Of the Estate

No husband has made the request, and no fight over man has occurred, the conflict seen here is instead over manor. The manor. For the maid and the mistress of the Winterberry Manor, after the smallest bump of hips in the long ivory hallway, turned, launched, and wrapped their fingers into each other’s hair. They had never spoken, never fought, never seemed to pay even the slightest mind to the other, but in the back of their minds, they had been obsessed.

Who was the most attractive woman on the estate? Who was the skinniest? Who was the sexiest? Though neither were the lady of the house, the answers to those questions matter, at least to they now engaged.

And so they war, thrusting their hips and lips into one another, angling their bodies to better bring their clit into contact with their rival’s. Momentum swings back and forth, orgasms approach and recede, pushed back by willpower alone. Their battle has only just begun, but here in the 87th bedroom of 93, they will go unbothered, uninterrupted, in their search to determine dominance.

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