sweat and yours pooling between us, and gathering in a tiny chasm between our warring chests. “My tits vs. yours, bitch. Can you take it?”

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As you hiss at me from your position crushed into the wall I look at you incredulously as you challenge me to a battle of the boobs. The hit must have knocked something important loose in your head but I just smirk at you. “As you wish!” Thats certainly not what I thought I’d get from this fight. It’s a rare day that a fresh girl challenges me to a titfight but I’ve got the weapons and more importantly the ability to have this battle. With you still against the wall I dip my legs again but instead of a slam this time I use the leverage of your position and my legs to drop my sweat slick breasts below yours and then as I straighten my legs I arch my back and thrust out. The effect is like rolling the side of a tube of toothpaste against the edge of a countertop. Only your boobs are the toothpaste and I’m doing my damndest to use mine as the edge of the counter. Pushing your chest up from the base and trying to smash the whole length of them between my tits on their underside and your ribs on the other side. “Just let me know when your girls are done, bitch” we’ve quickly shifted from the catty to the intimate but I certainly have no wish to stop with my ferocity in this fight. It has nothing to do with hate and everything to do with wanting to put all my passion on display in the battle. I stumbled upon a true gem and I want to see all its facets. Pouring on my passion and straining my muscle I push. No woman wants her chest defeated by a rivals but if yours can break mine you will have my utmost respect. But either way your bravery in the challenge is admirable and intoxicating.


There I am held against a wall. Pinned by the bare chest of a girl who spent nearly an hour antagonising me for seemingly no reason. But it was all to corner me — to needle me, and if you could, get me to fight you. In some way. In any way you could. 

And though other girls might have stopped at a slap or two, or stormed out after a quick, leg locked roll across the carpet, I am all in. Not just for one method of battle, but all of them. To defy you in hisses as I try to one-up you with every tool I have at my disposal. 

A commitment to cause and quarrel that leads me to throw down a gauntlet over our tits. Just as I would, and will, every other element of our bodies with which you care to dare. 

But you found me, so I know. You have experience. You have a history of battle, in more ways than I can likely imagine. And so when I see you drop once more, and then move to shift up with your tits, in a maneuver I look to memorize, even as I look to escape it, I hop up between your body and the wall and then with the resulting momentum, bring my tits down atop yours, just as yours rise with force into mine.

Hoping to subvert whatever plan you had. To avoid whatever damage you may have caused, or at the very least give it back to you. Hoping that I can somehow find a way to match you, the predator. Either to beat you at your own game, or change the same, to one where we are equals until the very end.


The result of your leap is instead of a slow grind of your chest; a painful pop past as my chest is shoved down by your weight and yours is forced up and over mine. Not exactly what I was hoping for all the result of the impact and my positioning hurts. A lot. Snarling through the agony and annoyance of the defeated technique. I step back a little bit perhaps to wind up for a slam into the wall, perhaps for something more sinister, or perhaps that really did hurt like crazy. My hands drift to the underside of girls to cup them gently as I shift my weight to a sixty fourth distribution between my front and back legs. Leaving more of my weight in the back leg as my lip curls into something like a grimace. My hands caress my own chest as though rubbing out the pain. “Fucking whore” I practically spit the barb. My body lies but my eyes flicker. The question is will you fall for the snare or did that glint in my eyes set off your danger senses.

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In a far more violent and painful affair than I expected, our tits collide with a loud, sweat-wet smack that sends you back from me in a stumble. Our wide-eyed excitement from the moment before shifting and twisting into a frustration and resentment. Feelings that do not destroy, but instead take hands with the thrill of combat that had so fully engulfed us. 

“Stupid slut.” I spit back at you, in reply to your catty insult. One that makes a small tingle of electricity run up my spine. The taboo of all of this getting to me in a way I can hardly explain. 

But even without explanation, for that I know I no longer want to be pinned against the wall. Just as I am aware that whatever you are waiting for, as you stand in front of me glistening, you will be ready for an attack. 

And so as my hands move to my breasts to cup and massage, I slowly move. Not forward but to the side, trying to make my way out from between you and the wall, in a long arch, that takes me in front of the foot of the bed. 


You move away from the wall while spitting back your insult. An unfortunate turn of events but I suddenly widen my eyes as you step in front of the bed. Shifting my weight and snapping my hips I lunge from my position in two quick steps before I leap from the floor. With a snarl like a hellcat I plant my hands in your shoulders and do my best to hit you on the down curve of my jump trying to bring my still stinging sweat drenched girls down on top of yours while using my foreward force and momentum to trip you at the knees backwards onto the bed.

Its not exactly the most orthodox of techniques but if we are going chest to chest this brief interlude has already been too long for my taste and I launch into the leap with abandon and lust for this contact. I want this fight, this battle of breasts. No doubt it will not be the end of the fight but at least a step towards a conclusion. Win or lose.

With the heave my hands smack against your shoulders and I exhale just before our chests collide trying to defeat the feeling of having the wind knocked out of me as we hopefully collide in a giant spatter of flesh and sweat. Ending with you on the bed beneath me. You’re not escaping this battle! I won’t let you recover I have to press the attack while I can.


The thought never crossed my mind, that by moving out from between you and the rock you had me, I was putting myself in front of another — soft though it may be. Yes, in the periphery of my vision, I saw the bed. Neatly made, with a comforter I would love to have, if I wasn’t so sure Lauren had stained it with her own essences on more than a handful of occasions. 

But such a failure to anticipate comes with a lack of experience. And though this is one of many such battles for you, I assume, for me — it is my first. And so when you move from a staggering stand, with tits held in your palms, to a sudden lunge, my eyes go wide. My lips open to speak some sputtered out mutter. But before such sound can leave my mouth you come down atop me in a splash. 

My back crashing down on the pillow-soft bed, as atop me, our breasts aligned and colliding with an low, muffled clap, you land. And when you do, for a moment, we are face to face, nose to nose, and tit to tit once more. Until my awkward placement on the end of the bed causes me to slide down in quarter, before you do in full. Your body, aided or perhaps ailed by sweat, gliding down, over mine, until you drop to your knees at the foot of the bed. 

And when you do, I act. Not to somehow find a way to press chests again, but in a betrayal of the challenge I just issued, to lift my legs and quickly wrap them around your head. Flexing and adjusting them to bury your face deep between my thighs, as I lock my ankles behind your neck. 

Is it cheating to return to our catfight, after daring you to fight me with your tits? Perhaps. But this is about all of us…. Until one of us can go no longer. 


The move was literally one of my finer moments. Not as black widow esque as climbing a particularly busty girl and trapping her boobs between mine and her own arms like I was saddling an unbroken horse. Nor perhaps as incredible as rolling a certain someone like a grappler right over my head. But it was glorious. As we smashed to the bed I grinned as once again I pinned your tits. The smirk was literally right in your face. That was until we both slid off the end of the bed. Great job Alana. Solid effort. Sweet move into. The thought is cut off as my legs hit the floor knees first face inches from your womanhood. But that’s not what ends my train of thought. Its those lovely legs of yours suddenly snaking up and wrapping around my head. “Wah tha fug bish!” This isnt a chest to chest battle. I’ve been had by some new girl and now I have zero leverage on knees while you have your weight on the edge of higher ground than me and are just squeezing away on my head with some of the more powerful muscles in your body. This is categorically bad. Class 5 awful. Code Black catastrophe. ‘Oh crap’ is the only thought in my head for a second as I realize you’re a lying cheating skank and I’d probably have done the same thing. Check. 

Hopefully not mate. I clamp my hands in your legs to try and fight the pressure. Come on Alana think think think ow. Ow. OW OW OW. FUCK.


I am a genius! A catfighting savant! A girl-tangle wunderkind! I say to myself, as squeeze your head between my thighs. Driving you deeper and deeper into my nexus, wanting to bury your face in my already wet sex — panty covered though it is. 

But those internal celebrations come too early. As the same foe that sent you off of me and to the floor, the sweat on my body and yours, causes me to continue to slide. Your squirming, pushing, and pulling at my legs making my slow descent quicken. 

A slide that leaves me with two options. One, ride that liquid-made momentum down, hoping that somehow, I land atop you in a way in which I keep control, or release you, and scramble. Let you go, and abandon my dreams of catching you core-deep between my thighs, so that I can reset and safely escape a fall. 

It is the latter I choose! Releasing my thighs, and then reaching back to grab a hold of Lauren’s comforter. But without you as base and foundation, all of my hopes shatter in a single second, as the blanket on which I staked by hope pulls up, down, and I fall from the bed to my ass just in front of you. My legs spread around your kneeling thighs, and my back bent, leaving my face level with your glorious tits.

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This is it this is how I lose to some brand new girl I just found like are you kidding me? I got tricked into a titfight only to have a head scissor slapped on me and now a migraine is setting in. I deserve this. A reminder that that- what the hell? The pressure vanishes and with a thump you land on the floor in front of me. Like a gift from the catfight Goddesses. I’ve been spared. Thank Lilith. Or Bastet. Or maybe Hera? Definitely not that slut Aphrodite. For like a second my brain races as blood flow is restored and then my instincts take over. Wrapping my still open arms around your head and squeeze tight plunging you into my wet cleavage. Leaning forward I let my weight fall forward hoping to keep your legs parted with my knees and trap you with your head between my boobs and the bed with my weight holding you in place. I will admit that I’m not the BIGGEST set of tits ever but clocking in at a 34E I’m packing some serious fun bags in my bra, when I wear one, landing those on your face and hugging the back of your head to seal them over your precious airways isn’t what I’d refer to as a struggle given the ample nature of my bust. Wiggling back and forth a bit I try to use the sweat and skin to get a tight suffocating seal over your mouth and nose as I push my breasts together with my elbows to apply a monstrous breast smother. 

Truthfully part of me thought you had me for a second but now with flopped at my knees I can feel my will surge back up in a flurry. I won’t let you beat me and I won’t give up. I almost did with that head scissor. I should have fought harder and I resolve to pay you back for such a lapse that you forced on me. Even if I did bite off more than I can chew with you I plan on making sure you know you barely survived. If you survive.

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I had you, and then I lost you. I had victory in my hands, but then the same hateful demon of lust and rage that gave it to me, stole it back. Not just in that you found freedom from my straining thighs, but that now, I am almost helpless. Stuck on my ass, with the bed behind me, as you smother me with your jealousy-inducing tits. 

I would love this, if we weren’t fighting. Enjoy the mixed taste of your sweat and mine coating my lips and seeping into my mouth as I gasp for air, if we weren’t women at war. 

And though all of me, in defiance of that preference and pruriency, wants to surge into you, escape, only to then reengage a moment later, I am trapped. By the same breasts I challenged you to fight me with, only to abandon that tactic as soon as it suited me. A pandora’s box, seemingly, as now, by that same shift in struggle, you have me.  

Sucking for air, as droplets of sweat fly into my mouth. Fighting to move my head left and then right to find air, only to find you pull tighter to me, and stop me. The size of your tits making them almost impossible to escape and the perfect weapons to smother with. 

But I have to find a way. I have to get out of this wither cutting off of air, which every second makes me more and more dizzy and my vision dark. And so, I do the only thing I can — or at least the only thing that enters my mind. That being to reach out, grab your panties, tear then down, and then just before you close your legs tight, I reach my right hand in and cup your mound and sex. Threating you and telling you without words that I will do it. I will dig my nails in if you don’t release me. 

It is a line yes. But one I will cross, to win. One I will cross if only to make this battle last longer. It being something entirely unlike the rest of my basic, boring life. 

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With you firmly secured I shift to defend myself but your slimy skanky hand finds my snatch. The problem is instead of going for the kill like you should have you just hold my womanhood as though to say “let me go or I’ll do it” well surprise surprise sweetie. You either go for the kill or you take it yourself. I release the hold and drive my right hand low to push your hand free of my pussy while at the same time I rake my left hand down the front of your right breast. No slap, no grab, no squeeze. I drag my nails down the perfect smooth milky flesh if your exposed rack. Punishing you for hesitating in a fight like this before I seize on your beautiful pink nipple with my thumb and fore finger twisting it hard and pulling upwards to drag your poor right breast up as my right hand does battle with your wrist trying to find off that awful crawl in my crotch. I can feel the nails scraping at my bare womanhood. As I twist your nipple I pull side ways and sit back trying to give me space to get your talon out of my panties while pulling you to the side by your breast and nipple. 

“Next time don’t hesitate slut.” I snarl at you as I continue to try and punish your breast with each pinch and twist. Its not like we agreed to any rules and the fact that you have avoiding my pussy until now just tells me how new to this you are. Thankfully so as it saved my kitty from getting a serious scratching while I had you trapped in my mountainous curves. A pity I couldn’t put you out poetically with them after you whimped out on your proposed breast battle. Bitch.

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With a deep and desperate gasp, I cough and sputter when you pull your sweaty tits from my face, and drop back to your ass. That removal coming as part of an effort to keep me from making good on my threat. But it does not come alone, as while your right hand moves to my wrist to pull, your left curls into a weapon and then with the dagger-tipped nipples thereupon you scratch at my tits. Their long, deep, painful journey not ending in a cessation of pain, but instead an increase of it.

“Owwweee!!” I blurt out in a whine, as your thumb and forefinger latch onto my nipple and then pull. Up and then out — hard enough to make my hard nipple feel like it might tear off. 

But that pain, and the pain of your scratch are a price I am willing to pay. Each, along with your tugging at my threatening and now clawing hand, leaving almost defenseless, as much as you see me as the same. 

“Next time don’t let me go!” I shout back at your instruction, as my spread legs straighten, find purchase in the floor, and them with the bed as a brace, I push myself up and then throw myself forward and atop you. My arms wrapping around your neck, as I crash down upon you. My goal being to lock you in the same smother you just held me in, though with you on your back on the soft, carpeted floor.

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As you launch yourself from the bed at me my eyes widen in surprise and I fall backwards under your body. Thankfully free of your claw as I lose purchase on your hard little nipple. In some act of poetic vengeance your own rather titanic rack comes crashing back down on my face as I tuck my head to buy me a little extra time as I thump to the floor. I feel your close to naked body press the length of mine as my legs splay out between yours and you scramble atop me. Damn it here we go again. All of the sudden those boobs of yours are mashing my face around smearing sweat all over as they push at me. Your arms wrap my head and I bury my lips at the bottom of your cleavage sucking desperately at the air being made available. Planting my hands on you back I scramble around a bit before finding your hair to yank it back. Not exactly a tit for tat exchange but as my legs flail a bit I try to calm myself down to think in the seconds that I have to try and get so air and escape from this smother. As I lay there with your breasts smearing my face and smothering my air a plan starts to form in my as I make annoyed and angry muffled sounds beneath your busty front.


No clever trick. No brilliant escape. You weren’t ready. You didn’t expect. And now I have you. Under me, and squirming. My 36D breasts weighing down on either side of your face and pressing against your hot cheeks as you try desperately to suck for air between them. 

“How do you like it, bitch? Huh!?” I ask, the playful, excited tone in my voice having faded even further as together we work ourselves into this frenzy and fury. Your legs shifting and searching, as mine widen and then bend in, claiming your cute little tummy in a knee-into-carpet straddle. All while I do everything I can to keep you suffering beneath my tits.

My arms, and chest shifting left and then right, not in deep swings, but in tight, almost imperceivable adjustments so that I can work you deeper. Sweat worked up by our struggle and the heat of the room rolling down from my mascara stained face and wet wavy hair, down the long curve of my breasts only to pool there upon your forehead and then slowly drizzle down to your eyes, mouth, and nose. 

If you told me that such a thought would somehow turn me on even a minute before I drug you upstairs, I would have called you crazy. But now … after all we have put each other through and the intimate cruelty we have shared, the image drives me wild. My focus on the smother dimming in half, as I try to fight off the lust this entire violent endeavor has created within me. 


As you preen and adjust on top of me giving me every bit of your boobs mashing and rolling them over my face in a now airtight seal. I close my eyes against the dribble of sweat. Here goes everything. Planting my legs firmly on the floor. I whip my left hand up and press my forearm into the underside of your chin and pry upward as I drive my shoulders into the carpet. Naturally though this is not all of my assault oh no if we are trading techniques then I’m happy to show you how to do this correctly. Driving with my right arm I wrap it over your left thigh and plunge my fingers right into your womanhood around the soaking panties that provide nearly no defense now. As my fingers quest I don’t hold back as my nails carve along your lips and along the bottom of your slit. As soon as I find it plunge my first and middle fingers into it and hook them into you as I jab my them nail into the side of your lip and squeeze hard while working in and out scraping and pleasuring as I push on your chin with my left arm. Come on. Work. The assault is a furious one but its not lost on my how much I’d much prefer to lodge my fingers in you without my nails and by the feel of it you’re not too far away from that feeling either. Well this whole fight has taken an interesting turn thats for sure as the fire in my stomach twist and turns before coiling and I realise its much closer to lust than hate at this point.

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A mirrored smother, and then a mirrored escape, as you try to do what I hadn’t the courage to do at first. The audacity to do without you telling me to go there, with action if not words. To cross a line so personal and sacred that I couldn’t fathom it before today. And yet, here we are. Your fingers plunged ever-deep into my pussy and clawing cruelly.

Not to make me submit, but to get me off of you, though you would take the former if I gave it to you. But instead, I look to give you neither and instead keep you beneath me and breathless. 

Doing so not only by holding on to my smother and my now-adjusted and shifted straddle, but to take one of the arms I had wrapped around your neck. To lower and stretch that arm back and down, through the same stretch you do, and then with the very tips of my fingers attack. Not in a clawing, gouging, vicious sampling of horror. But instead by slitting your lips, finding your clit, and then rubbing. 

Using everything I had ever learned from my years of bisexual escapades, to distract you. Not with pain but pleasure. Not with rage and destruction but lust and bliss. All while, with my other arm I cling to my smother, knowing if I can just hold on, I’ll have you….


Nothing. Not even a peep. No scream. Not a darn thing despite my nails and my fingers. Well. Fuck. Shifting my left hand from your chin to your left breast I scrabble at it weakly trying to peel something back but its a weak attempt without any sort of air. In my mind as my vision starts to go black I still can’t fathom how the assault didn’t phase you in the slightest. Weakly I try to apply more pressure to it but it’s feeble at best. To make matters worse, I feel you remove one of your arms and begin the process of pleasuring me whilst maintaining the hold on my face. This whole thing went downhill rather fast that’s for sure but the truth is I’ve never once encountered someone who could take a claw followed by a fingering like that in stride. A few more feeble trusts and shifts is all I can manage but the combination of asphyxiation and pleasure has disrupted all coordination in my assault. I suppose this was what I was bound to get one day in my prowling these parties.


I try to manage. Try to endure the pain that you inflict on my nethers. Hoping I can somehow just outlast the pain that feels like a soldering iron shoved up my sex. But even with all of my efforts to look strong, to stay strong, and to somehow outlast your digging nails, I fail. 

I fall. 

Off to your side — to my side, and releasing my smother. Not in some tactical retreat, but in a strengthless collapse and a thud. My hands releasing you in full as they move to my sex. Looking to pry your hand away if it still remains, the echoes of pain I feel so great, that I cannot tell whether the pain is present or past tense — a threat going on or aftermath. 

A confusion and consequence that leads me moan out in pain, my eyes beginning to well with tears as I lay there rolling one direction and then the other.


My vision was gone to a pinpoint but the sudden loss of weight on top of me left me gasping in air like some sort of bad movie where they bring someone back from drowning. Blinking away tears and stinging sweat I lay their gasping trying to figure out what the hell happened? Did I lose? Did she smother me out? Fuck. My fingers are still wet from you snatch and I look upwards expecting to see you towering above me. No…. What the hell. Shaking my head and cursing the pounding headache that’s setting in I roll to the left which brings me face to face with you as you roll holding your obviously abused womanhood. Holy shit! It worked! With my head pounding like a bad hangover I crawl towards you as you lay their rolling. Honestly this whole thing has gone way more sideways than I was expecting. As you roll towards me I flop on top of you. Trying ineffectually to mount you I finally wiggle into a position with my legs awkwardly straddling your lower arms with my chest pressed to yours and my arms on either side of your shoulders and face. Damn it my head hurts. I just rest there for a second. Exhausted with my forehead pressed to yours and my boobs smooshing down on yours. My womanhood just above yours pressing into the space below your navel.

“You-ah like that?” I barely get it out. Who am I kidding you had me and I’m just a lucky ass veteran who picked the wrong new girl to mess with. I’ve gotten lucky TWICE now. I’m honestly not sure how much I have left in the tank but its about gone.


The echoing pain in my throbbing kitten has only begun to fade when I open my eyes and see you coming. Not over to me, but down atop me in a straddle. At first, I fear another, retaliatory and finishing smother, but instead, and as I try to will myself to raise some kind of defense, I realize my arms are pinned beneath and between your thighs. 

I try to free them with a pull and then a push — a scootch and then a shift. But they are stuck, hopelessly and without room to move, at least at that moment. 

And so I have no recourse but to look up at and into your wet and glistening eyes, as on both sides of my shoulders you brace yourself. 

It is then, as you take your mount and I realize my own inability to escape, that I respond to your question. “Yes.”

The answer is odd and unexpected at least for me. I am down, possibly out — pinned beneath you, with tear-stained cheeks. And yet I say I like it? Why…?

Because I do: like it. In fact I love it. The pain. The pleasure. The struggle. The desperation. 

Something you can see in my eyes, as beneath you I wait and as above me you ready.

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Pushing myself up a little bit I marshal as much of my strength as I can and sit up a bit. Planting my hands in your chest I honestly can’t even glare at you by this point. The curve of my rather large heaves as I continue to take deep breaths. Pushing your ample chest together with my hands I kneed your breasts looking at my earlier handiwork in the form of obvious red marks down your breast. “Well we can’t just end things like this I don’t think…but I’m so glad you enjoy the ride.” Delicately taking your nipples I pinch them between my fingers and pull gently twisting and turning them. It’s not vicious but it’s enough to be painful. Looking down at your tear stained face I feel like a total bitch for the first time the whole night which is just strange for me. I don’t ever feel like a bitch if I’m fighting. This is different for some reason. I savaged your pussy. Admittedly you were trying to smother me out but still…

With your pink nipples in a firm pinch and pull I look down at you before gently asking: “had enough?” Its the words asking for a submission but it’s honestly the closest I could ever get to admitting something akin to a tie. That we both gave it all and it left us both wiped out. This needs a conclusion. A winner. Not that I think either of us will be satisfied with leaving it there for good. But for now…I hold the firm pinch on your nipples with you trapped under my legs and hips.

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I don’t stop trying to pull my arms free, even as you sit up, scoot forward, and in so doing drive those arms even deeper into the small space between your thighs, calves, and my body. A repositioning that gives you my body as a throne on which to sit and a placement from which you can dish out punishment. 

A cruel, terrible, and one-sided punishment, with me trapped beneath you. 

And though that is what I expect and should be receiving after all we had tried and did do to each other, you instead toy with me. Pinching my nipples and prying them one way and then another. My eyes closing, as I whimper out in sounds I try to suppress and hide from you. Wanting still to seem unaffected, though every bit of your nipple torture hurts.

But then, amidst that clamping and twisting of my small red triggers, you ask me if I’d had enough. If I will give up to you, and a punishment we both know to be gentle in comparison to the options available to you. 

It is a query of conclusion and capitulation that makes my eyes open and then study yours. And in those windows to the soul I see softness, empathy, respect, and even desire. And though somewhere deep inside I want you to feel those emotions and desire me as an opponent you fight again and again.

I need it. 

We need it. 

Resolution. Completion. 

Without sympathy or tie. 

And so I bridge, as I respond in a resolute tone: “Never….”

 As high and as hard as I can, my feet planted into the carpeted floor. It is an effort I try not once, or twice, but again and again — collapsing back to the floor each time. Your lower half scooting further and further up my body with my every attempt, leaving a trail of wetness on my stomach. 

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I see the shift in those lovely eyes as you go from a moment of consideration to ready for another round. 


Don’t do this. Accept it… Fuck. 

With your hand still trapped and you fighting to free yourself from the position somewhere inside I hear my conscious telling me that if I really did respect you as much as I saw a need in your eyes I would have never opted for such a mild punishment and an even easier out for you. Maybe I still think of you as a new girl. Not quite my equal. Just a fling, some fun. Not another fight. Not worth a rematch. I let myself think that I was showing you some respect after dragging you into this world that I live in. A vicious cycle of thrilling violence, but I should have known if you belong here I may have just slapped you in the face with it. I’m almost sorry but as you buck again I jump my own hips forward suddenly. Landing square with my ass on your boobs I was so recently pinching I throw my hands forward and seize your hair while leaning back and pushing my hips forward. Shoving my right hand back I plant it on your boobs to keep me up right for a second while I cinch my legs on top of your biceps and around your head before I pull your face up and forward and shove my dripping mound down on your nose and mouth. Hunkering down on top of you I wrap my hand around your beautiful hair and do my best to firmly hold you in place. It’s so much worse than a breast smother. Part of me hates myself for doing this to you but the position I was in meant this was what it had to be. Squeezing with my thighs and pushing with my hips I do my best to cut off your air again. This time with my pussy.

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Twice I had you. Twice I could have ended it — ended this — ended you, and claimed victory. If I had just been better. Just been smarter. But each time, I let victory slip through my fingers, the second time, as your fingers slipped past my soft, velvet folds. 

Folds like those you scoot forward and with a grip of my hair, pull me into. My mouth spreading your lips at their center, as my nose slides in and then comes to a gentle rest against your clit. It is the humiliation I deserve after a struggle like this. A move I would have locked on you in a second, had I found away somewhere in our struggle. 

But I didn’t. And now I am trapped. Beneath you as I have been before, but trapped between your sexy thighs, the soft, inner flesh of which presses against my effort-warmed cheeks. The essence that I have drawn from you in the passion and power of our struggle slowly seeping into my mouth as I gasp for air. 

My hands, which had once been pinned in their entirety, now free, but only after my elbows. Your shins pinning my biceps to the carpeted floor with the entire weight of your body. 

At first, and as I try to come to grips with my new role as your own personal and sobbing Sybian, I place those tiny T-rex arms on your ass and then your thighs. Not to hurt you, but softly. My fingers curling inward just enough to depress your skin, but no more. 

Is it a message of submission or retraction of my claim of “never”? Have I given in to you, and your smothering, face-encompassing smother? Just as you wonder, my fingers begin to dig, driving my nails into you and scratching. Not only where they lay, but in deep, hard pulls up your thighs and then when I run out of flesh they move to your ass. 

Pain though those digits may cause, it is not enough. To cause you agony or to compel you by force to get off of me, so that once more we can lock our bodies together and writhe. 

But that is not my goal. As I know our battle is over and that I have been defeated. And instead I scratch at you — claw at you so that you do not soften. 

So that you know you can have what you seek with me. A fight. A battle. To the bitter end. Even if somewhere in the maelstrom of our malice there is more. 

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You continue to claw and scrabble at my butt and upper thighs. Reaching back as I continue to hold your face in place between my legs and against my womanhood I plant my fingers on your right breast and squeeze. Twisting it hard and digging in with my fingers. I can’t really fight both your hands like this but I can make you split your attack. Or perhaps just inflict more pain on you either way I don’t let up on either the smother or the grip on your breast. My headache has cleared enough and with a tired and grim resolve I continue to grind you into the floor. Your face a continuing pleasure to my soaked kitty as it rubs from your struggle. It feels better than it has a right too. The fact that you’re being smothered beneath it finally gives me a fluttering jolt of excitement and pleasure. I’ve got you. I won. Finally despite nearly losing more times than I should have. I hold the position continuing to rub and squeeze. The fatigue ways on me heavy but this should be it. Come on….


They’re stars, no they’re dots, though they leave a trail as they move. Specs of white in the blackness that takes me. My lungs empty, as the only breaths I can take come from the air within your sex and not more. Each coming with a sprinkle of your quickly growing wetness. Your hips thrusting, if perhaps only on instinct, as my nose plays vibrator and my mouth and complete and humiliating defeat act as dildo. 

They, in every way you deserve them to, fucking you into a well-earned bliss. A bliss you are distracted from as you move once more to counter me. You, rightfully assuming that I am still fighting — still strong. But my clawing fingers are the last gasps of my consciousness. The last ounces of energy I have left. 

Your new attack at my right breast, only drawing a moan from me. One you cannot hear, though you can feel it echoing off your pink walls and reverberating against your clit. 

My hands falling not in part, but entirely from you only a moment later. They laying on the carpeted floor, not flat for endurance but uncurled and motionless. A sign of my unspoken defeat that I give you, though I have moved from dangling to having drifted into unconsciousness. The mouth which once gasped left open within you — our long incredible battle having come to an end.


At the thud of your hands on the floor I struggle up from your face my legs like lead from that battle. Turning around I move to your hips and with trembling hands pull your panties down and off your feet. Your dress may go back on but you’re leaving without the panties as I toss them aside and step out of my own. Making sure the door is locked and party is still in full swing I creep back over to your naked form. Sliding down into a straddle on your hips I gently take your right breast with my left hand and begin to massage the front of it with my palm drawing my fingers over the top and underside. At the same time I gently buck against your hips rubbing myself on you almost unconsciously as my fingers find your womanhood. Carefully I caress it before gently slipping my fingers into you before beginning to softly work your soaking wet mound my delicate thrusts as I wait for you to revive from my questing hands. “Come on honey…not finished just yet…” the pussy smother was an absolutely devastating finish but I’m not about to call that your only humiliation. That and I’ve increasingly found you desirable as the night has gone on. Im not usually one to extract in ordinary submissions but you. You I want to make fully aware of my feelings about this fight.


Even in my dreams I see you. I taste you. I smell you. My passing from one state of consciousness to another not separating us, but instead uniting us once more. But there in that planescape, we are not face to face and nose to nose, or circling one another with our claws bared. 

Instead I am on my knees, and before you. A collar around my neck, with the leather leash there attached held in your right hand. 

It is an image that brings me shame, but still it is truth. It is reality. I was broken, bested, and bested by you. In a battle of bodies and claws — assets and asphyxiation. And so, as you tug gently on the rope, I obey. Lifting on my knees, looking to you for instruction. 

But as I gaze submissively into your glimmering and beautiful eyes, you begin to fade. Not in weakness, but into a fog. Your voice dragging me out of my imagining and back to reality. 

“Come on, Honey….” You say softly. “…not finished yet.”

At the words, my open eyes open in the waking world and I see you straddling me. Grinding on me, as slowly and gently your fingers slide into my wounded sex. Your hand grabbing my scratched breast and massaging it as I look up at you, half delirious. 

“…bitch….” I mutter, weakly. Not out of hate, but leftover competitive spirit. Hating that I lost, but loving that you did not just leave me here, in Lauren’s bedroom to be found.


Smirking down and detecting the spirit of a fighter who knows she did her best but also lost. Sliding my fingers carefully out of your scratched up kitty I giggle and playfully swat your tits back and forth with my hands leaving a sticky mess on your left breast as your juices come off on it before I lean down and respond:


Standing up I take you by the hair and lead you over the bed before pushing you back down so your back is the foot of the bed. Stalking around it while I leave you sitting there I start investigating Lauren’s bedside table. “Now normally…I’d make you lick my pussy but you already pretty much ate it sooooo…ah-ha! I knew she had something” walking over with two thin black bands in hand I sit down on your hips again before I loop them around your wrists and tug them tight. Fastening them to the posts at the end of the bed I wiggle backwards on your hips a bit. “I have a better plan. You chickened out on a titfight. So its only fair that your girls get punished for that since I’d have destroyed them but you didn’t give me the chance.”

Settling in on your hips with your arms secure I smile at you cheekily. “Alright then” with a series of quick movements I begin to swat your big full chest back and forth. Nothing too serious but just enough to sting and make your boobs a little red. After a little bit of this I take your nipples and grind them under my thumbs for a moment working some of the stiffness out of them before I finally heave my own chest up and lower it into yours pressing down and rubbing. Dragging my own dagger like nipples back and forth across your chest in slow passes. “There we go. Hope you enjoy it loser” truthfully the grind is far from any sort of attack. Its more a kin to a firm rub as I push and press my chest into yours. Keeping you with your arms spread and seated giving me the position of leverage.


I have never been in a fight like this, or one even remotely close. Nor did we discuss any stakes to what a loss or victory might mean for either of us, before our battle began or as it went on. And though we didn’t, I know.

I understand. 

This is the consequence of failure. 

The repercussion for letting you slip through my thighs and then your fingers into my cunt.

And so when you slap my tits from side to side, pull your fingers from my sex without giving me release, call me a loser as you lean down to me, I do not rebel. 

In fact, as you lift me by the hair, and then drag me over to the foot of the bed in a barely-vertical stumble, I do not but try to give your clear purpose effect. Making my feet plant, my legs flex, and my body from collapsing, until in a confident toss, you send me back to the ground. My back landing in a thud against Lauren’s wood-framed and canopied bed.

Then, as I rock from side to side, my mind still fogged from a complete loss of consciousness, I barely register as you speak to me and search one drawer and then another, until you find them. Our mutual friend’s black bands. 

Bands which you bring to me, and then as I sit and reel, you use to cuff me to the bed’s end-side poles. Leaving my arms spread wide, and helpless, though I wasn’t much more before. 

But your efforts weren’t entirely to render me enert. No, it was also to keep me placed. Keep me positioned. And to make sure that I would not collapse, when you needed me to stay put. 

With those goals all accomplished, and as my focus begins to return, you sit and straddle me, my legs flat on the carpet and unbent. Then, with you close once more, I watch you, wondering what you have in store for the woman you hunted and then defeated. The woman who gave you the fight you deserved. 

But then you tell me, what you plan and why you feel it best, and I hate you. In an instant. And in a flash. I didn’t chicken out! I would have titfought you! I would have broken your tits with mine, but I had a chance. A chance to catch you and keep you, and squeeze you into submission between my thighs. 

I took that chance, and now you chastise me? Would you have let that opportunity slip by? I ask not with words but with the glimmer of rage in my eyes. But just as I convey that glistening message you slam my beautiful, scratch-marked tits once and then again. Only to then reach for my nipples and by force, soften them. You wringing out every bit of strength in them, until finally they are erect no more. 

It is humiliating. More than your facesit. More than your gentle fingering, after waking me from a smother-earned slumber. And though it is more than those, it does not engender anger in me, but sadness. Not rage, but weakness. My head dropping, as the fire in my eyes die. 

A death of spirit that takes place, just as you lift your chest and then bring it down on mine. You, using your still hard nipples to tease and torment me. All as you shift your tits against mine. 


I take my time working your breasts with mine. It’s an unfair position and I softened them on purpose beforehand but it doesn’t mean I plan on showing you any mercy for it. You lost and this is the price. 

Pressing with my nipples after what must seem like an eternity of rubbing, grinding and smashing I finally drill your already soft nipples back into your chest before slowly removing my chest from yours. The sag in your breasts is a little more than it was when we started. Nothing so devastating and humiliating as it could be but enough to show you for a little while that you lost. 

And not only that but my breasts dominated yours into submission. Whether or not you could have fought back is an unanswered question however as I didn’t give you the chance rendering them defenseless, softened, and then taking my own rack to them. 

Satisfied with the state I have your chest in I smirk at you as I tease your soft nipples with my fingers. “Ouch. Lost all their spunk just like you. Totally crushed.” I illustrate the last two words with a firm upward lift and squeeze of your chest to let it flop against your ribs before doing the same with my own. 

The difference is noticeable where yours drops and hangs mine bounces back and wobbles a little. Perky is the word. Yours well…. Defeated comes to mind. Trailing my hand over your chin gently. I lift your face up and stick my tongue in your mouth for a second before I stand up. “Oh one last thing I suppose. Sounds like the party is winding down so probably time to get going.” Walking over to Lauren’s dresser I pick through the makeup on top of it until I find what I’m looking for. 

Waking back over to you with the smear resistant hooker red lipstick I crouch down in front of you as I twist the top out of it. Taking first your right breast and then your left breast I begin to draw something with it. Ten figures not that you can see the totality of them from this angle but I make sure they are clear before I stand up and walk over to my clothes. The dress is a hot mess but it could be worse. Pulling it back on, I step into my panties and pick up yours. Weighing them I get a wicked look in my eyes. Walking back over to you I take your mouth in my hand and force it open to stuff you bottoms in. Tugging at the fabric bands I loose them enough for you to work them free. 

“Better hurry. I sure wouldn’t want to explain to Lauren what I was doing tied to her bed naked with my panties in my mouth and Alana’s phone number on my beat up tits.” Walking to the door I slip out and hold up my phone to my ear and mouth ‘call me’.

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