Jugged Out by Dradis

“One!”

“Two!”

“Three!”

The 10-count was a slow one, the latest in a series of slow counts that had punctuated the match thus far. In Erica Ellis’ mind, they reminded her of something out of a pro wrestling bout, like what happened when both combatants went down or when one left the ring for an extended period. Absent was the strict and regimented enumeration that she was normally accustomed to in boxing – here, each toll of the official’s voice that rang out across the penthouse venue was followed by a long pause that could easily have been filled by an additional three or four counts. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for why it was this way, other than to purposely prolong the situation. The audience in attendance certainly didn’t seem to mind this – judging by the sound of things, they were more than happy to have the action go on for as long as possible. But for Erica, each second that passed felt like its own little eternity, one piling up after another as they seemed to stretch on without an end in sight.

Of course, the passage of time was a highly subjective experience. And as she stood in her pink satin bra and panties at the center of the room’s fighting area, Erica need only to look to her opponent to see the truth of that in action. Said opponent was a raven-haired beauty in a maroon silk bra and panties by the name of Ivana, who presently was on the carpet next to a sofa at the edge of the open space. As she sized up the other woman from afar, the blonde could tell that a drastically different story was playing out for her brunette foe in that particular moment. Whereas Erica was under no serious pressure, Ivana was fighting against a clock that was ticking down on her as she struggled to rise from her prostrate position. Whereas Erica’s thoughts were clear and her manner was calm as she waited, Ivana’s mind seemed to be in a groggy haze as she labored to regroup. Whereas Erica was fresh and ready to go, Ivana was in shambles and running on fumes.

All of this was a courtesy of the novel ruleset in place for this contest. On her own, Erica would probably never have conceived of the notion of a breast smother match, given the narrower scope and presumed niche interest. But now that she was in the thick of things, she absolutely saw the appeal of the idea. Action was restricted to bearhugs and other rudimentary grappling, all in service of one woman subduing the other and securing her jug-on-face. Smothers could only be maintained for a maximum predetermined duration unless otherwise broken, 90 seconds in tonight’s case – long enough to diminish one’s capabilities, but still short enough to allow for a plausible prospect of recovery. Each smother then was to be followed by the 10-count, the time before which the smothered fighter had to rise to her feet in order to stave off defeat.

It was hard for Erica to blame anyone for thinking that Ivana held an undue advantage in this type of match. The twentysomething brunette was bigger than her in every regard, coming in at an inch taller than the blonde’s 5’4 and probably up to 10 pounds heavier than her 110. However, the most glaring discrepancy was in their respective bosoms, with Erica’s 36Ds being dwarfed by two or three cup sizes. Erica was not used to being so decisively outgunned, and it was no understatement to say that this did not endear her to her more well-endowed opponent. Physical disproportions aside, Ivana was also reputed to be quite adept at this sort of fare, allegedly having been brought over from Eastern Europe for the express purpose of competing in jug smothering contests such as this one. Erica couldn’t help but think that describing the brunette this way cast her as akin to some sort of luxury foreign import, an extravagant toy for someone with the means sufficient to afford her – and for all of that trouble, it must have been expected that Ivana would win emphatically.

Indeed, the match thus far had been quite the squash – just probably not the one that most observers would have predicted. Erica had managed to outmaneuver Ivana early on to secure the first smother, and from there she’d piled them on one after the other, never taking her foot off of the gas.

The brunette had just about managed to climb up off of the deck as the count reached 8, but Erica could tell that she was still in a very bad way. “Jugshock” was the word that got bandied about by aficionados to describe this state of smother-induced disorientation, and it was obvious that Ivana was deep in the throes of it. Her legs were wobbly as she leaned her hands onto the sofa armrest to support her weight, and her face bore a vacant expression as she struggled to regain her bearings. No longer was Ivana the haughty and fearsome competitor that she had been at the start of the night – now, she looked like the perfect victim, one who was in no way prepared as the blonde came barreling in at the earliest possible opportunity. Erica achieved almost a running speed as she crashed into Ivana and tackled the latter down to a seated position on the sofa. She quickly squirmed her way atop to straddle the other woman’s lap, effortlessly wrestling the resisting arms aside and pushing her foe up against the furniture’s backrest as she picked things up right where they had been left off.

By now, Erica’s technique was well-practiced – looping her right arm around Ivana’s neck and cradling the back of the skull with her left hand, the blonde leaned in to bury the brunette’s face in the warm embrace of her bosom. Cutting Ivana off from her air supply brought about the expected reaction as the brunette sluggishly tried to break free, but the wherewithal to escape was simply not there. Erica shared in all of Ivana’s struggles in these close quarters – the tired push of her hands on the blonde’s flanks, the tiny side-to-side movements of her constrained head, and the whiny protests that were lost beneath the stifle of oppressive jug. Conversely, Erica was acutely aware of everything that Ivana must have been experiencing in the same moment – the feeling of helplessness from being pinned down, the panicked urge to seek freedom, and the terror that came from realizing that none would be forthcoming. Such dominance was a thrill for Erica, and it conduced her to ground and mash her tits against the brunette’s face even more forcefully than before. All the while, the smother continued to run its course and Ivana’s capacity to resist ebbed away ever further.

The allotted time passed, and as the official on the sidelines called for a break, Erica released the hold and rose up to her feet. She stood over her opponent with her hands on her hips and surveyed the scene, staring intently at the brunette as the count began anew. Erica was sure that she’d felt Ivana start to go out just as the smother had ended – now slumped on the sofa with her eyes relaxed shut and her mouth partially agape, the brunette bore the appearance of having simply dozed off in her seat. The chances of Ivana somehow beating the count seemed slim, and yet this favorable outcome still felt strangely unsatisfying…

Without averting her gaze, Erica raised her hand and held it outstretched to signal for a halt. Remarkably, she got what she wanted – the official stopped counting mid-sentence and the audience went silent, all eyes in the room now looking to the blonde and waiting for what would come next. Erica needed no further affirmation that she had a free hand to proceed in the way that she saw fit.

Stepping in and reaching under Ivana’s arms, Erica hauled her off of the sofa and dumped her onto her haunches on the floor. Erica then went down as well, kneeling in front of her opponent. Ivana was visibly quite somnolent and unaware of the events that were transpiring around her – this state of passivity meant that Erica had no trouble folding the other woman’s face down into her waiting décolletage as she secured a brand new smother. This time, though Ivana instinctively tried again to break free, her efforts were far less insistent than they had been previously – her hands pressed on Erica’s thighs but lacked any real strength behind them, while her moans of protestation seemed much meeker. Erica went further with the smother as she began to alternately loosen and tighten her hold, each squeeze of her arms tortuously squashing Ivana’s face into the cushy prison of the blonde’s bosom. All in all, this was a good look for Erica – as she gazed out and scanned the crowd, she could tell that the visual of her imposing herself over her brunette quarry was making quite an impression.

One particular person in the audience caught Erica’s attention. As her eyes moved across the crowd, her gaze met that of her manager Elliot Carter, who was in the front row. Elliot’s outward demeanor was mostly impassive, a carefully crafted presentation that he preferred to maintain at these events. However, Erica could spot the subtle crease of his lips into a revelrous grin – a small nuance, but a telling one for someone who was typically such a stickler for his own decorum. Elliot’s proclivity for dark-haired women and pitting Erica against them was well-known to her by now, but his choice in opponent selection for this particular bout really made her wonder. Things could have been a lot worse if Ivana had lived up to her billing as the odds-on favorite; had that given Elliot any pause when making the match? And if the fight had followed the course that so many had predicted, would he be enjoying that just as much? Surely he had not gone in with the expectation of seeing Erica lose, had he? Holding her stare upon him as she teased him with a come-hither look, Erica leaned her head in and gave Ivana a disrespectful kiss on the forehead. She would have to remember to give Elliot a hard time about all of this after everything was said and done.

Erica felt Ivana’s body starting to relax in her grasp as oxygen deprivation took hold once more. Releasing the brunette from the smother, she relished watching her foe slump face-forward into the carpet like a ragdoll, but she did not linger on this sight for very long. Erica’s next move was to pull Ivana away from the sofa and roll her over, stretching her out on her back; taking up a new position kneeling above her opponent’s shoulders and facing her legs, the blonde now lowered herself to the floor as she descended upon her foe. Hands cupped chin to hold the head in place as tits came down and buried the face; Erica pressed down with her weight centered on her chest as she applied a new smother from this north-south position.

Erica felt relaxed and unhurried as she worked the hold from this unorthodox configuration. The arrangement of her body and Ivana’s left some freedom of movement available to the other woman, but with her upper half pinned down securely, the chances of the brunette breaking out from under were non-existent. Ivana bicycled her legs on the floor and wriggled sluggishly from side to side; her hands rose at one point and pawed aimlessly at Erica’s forearms and biceps, but they eventually slid back down to the floor when no purchase could be found. Erica turned her head to the side and laid it down on Ivana’s bosom, resting it against the curvaceous swell like a pillow as she rode out her opponent’s meager struggles. This was the closest that the brunette had come all night to achieving her own smother on the blonde – it was a fact that Erica found to be quite gratifying as she savored the moment.

Ivana’s movements were beginning to subside, prompting Erica to release the smother and lift her chest off of the brunette’s face. Erica paused briefly to admire the sight of her foe flirting with the edge of unconsciousness, but then crawled forward atop of the other woman and swung herself around to assume a new seat straddling the waist. The blonde reached down and slid her hands underneath the brunette’s back, and after some brief manipulation, she undid the clasp to Ivana’s bra and stripped the garment away. As Ivana’s bare breasts came into full view for the first time, the size disparity between the blonde and brunette’s respective assets was brought into stark relief – Erica’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as she beheld just how utterly ginormous her opponent’s tits were. It was not often that anything could so deftly make Erica feel inadequate, but after a few moments passed and her composure returned, she reached down for Ivana’s chest as a new feeling rose within her: jug-hate.

Hands sank into breast flesh. Fingers curled into talons. Seizing as much of the overflowing mass as she could, Erica began to violently squeeze, claw, and twist on Ivana’s tits with as much enmity as she could bring to bear on opposing rack. The pain stimulus roused the brunette somewhat as she moaned and stirred fretfully, but the blonde was hardly daunted – rather, this served only to encourage her even further. Releasing the left breast, Erica smacked it with a trio of stinging slaps and then capped off by pinching the nipple, which elicited a louder and more plaintive groan as her foe weakly grabbed at her wrists. Strictly speaking, Erica was now well outside the bounds of the rules for this match type, but nobody in the room seemed to be particularly perturbed by her actions or in any rush to stop what she was doing. And what of Ivana? At this point, there was absolutely nothing that she could do except take the abuse. Adjusting her grip on the brunette’s tits, Erica reared back and forcefully yanked on them as far as they would go – this compelled Ivana to wail out loudly and arch her back as her breasts were stretched to their limits, a reaction that the blonde found eminently satisfying.

At last, Erica released Ivana’s breasts and shook aside the brunette’s hands, which fell like dead weight to the carpet. Reaching behind her own back, she undid her bra and peeled it off, baring her bosom and unfettering it for the grand finish. Erica encircled her hands and arms around Ivana’s head for the umpteenth time and lowered herself down to press her boobs into the other woman’s face; they molded around the brunette’s features with a perfect skin-on-skin fit as she squeezed tight. Already exhausted, Ivana had nothing left with which to put up a fight. Erica felt Ivana’s hands come up and press at her hips, but there was zero strength behind them; she could hear the faintest glimmer of a verbal protest, but anything said was too inaudible and too incoherent to be intelligible. The blonde continued to hold the smother fast as it claimed the last shreds of consciousness from her brunette opponent.

Surely but surely, the trapped woman’s resistance receded into nothingness. As the smother reached the full minute mark, Erica felt Ivana’s body go completely slack beneath her own. There was no ambiguity in the blonde’s mind as to what had just transpired, nor should there have been in those of anyone else who was watching. Unwinding her arms, Erica lifted her breasts off of the other woman’s face and beheld the visage that had been buried beneath – Ivana’s expression was a tranquil one that remained blissfully oblivious to all around her as she lay soundly asleep beneath her blonde conqueress.

Erica rose to her feet and stood tall as she looked down upon the beaten brunette. As the audience began to applaud her emphatic victory, she planted a foot on Ivana’s bosom in a show of dominance, but that move by itself somehow didn’t quite hit the right note for that particular moment. After a few seconds of consideration, she raised her eyes to meet the crowd as she struck a new pose – raising her arms and folding them up behind her own head, Erica arched her back and thrust her chest out. Her breasts were now front and center, allowing all a good look at the triumphant pair that had carried the match.

Erica smiled. She had to admit – asserting jug supremacy had never felt so wonderfully exhilarating.

The End

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