Clawie vs. Little Miss Alpha on FCF
Little Miss Alpha‘s Preamble
I’d like to set the scene just a little bit, in that Chloe and myself really didn’t plan a story, we just argued with, cursed at, and taunted each other until a battle just kinda spontaneously began. That battle went from being a fairly straightforward glare-fest, to a fantasy battle between hateful witches with far too much in common, just because she and I both felt pulled in that theme. But with that said, here is that story, please forgive the rather abrupt transition. Also, in the beginning we were using the Trillian /me feature, so the comments start in the third person.
Clawie walks up slowly towards you. Peeling my cardigan down my shoulders, I let it drop down to my feet, that slip out of my sandals. I’m not the biggest, or most intimidating. But that glare in my brown eyes should make you run for the hills right now . . . But you don’t. I come closer, and closer. White tank top and black shorts showing off every single tattoo on my arms and legs. Weeping face, thorns. Roses. Spiders and skulls. Emerald hair down my back, my midnight blue lips curled in a sneer. I come up to you and bump my 32DD breasts against yours. My nipples still hard from removing their piercings earlier. My feet shift even closer, until my toes are placed just atop your feet. Slowly, they curl, and their nails softly scratch your skin. “You know, I sketch for a living . . . And you are going to be one heck of a canvas, Amber.”
Such a fucking show you put on, slowly kicking away your shoes and taking off and then down your Wal-Mart cardigan. I bet this little display scares all the other girls. Your dismissive side-eye, your slow spider-like movements, your ink-covered skin bared for the world to see. But for me, it is frankly, old-hat. Run-of-the-mill. A trick a true catfighter learns to ignore day one or three. Because nothing matters, not one fucking thing, until the pain starts. The baddest bitches can look like pussies and the girls that look like whirlwinds of hate and destruction wind up being as soft as velvet. And so as you move closer, I just smirk, and tilt my head to the side, rolling my eyes at you as you move in, not just into my personal space but past it, laying your bare feet on top of mine. It doesn’t take you long to curl and drag your toenails, starting our little festivities even before we have tugged even hair one. Then you tell me you’re a sketcher, and I sneer before responding. “After today, you’re not going to be anything other than my bitch, Chhhllllooooeeeee.” Your name coming out long and dragging, as I raise my hands up between us and then with a sudden force shove you back and off of me, readying myself for whatever reprisal this way comes.
Clawie steps into you again. My chest still sore from your hard shove. “Listen to me cunt . . . I saw what you’ve done. You’ve went ahead and declared war on FCF, not just here. Green hair as well . . . CUTE . . . real cute.”
Little Miss Alpha doesn’t back down an inch, and instead presses back into you as you prattle on. Then, once you’ve told me you notice, after I’ve given you time to scan my face for a fearful reaction that doesn’t come, I respond. “What can I say, there’s something uniquely irritating about you. And I just wanted to send a little shot across your bow.” As my words settle around us, I raise a single hand, and press my nails to your cheek, not digging or scratching, just resting it there. “Do you blame me?”
Clawie shivers slightly. There is something eerie about you. A terrifying aura, one that I only see when I look at myself in the mirror. There is a reason I only own one mirror in my place, the one in the bathroom. I terrify even myself. Your nails tap on my cheek. My left hand comes up and with a casual move, I swat your paw off. A completely dead glare in my own brown eyes. My 32DDs pushing into yours. Feeling how firm and big your breasts are. “Glad you sense it too . . . I for one find you unbearable to even stare at.” My hands reach around you, nudging themselves under your armpits and up your back, fixing two handfuls in your green hair. Holding it firmly. Not pulling or ripping . . . not yet. “But no, I won’t blame you for anything you do . . . Who can blame an animal fighting for it’s own survival?”
Little Miss Alpha finally sees it, feels it, not just in your body, but in the very air around us. The story told in the electricity that crackles everywhere our bodies align and meet, and at the center where our unaffected glares meet. You know now, how serious this is. That I am a mirror. An equal. Even if you wouldn’t admit it, or let the words leave your lips. And that should terrify you, just as it does me. But even with that fear and confidence mixing and coursing in our blood, we press forward, not step back. You doing so by reaching up and slapping my hand out of the way. When you so, I give you a half-sneer, half-smirk, just as I feel you reach around me, and grab my hair. You do nothing with it, as it is only a warning, but even so, I reach around you and grab your copycat green locks. There, as we communicate to each other just what danger awaits, I try my best to use my 40DD’s to try and intimidate you, certain you are used to almost always having the biggest chest in the fight. Trying to gain such an advantage not to hurt you, but simply to make you hate me even more.
Your body shifts, and so do mine. Our fingers mirroring each other. Finding grips, and I feel yours grabbing my hair. While mine squeeze it. You twist. I strangle your locks. If they were living things, they would be gasping for air now.
Our breasts on the other hand, they just slide. Tank tops softly hissing and squishing. The perspiration filling the cottage, causing them to dew with sweat and brush. You’re big. You’re fucking bigger, taking your wider upper body. And you’re strong too.
I sneer at you, then I grin.
I let go of your hair, and take one step back. Waiting for you to release my locks.
And when you do, I reach down, and peel my top up. Yanking it over my post-teen, firm breasts and off my head. I throw it away, letting you watch my breasts heave on my chest. Pink nipples fully aroused. Each of them begging for a fight.
My hands push down, and help me shimmy out of my shorts. I wore no panties underneath them. Not today.
Here I am. All 5’2” of me. Every pound of my 110’s. In nothing but my tattoos, makeup, and green dye.
Without turning my back to you, I slide my feet, backstepping towards the large pentagram we drew on the cottage floor. My hands going up again, gesturing you to meet me. Witch to Witch. Bitch to fucking BITCH.
Little Miss Alpha ‘s eyes almost begin to flutter and then fully close, almost put into a trance by this incredible calm before the storm. In its brewing nexus each of us, in our own way, tries to convince the other that we are not only the true catfighter, but the true bitch, the TRUE WITCH, between us. And that battle of wills and ways happens in the air, in our glares, and the spells we cast on each other, another, more physical war occurs between us.
A battle that is less ethereal and more based in pride. A contest held up by struts made of jealousy, desire, self-doubt, and a need to feel as if among the two of us, it is our own pair of breasts that will reign supreme. But just when I feel as if the moment has gotten too intense, too blistering for either of us to take a step back from the brink and oblivion, you do. Releasing my hair and after I do the same, backing away from me.
With anyone else, I would feel as if I had won. As if the battle was over. As if by just feeling my power so close to you, you caved. But I am no fool. No unweathered witch. And as much as yesterday we bragged about domination and the other’s weakness, each of us know now, each and every word spoken was either a lie or malformed braggadocio.
And so when you back away, though my expression does change, it does so into one of study and examination, not gleeful celebration. And as I watch you, it seems as if we are transported to a lonely cabin, lost in the woods, one decorated with lit and dancing candles, ingredients of various types, and half-burnt effigies. I know in an instance that it is our collective wills to battle that brought us here, and that as you back away, it is time to begin.
Something that you waist no time in doing as you begin to remove your clothing, one piece at a time. With intention you disrobe slowly, letting me see your youthful, beautiful body. Letting me bask in the glory of your breasts. Letting me witness how your tattoos frame your body perfectly. And then, once you have finished, and you are naked for me, you call me forward. Motioning for me to join you in a large pentagram that suddenly lights and burns into the cabin’s floor, created by your will alone.
I miss not a beat as I begin to give you the same show, sharing with you my curvier 5’2’’, 145 lbs body, one that is covered in tattoos though not as many. My hips are wide, thighs thick, tummy soft, and breasts large and threatening. Those tits being perky, but too heavy to stand as upright as yours, and though they hang a little lower, my own, cherry-chocolate-colored nipples are no less hard. Each of those nipples being pierced. Each of them calling out to yours as I join you in the pentagram, both of us nude, and both of us ready.
Clawie watches you slowly. My chest heaving. The cabin surrounds us. Like the womb of the all-mother, cradling two who might as well be twins. In here, it will shelter us from the storm brewing outside. It will be our privy, shielding us from the eyes of the Coven . . . Deep in here, their magicks can not detect us, nor do we need to abide by their rules.
“A witch shall never fight another . . .” The elders say, while tossing sneering glares at each other. Their fists clenched around their wands. Opting to lie and claim to serve a law that they themselves break when they meet a rival. Whether it’s over an artifact of power, an ancient tome, or a forgotten relic of times past . . .
So why should we abide by their lies, when in fact, our dispute is far more pure than their reasons. We’re not battling over power or bounty.
We’re doing it for ourselves. We’re answering the primal calling of the all-mother. Begging us to correct her mistake, when she erred and sent us both from the Ether, binding our souls to these bodies to occupy the same time space. Putting us on this collision course.
We are here to answer her call . . . To solve her riddle . . . Brooms at the door, our wands cast next to them. Fiery candles burning all around us.
And now, with you disrobing to show your formidable, curvy frame, a chill rises up my spine. You walk closer, and I tense . . . The candles dim at your side of the circle when you enter the sigil, and then light up again . . .
We’re not leaving it until matters are settled. From now on, it’s our home. Our cage. Our prison. It will sustain us and change to accommodate our needs. It will be our witness and judge.
Once again, we come closer, and our bodies press.
“Uh . . . “ A gasp betrays me, leaving my lips. Your red nipples boring into my flesh, half an inch from where my pink nubs drill into your flesh. And once again. Our arms snake around. Shifting, adjusting. Our breasts slide inwards, until my right is pushing on the inside of your left, forcing it outwards slightly. At the cost of having my own left breast mushed into the nook of my armpit, feeling your hard nipple gouging my flesh.
Fingers tighten around the green hairs. Brown and Blue eyes lock. You see the bottomless abyss in mine, and I see the endless raging ocean in yours.
“Bitch . . .” I snarl. Kicking my right leg forwards between yours, and swinging it back hard. Driving my right heel into your left Achilles. Shaking your head violently leftwards, then right and down.
Little Miss Alpha ‘s body and yours once again come together, this time flesh to flesh and with no more reason to hide our true natures from each other or the world. No, for so great did our anger become that we brought each other here. Shedding our mortal trappings and petty squabbling, all of which was just a ruse so that we could confront each other without the coven knowing. Every word of it code. Every syllable symbol. A boiling point having been reached between us, as we grew to be too similar. Too like-minded. Too confident and malicious to allow the other to be the same. And so we have come here, now that we can no longer satiate our desire for confrontation with bickering like those muggles that walk the streets.
In this privacy, as our heavy-busted frames press together and align, each of us giving the other dominance on one side of our pressing pairs, to truly feel the others power, we align. We center. Each of us again reaching for each others hair, but this time, rather than a mere threat, we attack when we take our grasps. Just as each of us extend a thigh between the others legs and lock together.
At first contact we each gave the other a small gasp of excitement and pleasure, but now, as we lock together and pull, we groan and breathe hard with effort. Knowing this is only the first moments of a war that may never end. A conflict of witches that we were destined for. A battle between just the two of us, but with the all-mother watching. Cheering on her two favored children to see which of us will come out the victor, to see which of her creations got more of her spark.
Bodies collide, fueled with our raging, conflicting wills. Creamy flesh
I whispered the words, and sprinkled the star dust. And watch their eyes harden. I perched on my broom watching them fight in the woods, in the streets. I lounged on their couches watching neighbor tear into neighbor. All but invisible to their eyes, that were consumed by hatred.
I watched and learned how they fought. How mortals resolve their issues without splitting the skies with lightning and cracking the Earth to spew lava. Without curse words that actually curses, and without summoning demons and djinns to do their bidding.
And like mortals, we clash. Grabbing, yanking, tugging. Fighting and battling. Our bodies melding together. Your right thigh brushes against my cunt. It makes me squirm, but I still lock my leg with yours. My own tattooed flesh brushing your womanhood.
Breasts compress and grind. Necks tense and fight an unfair battle against violent yanks and tugs of hair. We stumble inside the circle, and yet, whenever we approach an edge, it seems to magically stretch to remain at the same distance. No matter how violently we spin and shove, we remain centered. The candles dancing to the melody of our hateful screams.
Like a young witch, who doth not even deserve the title, clumsily trying to cast spells, the two of us try to emulate what we have learned from the muggles. What we have seen them do when we turn their women against each other. Such education we agreed to seek, when it became clear things between us could not be quelled by a meeting of the coven or a calming spell or elixir, the two of us agreeing in secret to find some other way of hating and hurting. The two of us working together and in harmony for the first and last time, to come up with a way to war without catching the watchful coven’s eye.
So here, outside of that gaze, we lock together, body to body, feeling what those women must have felt. The rush of adrenaline. The brushes of bare skin against our most sensitive and lust-inducing nerves. The pain of hair being pulled, and our bodies being bent. Every bit of it is novel to us, and intensely interesting, but such study is a distant footnote to our long-coveted ability to hurt each other. To battle. Witch to witch. To take out our hatred on one another, and punish each other for daring to be so similar. And as we dared then, we dare again, spinning in circles as our tugging gets more and more painful, neither of us aware of the limits of the physical strength of our bodies, nor the amounts of pain we can safely tolerate.
Safety however, is something neither of us seek. Not at that moment. Not with each other. Each of us instead wanting only to quench this thirst for pain, this insatiable need to destroy each other. And so together we spin and spin, with the pentagram beneath us growing and shrinking as needed, until finally we crash into a nearby wall, and more importantly into a shelf of spell books. As they are knocked this way and that, and sent flying around and down to the floor, I release your green hair, a hue representing our equal place in the order, and then without warning one, slap you hard across the face, letting my fingers curl and claws dig into your cheek, all as I pull my legs from yours and look to toss you to the floor.
Fists fill with hair. And we battle. We go to war. We show our true hatred and jealousy. Trying to rip out the other’s emerald manes. For long they have been our distinguishing factors. The names that the villagers whisper to their children at night, warning them to not go out in the field.
“Beware of the Green demon . . .”
“Tidy your bed, or the Jade hollow will come for you . . .”
So many names, and all, we shared, to our ire. Even our reputations were tangled and mingled. And we have had enough. And now, we seem determined to leave the other with none left.
Fingers only loosen to let go of the loose strands. And they stream down, and while our Ivory bodies grind and mesh, the hairs stick to our shoulders, backs, and sides. So many torn. Thousands of follicles murdered, uprooted, and yet, eyes gush with so much tears we are practically blinded, yet we do not stop.
Until a collision sets us into the wall, and avalanche of books rain down. On shoulders and heads. One tome slam down between us, across the tops of our grinding bosoms. The leather stem slowly dragging down our bruised flesh and falls down. And on it’s way down two things happen . . .
The first, is your damn paw grabbing my cheek, and scratching down . . . Rewarding you a horrid scream that leaves my lips, a nice filling of my pale skin under your nail beds, and four bloody streaks going from under my eye socket down to my jaw . . .
The second, is my left knee shooting up, slamming into the heavy tome slumping down to the ground, driving the hard corner into your ribs.
And with one leg on the floor, you twist me and throw me down. I stumble, disbalanced and I start to crash down. But my fingers do not leg go of your hair. I pull you with me and we come crashing down hard.
“Ah!” I cry, landing on two piled books. They hit my flesh. But I do not let that stop me, pulling you sharply to the right, I throw you off me and slink on top . . .
“Nasty woman . . . “ My voice drips with venom, my left claw leaving your hair and going down, starting in your right armpit, I drag the nails towards me, and over the outside of your right breast. Still wedged outwards, my nails carve four red paths, towards your large, strawberry colored nipple.
I can only imagine how the all-mother looked at us, embracing, and dancing together. Looking to be more drive by lust than hate, as we tried in our own inexperience to find our way through this new method of battle. Our wet sexes rubbing and resting on each others outstretched thighs. How pathetic we must have seemed as we coiled our legs around each others and began to frantically spin in each others arms. But then the books woke us from our fear of taking more. Each falling, with our inhibitions going with them, and then suddenly, my slapping-claw landed, and your knee drove home with a heavy force, driving one of the corners of the heaviest tomes into my ribs. Making me grunt out and collapse down to my knee. As I travel I pull, trying to pull you with me to the floor. I succeed, and mount you, but before I can capitalize you toss me off, and then climb over me.
From your perch you look down at me with a glare, and call me a nasty woman, just as your left claw catches and drags down my right breast. As soon as such a claw begins, and to my shame, I reach out for you, and try to push you away at the shoulders, all as I shriek out in pain. A sound and a sensation that worsens as you reach my hard nipple, which you spare not a single claw.
I see a smile on your face and it drives me wild with anger and hatred. In response my left hand moves to your hair and begins to tug, right, and then harder right, over and over again. You adjust to my pulls and drop your lower half down atop me in a perfect straddle, even with your neck bent. But as you so bent, I reach my right hand up, and grab your impressive left breast by the nipple, clasp it between my fingers, and then tug as hard as I can, doing so with such force you are yanked forward, and into a headbutt which I throw at your nose. Hoping it lands. Hoping it hurts. Hoping I make you pay for even existing, hating you more than could be brought about with the most powerful spell.
On the ground, I can feel the heat of the candles blazing my sweat soaked flesh. Despite traveling across the hut, and now being close to the wall, we are laying perfectly in the center of the pentagram, that travels with us no matter where. The blood tinged chalk brushing against my back, and with a flip we roll over and now it’s you, laying in the center. A logic and physics defying persistence by the magical circle, it’s there by our wills. Our only way to ensure the total suppression of our magic. To prevent one from turning her skin to steel or melting the other’s face with a fiery breath . . . It’s what’s keeping us like this, fighting like mortals, invisible to the eyes and senses of the Coven.
I claw your breast, from your ribs all the way to the front. Shifting atop of you. I grin, loving your howl of pain. Music to my ears. My thighs nudge your sides. My labia mashing on yours, and my clit grinding down yours in an overbearing, slight show of dominance.
You cry and shake, and I see two droplets of crimson fall from my cheek, dropping on your nose and upper lip. Reminding me of the burning cut on my face.
“You were always the inferior Emerald witch Amber . . . Beg me bitch . . . Do it soon, before I ruin your body and soul beyond the Druid’s ability to heal you . . . Beg me for your life . . .” I hiss cruelly.
But you don’t beg. You snap my head sharply to the side. I wince, then cry out. The stab of claws in my left boob startles me and then you thrust up with your hip, bridging and launching me forwards, straight into your headbutt.
White pain. Sparkling stars. A river of Copper.
All explode together in one prolonged, never ending moment. And when it passes I am on my back. Staring up at your face. A red splotch on your forehead, blood that’s clearly mine after you bashed my nose. I feel it streaming down my upper lips. Your body shifting.
My legs close by pure instinct, sliding up. Thighs close on your ribs, the weeping face on my left thigh grinding into the bruise the tome left on your ribs. My left hand goes up grabbing your throat. Holding it, squeezing. Choking. My nails wedging into the sides of your neck.
“Why . . . you . . .” I croak out with a bewildered voice, coughing and hacking, my head turning to spit out blood.
But its in this display of apparent weakness, that you see my right fist flying upwards, clenched tightly, smashing full force towards your full pouty lips.
Brilliant. Perfect. Devastating my headbutt is, seeming to knock you nearly out as it lands and you collapse on top of me. For a moment I linger in the contact. Feeling your body laying atop mine. Our giant breasts pressed together, but with not a single ounce of force applied. But then, when I have had my fill, I roll you over, as the circle follows.
In your state of utter dismay I revel, looking down on you, already feeling like the victor. But then I feel it, your thighs lift and an wrap my midsection just as your eyes blink open. My first reaction, molded by shock, is move my hands to your thighs and try to push them off of me and down to my hips or completely off. But in so doing I leave myself completely open, and you take full advantage, raising one hand to my throat and choking me and the other you ball into a fist and punch me hard.
The combined squeeze, choke, blow, level me, and like the same sack of potatoes you became after my headbutt, I collapse upon you. But your hand never stops choking me, and because of that you keep me propped up with your outstretched forearm. Despite that angle, for a moment I am useless, and just lay there. Your hand depriving me of air, as you continue to squeeze my ribs. But slowly, as I recover, I lower my teeth to your forearm, and latch on, hard, but quick, Once and then again. Wanting to force you to release your strangle, but not counting on it, as before you have had a chance to do so or resist, I raise my right arm, as high as I can, and then slam it down, the bottom of my closed fist landing right where my headbutt landed earlier.
Then, as you deal with another blow to the head, and a series of bites on your forearm and elbow, I reach my left hand back, and reach between your thighs. My fingers stretching to get to your sex, getting closer every second. But even as such an attack travels your squeezing begins to take its toll, and I groan out in pain.
Even below you, I fight back hard. I feel my nose crunched, flattened. It might not be broken, but it sure is twisted and it’s making it hard for me to breathe . . . I’ve never felt this kind of pain before. Never this vulnerable . . . Witches go through many trials and tribunals, we know pain . . . But it’s always spiritual . . . Mental . . . Battles fought in our minds against the forces of nature, demons, and faeries . . . This kind of physical, grueling, desperate combat however is . . . Unlike anything I’ve felt before.
But instead of caving in, I steel myself.
Instead of crumbling, I tense up.
Instead of folding over, I reach up.
And I fight you with everything I have in me. My legs tighten on your ribs. My left hand chokes and I bash your mouth in, my fist pulling back to reveal the blood works that’s not your mouth. You collapse down, my arm falling with you, but I keep the choke. And for few moments I think the same as you did earlier . . . That I’ve won. Your body slumped down, breasts smearing the other with sweat, faces bleeding, bodies aching.
Then the gates of hell all open, all at once.
Your teeth snap at my forearm, biting, mashing, snapping, tearing at my skin. Your fist hammers down on my nose, the butt of your hand mashing in, trying to finish the job your headbutt started. I cry out in pain, my legs flail and your right snakes in. You clutch my pussy and begin to claw at it.
“AAhhhhh!” I scream so loud the entire cabin shakes, and for a moment it phases out and back into existence. My legs snapping open and your body slithers, adjusting to give yourself the angle to maul my womanhood.
A witch’s source of power. Her sex.
I shriek in pain. I lose the chokehold and reach down for your wrist. My forearm bleeding, and your body collapses on mine, breasts grinding again. Faces inches apart.
My right hand grabs your hair. I pull it sharply, just in time to spare me from another savage bite. And I retaliate, immediately. Snapping my teeth at your own fucking nose. Biting it, my right pulling your hair to my right, my head twisting to the left. Trying to yank your head and nose into opposite rotations, trying to fucking snap the cartilage, and if I could, the bone too.
My left foot pushing into the floor, I bridge up and throw us to our side, but with your claw in my cunt I can’t force you back. My hip retreating back, separating us, then I snap my left knee viciously, towards your own cunt.
How quickly our motivations changed. From a need to “settle things”, and push the other out of our way, to this, to pure desperation. Yes, we still hate. Yes, we still covet what the other has, and what we lack. But now, as we struggle within the pentagram, we do so first and foremost because we are afraid. Not of this pain, the pain that ravages our bodies as we bite and claw, strike and struggle, but instead what the other will do to us if we lose. Every line already having been crossed. Every curse already having been hurled. Every moment in which we could have become something other than enemies, already been tossed aside and set on fire. No this is the fight of our lives, for our lives, and it is as terrible and awful as either of us could have imagined.
But that hell is now our home, until one of our truest fears have come true. Until one of us succumbs to our greatest foe, and the winner, given all of her powers back is allowed to decide what to do with us, as the loser begs on her knees. But we fight because we are similar. Because we are both born too much the same. And in that same way, as we battle the pendulum swings one way and then the other, with each of us seizing control and domination, only to have it stolen from our hands a moment later.
Such theft I undertake as I bite, and strike, and reach down for your cunt. Each of three attacks work, but rather than leaving you defenseless, you strike out like a wounded animal, latching your teeth onto my beautiful nose all as you pull my head hard to the right. On it you gnaw, and tug left, as my blood begins to run from my the bite and the resulting wound and into your mouth. It must taste sweet, my life force as you take it from me, tearing it from my flesh. But I can’t think about that now, about your enjoyment of my suffering, nor the echoing sound of my terrible scream as it echoes through the cabin. As I experience such unbelievable and unspeakable pain the cabin disappears again, only for the two of us to flash from one scene from our past to another. Still as we are, locked together, and still in the middle of the pentagram, but around us one of our many arguments, clashes, and moments of feud and torment. When my scream finally stops the cabin reforms, and you press up and throw me to the side, your knee slamming forward and up, the cap of it crashing into my clit, and devastating me. My whole body going numb and limp from pain, as I moan, my voice pitching incredible high causing the glass goblets in the cabin to shatter, and then so low the ground beneath us shakes. Thereafter being unable to move. Not unconscious, but broken by agony.
Sulfur . . .
Copper . . .
Ash . . .
That’s all I can hear and see right now. Trapped on the floor on my side, locked with this wicked doppelganger in a mortal fight. Neither refusing to give in to the other. Neither acknowledging the other’s claim . . . Her right . . . Her identity attached to who we are. Too similar, hair, roundness of our faces, short statures, large breasts, pale skin, even our desire to marking our own bodies and etching them with ancient runes, and tributes to the All-Mother . . .
It goes far deeper. To our souls. Our pride. Our wills. Faces bloodied we lay there, locked. Our consciousness itself fading. My left and your right hand between us, claws grappling. Your nails still fresh with the wetness of my pussy. My knee cap still jammed against your clit. Our other hands in the other’s hair. Holding weakly. We gasp and grunt.
A hard standstill, a moment of peace, bringing the jittering of the hut to a stop, as we lay there. Wondering . . . If this is a sign that the war is over. But if so, who won? Neither could even come close to claiming it.
Is it a rare gift from the All Mother. A chance for us to stop this madness, to crawl away from the other, licking our wounds, and put this feud to rest.
Or is it . . . The eye of the storm . . . That our bodies are drifting past now, slowly and briefly, towards the raging tempest and winds that will consume us both . . .
My eyes flutter, and lock with your blues. And we both know the answer.
It’s not over, until . . . it’s fucking over.
My left claw releases your writ, and I slide my hand down, to your own cunt. My nails stab into the root of your pussy. I push them into the soft, soaked flesh. Your eyes go wide, and so do mine. And with a slow, steady motion, I drag my claws up your cunt, across both labia, and towards your clit.
“Bitch . . . “ Is all I say, my brown eyes gleaming with rage, my left leg coiling around the back of your right, binding us again. I’m not going to stop . . . I won’t . . . EVER.
“Starting now I will
be protected from you,
This magic spell I will do,
With this spell I shall bind thee,
From now on you will let me be,
I as of now am protected from your harm,
I seal this hex with my charm.
It is you that will suffer and cry out in pain
It is you that will suffer and write in pain”.
“From this moment pain you shall feel
I have spoken these words,
words that are real
I have spoken these words and
so mote it be!”
How many nights have we spent chanting those words to the fire, to the flame? How many times have we tried to protect ourselves from each other, but in the next breath curse the other to a life of pain? Since we were children. Since we first laid eyes on the others emerald hair, and every day since. Neither living a single day without the other constantly in our mind. Our rival. Our enemy. Our nemesis. Our punishment and pain.
And though it took months to plan this, to prepare for this final battle, within less time than one needs to properly the head of ogre, we come to its end. Each of us battered and bloody, biten and broken, maimed and moving towards unconsciousness.
And though I speak of our states together, it is I that circles the drain. I that can barely move. I that suffers from a terrible blow to the clit, and a nose half-chewed, hell half-digested. From such a pathetic placement on the battlefield I see you turn to your side, almost challenging me to join you. In your eyes I see fire, but still fear, letting me know you do not. Understand. Comprehend. How little I have left. How much you have taken from me. But after all we have been through, and all the nights spent cursing, I owe you this. This battle of wills.
To give it to you, I roll on my side, my sapphires locking with your beautiful umber eyes. The two of us looking, perhaps for the first time, deep into each others souls. In that gaze, we see something. Something haunting, terrifying, and infuriating beyond measure, a fear-earned softness. A nascent thought hidden deep in the back of our minds. What if we stopped? What if we joined? Two emerald queens of equal power, sitting on thrones of gold, high atop the world. Such shameful thoughts of peace and partnership manifest not just in our gaze but in our minds as we take it in. The two of us working together to overthrow those elderly hags that run the coven. Shoulder to shoulder, and hand in hand burning the villages and status quo of all those who dare oppose us. It is a dream, a fantasy, but even there, with not a soul left to stop us. When we straddle the world together and fuck it like a large-cocked slave, we see it. The outcome. The eventuality. The fateful end to such a tale. A terrible, destructive battle between us. One which not only destroys the world around us, but the two of us. In the premonition, the two of us dying on each others poisoned blade, slowly sinking on such daggers until our hateful glares end, as our bodies once again come together and in a single instant together turn to ash.
From such a vision we wake, our eyes widening as we realize how necessary this battle is. How not just our own destinies but the world’s depends on us to finish this and each other. And as that certainty comes, the door to the cabin crashes open, and through it a hard wind blows, kicking up ember leafs which caught in that gust, swirl around us, creating for a moment a tornado.
I take it as a sign, and so do you, as you lift your left leg, raising it up and draping it over me and bringing it to a gentle rest over my right, once again locking us in an embrace, but this one meant to bind us together and house our cruelty. Such cruelty comes as you slide your hand down my body, inch by inch towards my sex. A sex which in our struggle has become an inferno in heat, and a seeping river in wetness. Not because I harbor some sort of love for you, deep underneath my hate, but instead because fighting you, hurting you, and using my hands and body to destroy yours turns me on and stokes my carnal desires.
Deep your claws dig and far your fingers stretch, before they drag up my pussy, peeling flesh under nail as they move towards my clit. As I try to endure such a cruel attack, with blood dripping like a leaking sive from my nose, I reach my left hand out to your shoulder. On that shoulder my hands rests, as my eyes close and I whimper at your harming touch, trying to center myself enough to counter.
I hear you call me a “Bitch”, mimicking the women you watched fight, and when you do, my eyes shoot open and my right hand moves forward, my palm presses to your mons pubis, my fingers curl into your sex, my middle finger stabbing in, with my long nail digging into your clit. I feel you shudder as my fingers press harder and harder, my ring and index joining in to claw. But you continue your attack, and together we react in pain, our eyelids almost spasming as we try to resist the urge to wail and cry. Something about your vulnerability and mine at that moment, makes me want you closer. And so with my left hand I pull you forward, until our large breasts press together, and we again stab each other, this time with hard nipples, and not claws.
Then, with you so close, I suddenly spit, at first figuratively, by hissing out the word “cunt” at you, and then literally, by gathering the blood-laced saliva in my mouth and launching it into your face. Such a crass action. Such a disgusting thing to do. Something I would never think about doing, save with you. For I hate you beyond words. Beyond thought. Beyond comprehension or divine inspiration. You are my enemy, Chloe, my rival green witch, and I will hate you forever. Longer than the sun burns in the sky; longer than the proverbial boulder survives a single dove’s brushing wing; and even longer than there are people, places, or things for us to fight over. Not because we are so different, but because we are far too much alike.
I hate you . . .
I fucking do . . .
By the moon Goddess, and the forest spirits . . .
I fucking hate you . . .
The rickety shack around us is trembling, shaking. The storm within our hearts manifesting, the windows blasting open and shutting, the door snapping and letting in a blast of the night’s cool air, one of the candles of the pentagram blown off, but with a flicker it reignites, its fire raging.
And in the center of it all, are us. Naked, coiled around the other like two serpents. Hips pressed, and breasts mashed. I feel your overbearing firmness grinding into me. Your orbs defiant and as if with a mind and will of their own, they try to crush mine. Lead by the raspberry colored nipples that stab into the cuts on my breasts. Reopening them and letting my blood seep to mix with yours.
Your right thigh shifting forward, curling around my left, accepting the duel, accepting the bond. Like two links of a chain, they lock behind the knees, and shift, shimmying, but not to protect our womanhoods as much as trying to part the other’s legs for the vindictive, hateful assault of the other.
And amidst it all, our claws move, with deadly precision and wicked intent. We scream, loud and in unison. Like two sirens joined in song. Your talons tearing at my womanhood, latched and curled. Tugging me into you, in a secretive mash of wills and hellish desire. I drag, and you stab. We twist and grind.
“cunt . . . ” You hiss at me like a serpent, then you spit the pink slime into my face like a true Cobra trying to blind it’s enemy.
My head leans back and you push into me. Both hands holding my hair, I grab at yours, emerald locks looking distinctively thinned out by now, tangled and roped from the sweat of this hellish struggle . . .
And in a slow moving roll, you get atop of me. Holding me by the hair. Your body pushing with force and gravity.
I stare up at your face. Blinking through the webbed lashes glued with your saliva and blood. Our arms shaking the others head, my skull dragged on the wood. Our hips swishing, wounded clits brushing and mashing.
For a minute we lay there, then I push a foot to the ground and leverage up. I lift your hip up and see the rage and shock in your eyes. My smaller body packing some strength still. My buttocks leaving the wooden floor, then with a calculated tug on your hair, I roll you over, and we go into a spin. Thrashing and cursing, pulling tufts of green out by the roots, wrestling. Legs coil and uncoil in rapid succession. We’ve watched the mortal women do this for weeks, and now, we understand the dance. The savage rolling rhythm that goes for another minute non stop, before we come to rest. This time, with me on top of you.
A savage grin curls on my lips. They purse, and I let a slow dribbling spit stretch down, towards your face. I let it pool into your right eye socket. Muscles locked, tensed. My breasts trapping your left one between them. My pecs clench to squeeze your massive breast. To crush it utterly and completely.
“Weakling . . .”
Adrenaline flows through each of us, as we torture each other, clawing and digging at each others womanhoods. Screaming and moaning out together, and in unison! Our souls and wills locked in struggle with us, as we two women, witches, and warriors of the claw tear into each other. There is so much pain there, both ongoing and possible, but even as moments pass of us mutually destroying each others source of power, we want more. NEED more. The feeling is overwhelming and indescribable. I want to not just fight you, not just hurt you, but consume you, inhale you. Wanting every bit of me to fight every bit of you. To wrap ourselves together until we are one writhing mass of hatred and malice. Such incredible desire you must feel as well, as without a work being spoken we release each others now wounded clit, and reach around one another, running our fingers deep into each others hair, and grabbing tight, tight holds.
Then, with such a grip, and as my bloody spittle slides down your face, I press into you, and roll you over onto your back. With you there, I use both the power of the earth itself, tugging down on us, and my own force to press my body into yours. With that press I then smash your tits with my own, and drag them left and then right, wanting you to feel how big mine are. How they are bigger than yours, knowing that between us exists two advantages, one for each. You are thinner and my breasts bigger. Two weapons we have used since childhood to tease, taunt, and torment each other. But to me it is not sufficient to just inflict such knowledge on you through our press, I need to tell you. And so as droplets of blood pitter and patter down on your face, still seeping from my nose, I lean in, and whisper into you ear. “Feel your tits getting crushed by mine, bitch……?”
As the words enter you like poison from a snake, I tug painfully at your hair, making your neck bend and back arch. God I love having you beneath me, and punishing you for a lifetime of resistance and obstruction. But as I revel in it, you plant a foot a turn us, even as our hips betray us and press, smash, and drag our wounded clits together. Each of us blind, deaf, and unwilling to admit or even react to the pleasure and pain it brings us both.
Proving every assumption about you wrong you lift me, and turn us, but I fight you every inch of the way, and we in a slow waltz, roll across the floor. The two of us moving one way, and then after a slow stall, the other, all the while yanking out handful after handful of each others hair. Our aching hands and fingers only releasing our grasps to let the loose strands fall to the cabin floor, before they re-tighten and set to yanking more from their burning folocals.
Finally we come to a rest, with you atop me, our thighs crossed and clits fused together. Then you lean up, and as you do a string of saliva slowly stretches until it lands in my eye, and as my lid shuts, collects there like a vat of ogre broth.
As if that weren’t bad enough you shift your breasts, and corner the one on my left, it being vulnerable and alone. Then, with your chest muscles alone you flex and I feel it, the squeeze. With one of your giant breasts hanging down and pinning it on either side you use yours to smash my poor breast. It is now my back that arches as I moan out in pain, and down at me, as you smirk, you taunt me: “weakling”.
God at that moment I hate my own body, my own pain, that you have this or any moment of control. But I can’t just hate, I must act, or I feel as if my breast might explode, though it likely would not. And so I take my hands from your hair, and bring them to the sides of our breasts, and then in an act of sheer madness, I decide to make the pain I feel in my breast mutual. By suddenly punching both your outer breast and mine, and keeping the pressure up even thereafter, smashing my tits between yours and my fist, and yours just the same. Together, in response we cry out, and I feel you slump against me as we both try to endure, focus, and find a way out, and when you do, I lean my head up, pressing our foreheads together, as I glare. “Fuck you, Chloe…… FUCK YOU!” As I speak I press my head up harder and harder, using my skull to press into yours, all before I cry out again in pain. My breasts burning, aching, and in all other ways, hurting.
My stomach expands and collapses with each heaving breath. My lungs are not working in full capacity, not with the immense pressure between our breasts. Yours are larger than mine, just another item on the long checklist of why I hate you . . . The demand of oxygen surpassing that of the supply, I am straining, my stomach pushing out like the sack of a Bagpipe, only to touch your own belly in its own heaving for air.
Your thick thighs pressed tightly against my own, and I lock my thighs back in a revenge grapevine. Hips shifting slowly, your round buttocks pressed to the floor, ground. I can feel the lifting force, but I counter it with keeping my slender hips flexed, using gravity . . .
And using my own womanhood. My sex. My Goddamn clit, to push down on yours. Like a thumb grinding it down. And trying to keep it down. Each tiny shift of struggle making them brush and rub. Igniting waves of pain caused by our sharp scratching, and in a way, causing us to squirm and thrash with the surges of reserve power seeping out . . .
When they said a witch’s source of power is her womanhood, they didn’t lie. And when we went for each other’s we were crossing the most sacred line of a Witch code. Attacking what makes the other special. What makes her part of the coven. And now, we’re both slowly bleeding out our life essence. Our source of power, in this savage pursuit for complete supremacy.
But what matters, as long as I am on top. As long as I’m winning. Grinding you down, and calling you what you truly are . . . A weakling. My mind still echoing with your earlier savage words and taunts.
My pecs flex more, crushing and trapping your left breast further.
“Whose breasts are crushed now, you harpy?” I taunt viciously, my fingers twisting, pushing knuckles into your scalp to pull and uproot more of the hairs. Using my thumb nails to outright slice and cut the problematic, strong strands to ensure I leave you with none. I can see my green tresses scattered on your cheeks, sticking with tears, sweat, and blood, loose hair fanned around our bodies.
“GGGOOOARRRHHHH!!” My body erupts in pain, your fists smashing into my breasts, both of them. The knuckles grinding, and twisting. My shudder and let go of your hair, I go for your hands, but they twist more and you flip us around, rolling us with a sudden surge that you must have been building for half a minute at least.
And back on top, your fists grind down. Aided with gravity. Denting my breasts and pushing them together, your massive boob slipping out. You taunt me, telling me to ** FEEL IT **
But I won’t be the only one feeling it.
My left arm comes up in the tight space between us. I push my left elbow against your right breast, while my claw opens to grab your left one. Fingers spreading across the front. I press up to lift your torso few inches, using my sharp nails stabbing your tender bosom for persuasion.
“Feel . . . THIS . . .” My right fist comes crashing into the bulging compressed side of your left boob. Smashing it, and retreating, only to smash again, and again. Sending an angry barrage to your bigger breast. Focusing my assault on the left one, not willing to play clean, and gamble my survival on a game of breast endurance with you.
This is exactly what I wanted, to draw you into a game not of chess but chest, dare you into accepting my challenge, and then let my one advantage over you slowly take me to victory. My deepest desire to leave you, after this struggle cursing yourself for daring to challenge my breasts with your own. And for a moment, after I turn us, I feel like I am on the precipice of having it and you where I want you, where I want us. My eyes gleam with an evil excitement, and my fists, though driving into your breasts without succession shake with the same. But though I walk you to it. Guide you in. Try to position you perfectly for my trap to work, you instead lash out. Not with one attack but many. Grabbing and clawing my breasts as you let them fall free. Driving elbows and claws. Smashing with one blow and then another.
All of it hurts. All of it pains. All of it does exactly what you mean it to do. But through it all, driven by just one more ember upon the fire of my hatred for you, I react to your frustrating escape and assault. Not my trying to reassert my own plan, but joining you in yours. My own hands relenting from their constant press, only to reattach as open, grasping hands, my nails digging deep into both of your breasts, with small pencil-peels of skin coming off under each. In the wake of such stolen flesh, small red lines appear. Red lines which in small sections begin to bleed. A victory, but one shared, as my own left breast begins to bleed in equal, as we set in on the chest of our only rival. That fact made known to me as my eyes glance to the damage I am causing only to see my own blood dripping down and mixing with yours.
As we shred you tell me to “feel it”, responding not to words spoke but to a thought I left unsaid. But it does not, and should not surprise me, as I begin to feel your thoughts as well, as we battle, our own connection to each other in the mystic arts somehow finding a way through the barrier of the pentagram. Teasingly allowing us only more contact with each other, but not else.
Such mutual destruction however, does little to prepare me as you again thrust your clit up into mine, and with it drive us up and over, again sending me to my back with you looking, glaring, with hate-filled eyes down at me. I try ignore my anger at how strong you are, and focus instead on my attacks on your breasts. Wanting to ruin them, and leave you shamed if anyone were to ever look at them again.
But I am not done or satiated in my hunger for pain, as I then dig my toenails into your soft legs, and kick. Trying to rend even more of your flesh. Wanting to make this close embrace too costly for you to survive. Wanting to make you regret allowing yourself to take me on in such an intimate way, even as I begin to regret such a decision myself. The two of us now lying in a gathering puddle of blood.
My back grinds ruthlessly into the wooden planks . . . The chalk of the pentagram rubbing into my sweaty skin, caking it with the reddish brown hue, and yet, magically reanimating again to perfection when my flesh shifts out. Never erasing, a persistent, permanent curse that we’ve placed upon each other, upon ourselves. Our prison in this war of hatred.
And on my back, you have me. Assaulting my breasts with vengeance, with venom, and with sheer brutality that shows that you hate them . . . Not just as a part of me, but that you have a particular vendetta against my chest.
Your claws open, and sink in. They drag and peel. Running down cuts on my breasts. Paws closing in to draw the vicious red trails, only to reopen and clutch again. Gliding and tearing some more. I cry in agony, and try to mimic yours. Thrusting and clit-boxing you to your back. Hips glued together . . . My belly pressing to yours, I arch back. To give our paws the room they need. I stab the nails straight into your flesh, and feeling so far behind on the assault front, I go straight for your large rough areolas . . . Gouging and dragging across the strawberry red skin, further painting it crimson with the tiny cuts that I engrave in them.
Your toenails flash down my legs, and I shudder. It’s what you need to pull me by my breasts, like they were handles, and you slam me to my side. You don’t follow on top though, you just hold me down, your legs curling, and swinging in bicycle kicking slashes, each leaving red streaks down my legs.
“ARRHHHH!!” I cry out in pain. My hands opening and releasing your breasts, only to start swinging, like the talons of a feral animal, swiping across your breasts.
SLASH! SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!
My legs bleeding from the front, stinging pain everywhere and I begin to kick back. Pinned on my side, I just slash wildly, trying to cut you open. To tear your pale skin. To rend you. Bleeding from many dozens of cuts, I want you to feel the sting too. To pay. I want you to suffer and know what it’s like to be maimed.
A literal blur we become as we roll and then collapse on our sides. Each of us at this moment driven mad with hatred. Not a plan or rational thought left between us. Only malice. Only a will to maim and destroy. Our legs kicking and nails digging into soft thighs, and flexed calves. Our hands mauling each others chests, from stem to stern, leaving no part of their mass untouched or unclawed. Wanting to see more of the bright crimson. Wanting to cover each other in wounds and mementos, reminders of this battle and each other, incase somehow one of us makes it out of this battle alive and unaltered.
“AAAAAAArGRRRggggGHHHhhhhh” I scream out, though my offense never ceases. You making similar sounds as we lay there, side by side, inflicting any damage we can. But then in your eyes I see a confidence, a look, a smirk, one between the howls and whimpers. It is one I have seen a thousand times, both in the waking world and my dreams, and I hate it. I want it gone. I want it wiped out. And to achieve as much my hands move from your breasts to your face! Latching on, my left high and on your forehead then working down over your eye, and my right digging into your cheek and lingering.
At the very moment I make that switch from breast to your beautiful face, I open my legs and catch your thigh between mine, and lock down. Needing the constant kicking, and the burning pain of toe nail gouging to stop as I ruin you, and take the beauty I have always heard about.
When my thighs seize, the distance between us closes, and sweat covered stomachs press together, just as our wounded breasts meet again, only separated by your still squeezing and clawing hands. But such a meeting, is painful in itself as our dried and wet blood mixes, and wounds begin to glue together, with the same phenomena happening with our poor, cut riddled legs. But even as our bodies fuse, I lean in and scream into your face, my hot breath splashing against your face like a heavy fog. “I HATE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
It hurts . . . everywhere. My front side is more shades of pink, purple, blue, black, and red, than it is Ivory . . . Your claws, your teeth, your skull, your fists, your knees . . . All throughout have violently done their duty perfectly . . . Moving towards your goal . . . Complete obliteration of your enemy. Of me.
My palms swing wildly, going on with my own style of onslaught. Long, erratic, animalistic slashes. My toes shooting forwards and raking down viciously. Leading to a different sort of art getting drawn on our breasts and lefts. Your cuts on my flesh are shorter, but deeper . . . Mine are longer, but more superficial . . .
We just go at it wildly for minutes, my arms beginning to tire . . . But I can’t stop. I won’t be outdone with you . . . I just can’t . . .
And it’s in this moment of weakness, that I smirk at you. A grin attempting to discourage you, to hide the great deal of pain you’ve put me through.
But it backfires, majorly.
It gets answered by a roar. A savage one. And your claws shooting up, from my bloodied, ruined, mauled breasts to my face! You clamp on my left cheek, gouging and clawing, your body pushing into mine, your thicker thighs trapping mine and pulling us closer again. Bellies bump and rub. Pelvic bones grind, and once more I feel the flick of your clit against mine.
The pressure on my thighs expand the cuts, both on your legs and mine. We bleed together. We bleed into each other . . .
But it’s not what I notice . . . All that pales to the left claw shooting for my right eye. The nails gouging in. I cry out and pull my head backwards, but you follow me, taking me to my back, and pressing your body down. Your forefinger slashing across the inside of my socket. I cry and shake my head, pushing my cheek deeper into your claws. I flinch and push my hands for your face. But you’re ready. You pull your head back, and my nails only score your cheeks and run down to your jaw.
You fall off me but still cling to me, your thumb nail taking it’s turn, going and raking against my lower lid. I gasp in pain and pull my hand back. I try to squirm free but the only way is into you, and I roll you to your back. My right hand going on the defensive, grabbing at your right wrist. But it’s too late. Your claws shoot and drive into my eye . . .
The piercing pain is unbelievable . . . My body erupts and I fall off you and you roll back on top. Pressing your body down . . . Pushing and grinding into me . . . An avatar of hatred and savagery. My hands are both grabbing your left wrist. Pushing and trying to pry it off. But both your claws latch to my face . . . You want to ruin me . . . And you’re doing it . . . You’ve done it! Taking my eye, I just squirm and flail, but I’m trapped under you. Your larger breasts grinding on me. Your clit gouging mine, bullying it back into its sheath . . .
As soon as my hands latch onto your face it is frantic and wild. You reaching out for me, and me trying to evade you. Knowing that if I just can steal a few moments of inflicted pain. A few moments of stabbing and clawing, without reprisal, I can seal it. Your defeat. Neither of us having much left. Endurance. Energy. Strength. All used up in this horrific battle of witches. This struggle between identical souls, placed into near identical bodies. If I needed to recount it. To write it. To describe what happened, moment by moment as we desperately fight for what we each perceived to be our lives, I could not. For it was wild. Wanton. Reckless and maddened. But then it happens with a quiet * squirt *.
The sound of my thumb driving into your eye, and then stabbing through it with my nail. When it happens you flail. You flop. And bite your bottom lip to keep from screaming. But you don’t have to to scream, I know already. You’re done. FINISHED. Your hands falling from their desperate grasping, landing on the cabin floor. As they do, the pentagram shrinks, and shrinks, disappearing all together, until finally it reappears, not on the cabin floor, but in the center of your forehead. A small, bright red flame searing it in as a permanent scar. A permanent brand. A permanent mark upon you, one that speaks to not only my victory, but also forever seals off your powers.
With that symbol so affixed, and as my thumb pulls out of your bloody, punctured eye, I glare at you. Not as a rival, but as a defeated threat. An enemy felled. A woman waiting to be punished…. And as you wait, still stuck beneath me, my right hand moves up and cups your cheeks and chin, squeezing your face hard. With every moment that passes the pressure grows greater, and my lips become more and more a sneer. I fucking beat you, and at that moment I want to fuck you. Clit to clit. Body to body. Riding you until you cum all over me, and then, and only then would I kill you.
But, as I said before, I am no fool. And there is power left in you, even if has been ever stolen from your grasp. Wanting it. Coveting it. Needing to combine the power of the only two emerald witches in the world, I pull back, and peel my body from yours, wincing and grimacing as our legion of wounds separate and reopen, my hand only releasing your face when I can no longer reach it. Then, as I stand before you, I smile as I raise a hand and speak.
Gods of old and gods of new
I call upon the slivered moon
To bathe and heal my wounded form
And cleanse me before this bested whore
Long has she troubled and long have we fought
But laying at my feet, her words were worth not,
So take from me these scars and cuts
And give them to her, the worthless cunt.
For before your eyes I tested her might
But in the end, it was I, who was right….
With the last word spoken, I lift a leg and stab my toes into your breast, leaving it there, as my body is healed. My every wound disappearing. Every bruise. Every drop of blood. And though for a moment they are absent completely within only the length of a elflings name, they reappear on your body, forming between your sea of wounds, leaving you more wound than woman.
I squirm and flail. Crying in bitter, savage pain. The agony is too much to withstand. I can feel your thumb drive into my eye. The nail biting into my eye, ensuring that I will never see with it again . . . But I know that’s not the worst of it . . . I know that I will not live to see the next day, you won’t let me live . . .
I buck and fight hard . . . For survival, for my live. I try to throw you off, but you push down on me, naked bodies fused. You hold me down. My claws raking down your wrists, pawing at your face and shoulder, but you keep the savage grip, pinning and holding my face down with one cheek, while carving my eye out with the other . . .
Then my hands just collapse, too weak to even scream. To fight back. Beaten, defeated . . . I hear your breathing. I feel your heartbeat pounding in your chest. I feel the dripping sweat and blood falling on my face. You just lay there, for a long moment, just toying with my head, shaking it, and pulling your claw out. A stream of blood running down my cheek and temple.
Then we separate, you push off and rise. The sensation unbearable. Since we walked into each other. Since we pressed our naked forms, we have not pulled apart. It feels . . . Strange. Like conjoined twins separating. And despite my humility and agony, I feel certain . . . longing.
The searing pain flashes on my forehead, along with the smell of burnt flesh. My nose crushed and mashed, and yet I can smell it.
You stand, and chant. The healing curse. The rejuvenation chant. Blood magic.
And with every blood magic spell, there is a price . . . A hefty one. And I’m here to pay it.
Your toes stab into my breasts, and I begin to scream. Flail. Flop. Like a fish out of the water, I thrash. Every blow, punch, bite and rake I inflicted upon you throughout the battle getting combined in one bright white, vicious spark of pain. Hours of punishment compressed in few seconds and they thrash into my body. Cuts displacing from you, and showing on mine. Bruises double, and cuts intersect and deepen. My pussy starts to bleed slowly down my thighs, and when you finish . . . You’re standing there. Pristine. Wearing nothing but your ink, your green hair fully regrown, and your skin beaming with the coat of sweat.
And I just lay there, nearly balded, looking like I was double teamed by a berserker Emerald wildcat.
“Now! Chloe……..” I say with a suddenly ascendent confidence, as I walk over drop into a squat next your head. “Before I get on with making you regret every single moment of your pitiful existence, I want something…….” Without waiting for response or for your shameful, agony-induced writhing to cease, I grab you by what is left of your hair and drag you up to your ass, with tears and blood streaming down your face. Your eye carved out. Your nose bitten near off. With you there, and as you sob, I lean in and press my lips to yours. Kissing you hard, though never being foolish enough to use my tongue, knowing you are a vengeful little slut and would make me pay.
Through our kiss you can feel my resurgent powers, and to you, even though you hate me, you ALMOST give in and kiss me back, compelled by the strong magics that make witches irresistible to their targets. For that reason, and knowing this is the last thing in the world you would want, after such a crushing and humiliating defeat has been handed to you, I let the kiss linger. Then, however and finally, I break it and stand back up.
“Mmmmm………. I know you’ve wanted that for a very loooooong time, slut…… Figured I’d give you one last moment of happiness before . . . well . . . before the end.” My words meant only to be heard, I then lift a hand, spin a finger, and in a poof we disappear. Only to reappear a moment later in the inner sanctum of the coven. I standing in my full, black, witch attire and you find yourself chained in the middle of a floating iron circle, spread at both the legs and the arms before me. Still nude. Still ravaged.
“Do you remember, Chloe, the last time we were allowed to be here together? What happened? How we argued and fought. And during that little tiff you happened to break my staff in front of all the others . . . ? Well . . . I got a new one. Ooops! I guess it was yours until tonight.” Every word from my lips is as poisonous as it is condescending and insulting, but as I finish, I snap my fingers and your own staff appears in my hand. It is thick and wide, made of oak from the sacred tree, from a fallen branch you chose especially for its construction.
“Now I know you’re wondering what I have in mind for you. . . . What the winner does to the loser after a lifetime of hatred. Well, my pretty li . . . hmmm . . . I guess you’re not pretty any more are you? Shame. . . . It should still work though. Oh and by it, I mean . . . I’ve always had this theory. You know, about the power of a witch and what it might do if properly applied to a magical staff like this. AND I wanted to test that theory, care to help?” I say with a smirk as I twirl your staff and step towards you, my unblemished breasts looking incredible in my all black dress, one split deep to shame others with lesser chests.
The pain is only eclipsed by the shame . . . The shame of losing to you . . . To be bested. To truly and finally find the answer to the question that we raised, ever since we became aware of the other’s existence. Witches live long, near eternal lives . . . And yet, our 500 years of conflict are nothing but a brief flash in the lives of older witches. To them, we are still young. But to me, my entire life has been tainted by one purpose, one problem . . . You. And now, half a millennia of doubt, threats, taunts, challenges, short duels and skirmishes have been finally brought to a halt. To one truth . . .
I was never the better witch. And it was proven.
I feel your hand pull me up by the hair, my body slouched. Muscles ache. The extra surge of lactic acid infused from your body to mine completely paralyzing me. I slump in your grip, and you lean in, kissing me. I try to fight it, but then I stop. You’re right . . . This is probably the last bit of pleasure I will have, so I give in, I kiss you back, feeling your lips suckling on my busted, clawed open pair. You’re drinking in my blood along with my essence. Our naked breasts brushing, your nipples dragging along every cut and gash, like two tiny brushes, painting random patterns across my blood smeared breasts.
Then you break the bite, and with a snap, we are back at the Coven. Witches around us stir. I can hear their murmurs. I’m still naked. Spread eagled and tied to the altar of sacrifice. The elders around us whispering, but none steps forth. They understand what happened. They suspected it, and they tried to stop us from ending one another . . . But now, it’s too late to stop it. One of us is a broken Witch. And there is no room in the Coven for the weak.
You animate my staff in your grip, and I shudder.
“No . . . ” I whisper quietly. Wiggling, and trying to break free, but all I get from you is a snicker, a little laugh. I feel you standing at my feet. Your body pressed to the edge of the altar.
Then the tip of my thick staff touches my inner thigh. I shudder. The oak is mostly smoothened, but it’s not devoid of hard edges and splinters. The after effects of our duel in this very chamber. The one where were flung spells and nearly brought it down, before meeting in close combat, swinging our staves . . . I remember trapping your staff under my foot, then smashing it with a hard stab of mine . . . Costing you a rare artifact, that you vowed revenge for . . .
And you were right . . .You got your cruel revenge . . . And now, I feel you pushing the staff againt my sex, and I gasp.
You don’t hesitate, you thrust it into my sex, and I scream. The edges scratching my vaginal walls, that your middle finger scraped . You twirl and twist, slowly driving it in and out of me. Fucking me in front of the elders.
Your left hand going up in the air, and you start to chant . . .
“Wicked wench, I curse your soul . . .
In this Coven, is no room for a runt . . .
Your powers are mine, part and whole . . .
Here I strip them, from your cunt . . .”
My screams get louder, longer, but none of the witches stir or blink an eye. They just watch you work the staff in and out, blood slowly pooling under my sex, but it’s not just blood . . . My own nectar is seeping with it. Despite the pain, the magics are strong. And you are absorbing my power . . . Draining me of it, using my own staff as a conduit, to take what was once mine . . . To take my whole, and make it yours.
Rushing nothing, I fuck you with your staff, going hard and pressing deep. Watching your one good eye as I do it, resting a single hand on your shoulder to hold you down atop your precious artifact. Wanting your power, your magic, your strength, but also to watch you suffer as I take it. To watch your confidence fade, as regret and shame wrack your body and soul. And though I wish I could torture you in such a way for eternity, eventually, I find it. Earn it. Pushing you into orgasm atop your own staff, your precious liquids leaking out along with blood, coating the staff from the end within you to the emerald gem at its tip. Such liquids I will never wash off, but instead keep and seal them into the wood, both for the power it will provide and as a reminder to all who dare oppose me of my power.
“What a good little witch you are, Chloe. . . . Mmmmm, to think it took all this to finally get us to work together. What a shame. . . .” Just as I finish speaking my fingers snap on my left, non-staff filled hand, and the chains that bind you disappear, and you crash to the floor in a heap.
“You two, carry her to the sacrifice slab.” I command, and when I do, the gathered crowd which had been silent sets alight with murmurs. As such cacophony poisons my moment, the two nearest witches pause, they still being afraid of the elders, knowing their previous orders not to let us fight one another. At their impudence, I flare, slamming your . . . I mean MY staff into the ground, setting the walls of the coven on fire. A bright, green fire that terrifies all present. “DO IT!” I scream at the two, and quickly do they move, running to you in their clumsy brutish way before lifting you and carrying you over to the gray stone slab.
With you there, I lift my new staff into the air and cast
Once my rival, now a slave
She who hated, this way laid
Make her serve, and be at peace
To lick my pussy, until I’m pleased….
As the spell is spoken, I see your body calm, your hands which had been clenched soften, and your head drop back. Then, and only then, I climb atop both you and the slab, spread my legs, placing one red heel down with a confident step on either side of your head, and then, with a smirk, and as you look up at me with one docile eye, I lower myself. Pulling up my dress so that I can watch you lick me. Wanting this to be my last memory of my one true rival. All as the coven burns around us, and every witch we have ever known watches.
The torment continues . . . The pain, the humiliation, the humbling reality that I am being fucked by my own staff, in front of all the Witches in the Coven . . . This will be my memory, my legacy . . . You’re making sure that after I’m gone, no one remembers me for my great deeds, for my prowess. All they will remember and recall is seeing me here, bearing the marks of our battle. They haven’t seen a scratch on you. You made sure you healed up before bringing us here. You made certain that no one will figure out if the fight was close, or if you did what you always claimed, tear me to shreds without breaking a sweat . . .
Your black robes flutter, fucking me until . . .
“Uuhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaahhh!” With a gasp, my thighs tense, my body seizes and I gush hard. A pink misted orgasm washing down, and my head slinks down . . . Your eyes go wide. You can feel my power completely leaving my body, infused now in my staff that you wield . . . I’m nothing better than a muggle now, and a dying one at that.
You order two witches to move me, but before they come close you let the chains disappear, and like a marionette with her strings cut off I collapse down in a heap. They move me to the slab, and lay me flat across it.
And with your eyes beaming with power and savagery, you cast your spell.
You turn me into your Thrall.
And my clouded mind just swirls in my head. All I know or see is you, climbing up, and pulling your dress up. I see your creamy thighs, and your warm, moist, pink pussy. Unblemished or scarred. I can smell your scent.
And not a cell in my body considers biting, clawing, or kicking. The magics making my body relax and they watch you perch on my head. My fingers touching your thighs. My head moving. Soft moans, I begin to lick you. To eat you. Tongue rolling out, dragging along the length of your sex. Trailing your slit.
My one good eye shut.I nuzzle my broken nose against your womanhood. You hold the dress open to let them all watch the fat of the one witch who defied you. You’re setting an example, of me. Using your once proud rival to scare off any who may come to cross your paths.
My fingers tighten. My face pushing in, I jam my broken nose into your clit, my tongue slipping inside of you, swirling around, licking, worshiping, pleasuring you.
Hanging to life with a single thread now, with one purpose . . .
. . . licking your pussy until you’re pleased.
Even in your state of complete destruction, I love looking at you and watching you lick me. I always knew this day would come for one of us. When we would be trapped between the others thighs and forced to serve. It was the only way our feud could end, even if a friendship, we have both seen, would end another way. But the fact that it was destined makes it no less incredible. Having my one true rival, after hundreds of years, lick me. Serve me. Please me. FUCK it is perfect. And though it is, and part of wishes you could be this, my sexual slave for eternity, I know not even my own, now doubled magic, is that strong. So I take the one. One devastating, earth-shattering orgasm that tears through me before gushing out across your bloody, slashed up face, filling your wounds and causing you to scream with me even as you continue to lick. And though it means nothing to me at that moment, you open your mouth letting my expelled juices pour in.
But I have no time for it, as I quickly slide off your face, and the slab, adjusting my robe and taking hold of my staff once again. Had I waited, or taken my time, I might have noticed the small pentagram on your forehead fade and then disappear. Instead I am onto the next, already bringing an end to this humiliation, casting one final spell on you, as a small, emerald-gemmed necklace appears nestled between my breasts.
All-mother, all-mother, the time is at hand
For my rival, my enemy, to face my demand
To lock her away, not in tower or cell
But in this emerald gem, her own special hell
To watch and to see my every conquest and dream
Come to life, come to heel, and in line, bend the knee
But never shall she sleep, or close her one eye
For from this day forth her soul is MINE!!!!
I do not know if you sense it, or even hear my words as I speak. But it takes not long for your body to fade, from flesh to mist, and in an instant find yourself pulled towards me, and into the emerald. A gem I hold up to the light of the burning coven walls. There, as I peer, I see you, smashing your fists into the sides of your breast-bound prison, sobbing and raging. My little pet. The Chloe on my neck.