One has given what was asked and said what was demanded: “I give.”
The speaker’s hands falling from the shoulders they held, just before her head turns in resignation and shame to the side.
The eyes of she, the defeated, once fire-etched and certain, closing, as tears begin to seep.
And though the victress looming above her asked and dreamed about those very same words being spoken by her white rival for months beyond counting, having them spoken. Having them said, by a broken and battered bitch beneath her does not but fuel — does not but compel.
She feeling, more than ever, a desire to punish and humiliate — wreck and wreak havoc on the tits so often put up against hers in comparison and debate.
But in her stillness.
In her waiting….
Her rival assumes it is over. Their battle. Their feud. And the need for her to fear that more will be done to her poor aching breasts.
But she is wrong.
Ever.
So.
Wrong.
As today will be her lesson. Her instruction. One she will never, ever forget. That between their dueling pairs of large, mouthwatering tits, it is the darker set that is stronger.
The chocolate set that is sexier.
The set that hangs victorious above her own that is supreme.
Such truths the hopeless and bested white woman before you will be made to whisper — to shout — to scream….
All before she is forced to worship those same tits that beat her’s. Not for minutes or hours, but days.
After every meeting of staff on their floor in Bowman Tower. In every supply closet and shade-drawn office, in which the black goddess can corner her once defiant foe.
A foe who made the mistake of betting, that the better breasts, were her own.