So! I don’t want to give too much away, but I made a decision based on what I felt was right for the story and the engagement therein that may be opposed to what most expect of me and my work.
Not to say this tale isn’t rapture-ish, because in a lot of ways, it’s the most me-ish tale in a while. But, having said that, it takes a turn some might not expect.
If you’re one of those people, I apologize. I ran the story by several authors/friends and they agreed that the decision I made was the right one. Now, that doesn’t mean it was, but it was enough cover for me to feel safe that it wasn’t the worst decision ever.
Also! I invented a word. I know what you’re saying, you can’t do that! Well, I did. There just isn’t a word for a person with black hair, other than raven-haired, onyx-haired, black-haired. For every other color there’s a term. Brunette, blonde, redhead, etc… So, because off that lack, I am making one. “Onyx” It’s going to be used in the same way as the above replacements. So! If you see that, and you’re like, “whoa Rivals, what gives…? This gives: onyx.
Also, don’t say it’s like fetch.
With all that said, ENJOY!
For mile after mile of beautiful, New York state roads, two co-workers, Beatrix and Emily traveled together in complete and utter silence.
One of the two, she with charcoal-colored hair, anxiously tightening her fingers and palms around the steering wheel of the car in which they rode. The other, the one with long, straight golden locks, sat in an equal state of bother. Her state of disquiet made clear as she sat in the passenger seat, crossing and then re-crossing her legs. The two women at unrest separated by a an overly thin, teasingly tight center console. One that matched the tight confines of their economy-tier rental. A rental that kept them close — agonizingly so.
Agonizing though it was, the two had always been close to one another, literally, though not figuratively. For they had for years at that point, sat back-to-back in the same cubicle; sharing the same friends, favorite restaurants/bars, and even in-office men for dates, when they so chose. And yet, during all that time spent either circling each other socially, or with their hair dangling and tangling behind the back of their chairs, they had only engaged in the most precursory of conversations with one another.
In the first few weeks of their hiring and placement together in the sea of modern business necessity, the two did as women do. Each spending their free moments and the energies of their unbusy minds comparing themselves to each other. Not overtly, but silently to themselves. Whose legs were longer; clothes were tighter; hair was better-styled; breasts were bigger, better, and more effectively put on display; but most keenly, whose voice was the most seductive.
Maybe, if they had found their comparisons easy, and the winner of each perceived competition clear, the two could have each moved on from it in a day. Cruelly, however, to their great irritation, they found themselves not only similar but maddeningly so.
Their bosoms being of equal size and shape. Their legs of equal length and tone. Their round, gym-tight asses comparing no different than that of they and their own reflection. And worst of all, their voices each velvet-soft, silk-smooth, and lingering in the most sensual of ways.
Such recognition of similarity did not come quickly, in a day, a week, or even a month. But after a year — a painful, jealousy-breeding year of side-eyed comparisons and long, tortuously obvious moments of extended presence, and convenient positioning. Moments in which the two women stood side-by-side at the water cooler or in hallways of the large corporate floor, each pretending not to notice the other’s matching poses or examining eyes.
Rather than accepting that equality, and perhaps letting it be a point of bonding or the foundation for a friendship, the two women began to obsess.
Every moment of their workday spent, with whatever attention they could spare, spent studying each other. Every move, every sound, and even every decision their competition, as they saw it, might make. They, lost in their need to compare, searching for any small difference they could cling to, desperate for something — ANYTHING that would set them apart.
And yet still, despite their intense focus on each other, our black-and-blonde-haired cubicle-mates exchanged only those words they had to, and not a syllable more. Neither pushing for a dialogue, or even allowing themselves to stumble into a situation where such might be required.
One leaving work early, whereas the other might leave late. Efforts spent to make sure that they did not need to walk from hall to exit together, or god forbid, find themselves locked in the same elevator.
That refusal to engage one another directly caused a dizzying and palpable atmosphere of tension to grow between them with every passing minute.
A cauldron of rivalry and frustration, it was.
A sauna of requited jealousy, and projected self-loathing.
Despite the intensity of their own feelings, however, both Beatrix and Emily imagined that it was only they who felt such things, assuming that the other was oblivious to their silent struggle. But eventually, when they had truly settled into the daily grind of their competing qualities, that belief was shattered.
A shattering that occurred, when one day, Beatrix laid her head back on her chair and began to imagine. She slipping into a dream she had been blessed with the night before, and the night before that.
In it, she and Emily were both nude and glaring at each other. They stood not a foot apart, and yet on the verge of bringing their frustratingly similar bodies together, though to what end, she did not at first know.
As it had on every occurrence of the dream, that image caused her panties to wet, and her hand to drift down between her legs, which spread just far enough to allow herself access. Then, after shifting her panties to one side, she began to rub at her aching clit, sending bolts of electricity through her body, and a blanket of distraction over her mind.
A distraction that grew worse as in that mind, and as she pictured Emily reaching out and shoving her, only for she to return that push a moment later. Back and forth they laid hands on each other with increasing force, until finally together they dove, their lips sealing, and tongues clashing in an epic explosion of long-denied passion and desire.
As she fought back moans, Beatrix continued to rub herself, leaning back further and further in her chair, until suddenly she felt it. A gentle thud, and then a shifting contact, one she knew immediately was the back of Emily’s head against her own.
Her first and most fear-laden instinct was to jerk herself forward, sit up, pull her sundress bottom back down, and quickly end her self-stimulation. But as thought turned to action, she found herself shocked.
Emily had not pulled away, commented on the contact, or made even the slightest sound of objection. And so the black-haired beauty remained not only leaning back, but with her fingers on her clit.
In such a precarious state, she simply listened and felt — not wanting to make a move before she who sat behind. Through such senses, she felt Emily softly turning her chair, one way and then back, not in any discernible sequence, but randomly. An action which caused the back of their pressing heads to rub together, and their lavishly kept hair to brush not just once, but then again and again.
Leery though Beatrix was, as the slow, soft, rubbing of locks continued, she let her eyes close and her attention to focus on the sensation of it. The rubbing. The shifting. So unexpected it was, and yet, it felt…. It felt…. The black-haired Beatrix could not then describe it, or do so even now, if you asked her. For it was not nerve-endings being triggered that created the sensation, nor the touch itself that caused her heart to pound and pulse to race.
Instead, it was something else — something ethereal. More forged of Beatrix’ excitement about she and her rival touching, when so little between them had been spoken.
That feeling of taboo swelled in her as she and Emily, for the first time, shared something other than proximity.
A sensation of titillation that led Beatrix to once again stroke her throbbing clit, not because she meant to, but because she had to.
Not because she was daring, but because she was desperate. The excitement of just that single touch driving her wild with want, a hunger that grew worse with every second that it continued. For as every such second passed, it became more and more likely that Emily’s press was not accidental — not unnoticed, but instead intentional and desired.
A revelation of consent and craving that Emily too reveled in. The blonde’s own fingers pressing through her already moistened inner labia, once and then again. Her digit working as she, in her imagination, spun that moment, and she and her rival’s press into a scene of sexual majesty and potency that puts this writing and all others meant to excite to shame.
In that mutual state of arousal, the back-to-back girls continued to rub with their met and leaning heads, until within the glory of the moment, and the silence that each fought to maintain, Beatrix could not help but moan.
It was so quiet.
Imperceivable to all, save one: Emily.
She must have heard it. Oh god…. The black-haired worker thought as her eyes shot open in panic, she fearing what might be said or thought by her cubicle-mate. But as terror began to grip her, that same sound was returned by Emily, not once, but twice.
Half of Beatrix wanted to turn and face Emily, to grab her and drag her into a kiss. But instead, she simply continued. Her eyes closing once again, as her fingers drifted down from her clit to the folds of her sex. Once there, they entered, causing her to shiver with pleasure.
Emily, following a mirrored path of risque desire, found her fingers taking the same journey. Down and in. Down and in. Again and again, as each leaned into the other in excitement and newly unrepentant and unhidden lust.
In that way, and as the cruel hands of the depressingly utilitarian clock on the wall next to their cubicle ticked by, they together worked themselves to orgasm. One which they reached in unison, as long, soft, muted moans escaped their lips in a harmony of shared ecstasy and a chorus of finally revealed truths.
And though they each came, one and together, driven to release by the mere thought of the tension that existed between them. As the resulting haze of that glorious and much-needed orgasm passed, their inhibitions returned. Their own, somehow-suppressed fears of being caught not only by their office-mates but each other, seized them.
A seizure which made their hearts suddenly feel as if they had been surrounded in ice and buried in snow. Their eyes, which had been closed with pleasure and desire, blinking open as a mutual terror gripped them.
What had they done? They each asked themselves, as every muscle in their bodies tightened and as wave after wave of anxiety-triggering chemicals began to flood. The panic that followed pushing them to quickly lean back forward and away from each other, as they adjusted their panties and clothes. Only to then fix their hair, or at least the back of it, which each had undone on the other.
Adjusted and fixed though they were, Beatrix and Emily did not then speak. Not to each other or anyone in the office, at least for that day. The two regret-filled women hoping that if they just acted as if nothing had happened, the other would just forget.
Neither ready for the consequences that they each feared would follow the revelation that their feud was not only real and mutual but something that excited them both.
That state of unready persisted as they left work that day and traveled home. But with every passing second, it faded. Crumbled. Dissolved as their thoughts lingered and dwelled on what had happened.
It was wrong, they believed. It was weird, they felt. It was something entirely unlike anything they had ever experienced in their lives, they were sure.
And yet it called to them, like the song of a siren.
Lapped at they and their racing hearts, like waves upon a beach.
Waylayed them, like a thief in the night. Leaving each bereft of any thoughts expect of each other. Any desires, except for the same.
Until their boyfriends arrived home. Boyfriends they met at the door, undressed with ferocity, and then tossed to their beds. Beds on which they fucked those unassuming and unaware others. Each picturing not the men beneath and between their legs, but each other.
On top of such unwitting replacements, they each came, again and again. Quicker. Harder. And louder than ever before, with that man or another. Not because of the talents of those they rode, but because of how desperate and turned on their rivalry had made them. A rivalry, to that point, which had never been put into words. A feud having never been spoken of, or admitted in the same.
Each returning, the next day, to their work and their shared cubicle. Neither making eye contact or speaking, though all they could think of was each other, and their moment of bliss from the day before.
An obsession of image and recollection that wrecked them as they tried to do once they once did. Leaving each barely able to breathe, let alone focus on their assigned work. And yet still, despite their desperate and gut-wrenching desire to engage once more. In some way. In any way, they resisted. Out of fear, more than pride.
Neither of the two back-to-back beauties knowing how to take the next step or why they wanted to so badly. Resist though they did, for one hour and then another, when Beatrix’ boyfriend called, their dams broke.
Just the sound of it, the black-haired goddess’ velvet-soft, and endlessly sensual voice drove the blonde worker wild. Yes, that voice was without exception glorious in its hushed tones, but at that moment, it was more so. It was emphasized. Intentionally cooing and mercilessly husky. Bent to be searingly sexy and delivered to be excruciatingly hot.
It was a challenge. A dare. One that pushed Emily to grab, to lift, to dial, and then to place a call to her own man. Not because he would have something interesting to say, or because she missed him, but because she wanted Beatrix to hear her too. The blonde being keen to share with her rival the sound of her own voice. Not wanting her to think for a second, that in any way, she was better or even equal. She was a pretender, at best, of that Emily was sure.
Mundane though their conversations each began, after only a few moments of both women being on the phone, they twisted and delved, diving past friends and family, and into the causes of last night’s extraordinarily passionate affairs.
And though modesty would normally have been called for in such a conversation — a modesty that brought a lowered voice and sly innuendos. Beatrix and Emily spoke freely, honestly, and as overtly as they possibly could. All with voices meant to drive the other insane with jealousy and desire.
“I thought it was just me, but she was touching herself too….” One spoke as her fingers lowered, once again.
“Then we touched. Then she moaned….” The other spoke, as her fingers followed the same path.
“We could have stopped, but we didn’t.” They told as their fingers moved past fabric and in.
“We just … hhhnnnn … kept going. Her head pressssssed against miiiine, until we … ughh … came together….” Their story progressed, as they once again, fingered themselves, this time not to the feeling of the other’s touch, but the sound of each other’s voice.
The same story, though they told, with the same lustful tone, their honesty did not stop even at that tale. For when asked, each explained.
“No … she can … uuuunnnngggghhhh …. hear me….” Beatrix explained without pause or shame, as she neared another wonderous orgasm
“She’s list–listening to meeeee … oh god … tell you … hhhhHHHhhhhhhh … right now….” Said Emily, as she neared the same peak.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, NoOoOooOO, we haven’t spoke….”Beatrix responded in irritation, even as the waves of pleasure began to course through her.
“SHIT! Unnnnnhhhh, why would I–I talk toOooO herrrrr…” An irritation mirrored in Emily, who asked rather than answered, even as the same release began.
But as they again came, back-to-back, driven to orgasm just by the sound of the other’s voice and the competition it represented, they heard a voice call to them. Not from the phones into which they moaned and spoke, but to their side. From the outside of their cubicle.
“Uh, Ladies?” It was foreign, in that it wasn’t welcome, but the voice was still familiar. It was Andy. Their coworker. One who had tried and failed to date them both, over the past few months. Before they found the prophylactic of a boyfriend.
“Andy!?” Beatrix blurted out, half in welcome and half in shock, all as she slammed the phone down, hanging up on her boyfriend.
“Oh, hey!” Came the same from Emily, as each of the women tried to appear as if they hadn’t just fingered themselves to orgasm in the middle of the office.
“Heeeeyyyy, so….” The pudgy-cute redheaded manchild began, not really sure what he had stumbled upon in his favorite cubicle on the floor.
Confused, and excited though he was, as his mind began to run wild creating one fantasy after another, still he gave the instructions he was instructed to. “Can you two, ummm, check your emails? Jennifer said she needs a reply from both of you on something she sent.”
“Ah! Yes, I will.” Emily answered first, she moving her eyes as quickly as she could from the well-fed’s messenger’s face, not able to stand the excited, doe-eyed smirk she saw upon it.
“Me too. Sorry.” Beatrix followed, as she too set herself to just pretend they hadn’t been caught speaking each other to release.
“What were you two…?” Asked Andy, too shy to even put words to what he imagined.
“Nothing.” Answered Beatrix, as her counterpart found herself distracted by a sudden, seizing irritation at Emily’s brazen “me too”. The blonde needled by the decision of her co-worker to link their sentences together. The anger was childish, and petty in the extreme, and yet to her, somehow, it made sense.
Sense enough for her to then respond, “yes, nothing; like Beatrix said. Thanks for letting us know about the email though, Andy.” It was intentional. Purposeful. Meant as a counter-attack, one even worse than the “attack” she stewed over. Her words not only linking their comments together, but then even worse — mentioning the name of the woman with whom she did not speak.
A mentioning that made Beatrix’ eyes close as she tried to process a rage so hot, she could feel it burning its way through her veins. Bitch! The onyx thought to herself, as her eyes opened and Andy began to step away. He leaving with nothing more than a pair of flushed cheeks and a quick “You’re welcome!”
Check they would.
Check they wanted to.
But first, each just sat. Wanting to turn to each other. Wanting to glare. Wanting to hiss. But still, they found themselves unable. Their chairs remaining turned toward the exit of their shared cubicle, as they gathered themselves from all that had just occurred.
Until finally, when they were able, they turned back to their monitors, clicked open their Outlook program, and read — to their own horror. A trip? Tonight? Together in a car? NEVER! They each fumed, as they set themselves to rebelling against the assignment. A rebellion that fizzled quickly, as Jennifer’s response came in.
“Austin and Bennett need you both there, first thing in the morning. No ifs…. No ands…. No butts….”
And so they drove, after each went home for their things. Together in silence, in a car rented for them by the company. Each hyper-focused on every movement and sound the other made. Ready to…. To…. They weren’t even sure, but still, the tension between them built.
Moment after moment.
Mile after mile.
As one drove and the other sat passenger, Beatrix in a red, button-up blouse, and Emily in one of a blue hue. Their heels and skirts a matching black, in equal length.
In such attire, they created one scenario after another in their minds. First a word spoken, then a conversation, then more…. Each such imagining leading to their lips sealing together, and their hands moving across each other’s bodies.
Not softly or lovingly, but hard. Each tearing at the other’s clothes, until together nude, they would press — they would push themselves together. As such thoughts engulfed them, their hands would drift down. First to their one of their thighs, then between them.
Though somehow, each found the strength and focus to stop themselves from doing what they had done twice before. What they had done when their backs were turned to one another.
Such unbearable tension and denied desire they languished in, until finally, they reached the parking lot of their hotel. One that was large, beautiful, but also empty. Theirs being the only car within sight when they parked.
A solitude that continued, as they, still without speaking, exited their rental, gathered their things, and walked to the lobby’s check-in desk. Each of the two wholly obsessed women trying to remain a few paces apart from one another. And though they meant to keep that distance, they instead found themselves left to wait.
Left to stand, one next to the other, in front of an empty desk for one minute and then five. Five minutes and then ten. Each taking every opportunity to watch the other, when they could without being caught. Undressing each other with their eyes, as they pictured not just all that had happened over the past few days, but what it would be like to clash. Right there. Right then. Their every assumption about the other and themselves put to the test.
Until finally, after each had suffered in the unrelenting grip of their own runaway fantasies, a young, freckle-faced employee appeared.
One who greeted and apologized. Printed and then presented one paper after another until, finally she came to it. A question of no import to her, but fateful in Beatrix and Emily’s story.
“So, two rooms, yes?” It was the answer. It was the expectation.
And yet, from both Beatrix and Emily, the same answer came. “One.” Neither able to resist each other or their need to engage another second. Their stay in the car and the lobby having been too long. Their inhibitions finally having been overwhelmed by their desires.
At the utterance, neither looked to the other or even acknowledged their sensual voices overlapping and becoming one. No, for they each knew. Each understood what had happened. What was going to happen….
“Ok, one it is. Just give me a second.” The redheaded girl said. And though it took more than a second to make the changes that were required, before long Emily and Beatrix walked. Pulling their rolling suitcases down a long, and empty hall.
Until finally, as they rounded the corner to their distant and seemingly isolated room, they stopped. Emily using her keycard to the room as Beatrix waited. Their blood pumping. Their hearts racing. Each feeling as if they might faint from the anticipation that flooded their body with endorphins.
Endorphins which made Emily’s hand shake, and efforts fail as she tried to unlock the door. Endorphins which made Beatrix lick her lips, and step forward almost unable to wait for the damn door before them to open.
Until it did.
Until they entered, in a rush.
Emily barely having time to drop the long, extended handle of her luggage and turn, before her raven-haired rival was upon her. Face-to-face. Eye-to-eye. And body-to-body.
Their breathing heavy. Their eyes filled not with hate or anger, but with an endlessly deep obsession with one another that tore at their very souls.
And though it did, and though they had abandoned nearly every pretense about the moment being anything else, they froze there. Staring into each other’s eyes. Leaning their bodies against one another, as if they were waiting for some sign or signal.
A flare that did not come. A shot that did not fire. Leaving them there, together in agony, each wanting so desperately to tear into each other, but without the ability to begin such a long overdue task.
That is until Emily’s lips opened, and it seemed as if finally she would speak. Words of challenge or dare? Loathing or lust? We will never know, for as soon as she tried to set sound to her feelings — their feelings, Beatrix’ eyes grew wide and then, she kissed.
But kissed hardly does the act justice. For within a blink, Beatrix and her blonde rival were set free. Were set alight. As if their entire lives, up until that moment, were a cage — a leash. And finally, by the lips of the other, they were freed.
Freed to grab at each other’s silky blouses and rip.
Freed to kiss so hard they fought for the same air just to breathe through their noses.
Freed to stumble together, as their matching black heels became heavy and binding, only a moment later finding themselves kicked off to wherever they might land.
The moment was intoxicating beyond description and incredible beyond measure, and yet still, they each pulled back from it, as their foreheads pressed together. Each of the two passion-drunk co-workers closing their eyes as they grabbed tight holds of each other’s tops. Both holding firm and tugging still, even as they tried to keep themselves from collapsing.
The other’s lips. Their tongue. Their taste. Dizzying in their perfection. Not against some arbitrary measure, but for they and their own long-denied desires.
Desires which pushed them each to yank once and then again, to snap off every black button on their blouses, until they tore open. But even when such fabric did rip, it was hated and harmed, the tops being pulled from their bodies as if it was they who had caused their fury.
And yet, even as those blouses tore, first apart and then away, Beatrix and Emily could barely breathe. Barely stand. The two women snarling at each other between small, teasing kisses. Pressing and peckings of lips which began and continued as their hands moved from tops to bottoms, as each yanked the other’s skirt off.
And as skirts moved over hips, and then dropped past thighs and panties, they once again paused as their hands moved to cling to each other. With palms pressing to the excitement-warmed skin of their rival’s arms, as they together pulled closer.
Their bras and panties being all that remained between them and a cataclysmic meeting flesh meeting.
But it was then, when what they had each secretly wanted for months was almost upon them, that suddenly Emily slid her hands from Beatrix’ arms to her shoulders and pushed. The blonde shoving her onyx-haired rival back and away from her and their kiss.
An act that made Beatrix’ eyes grow wide with both shock and half-restrained rage. She wanting to know why their closeness had suddenly been ended. Why her cubicle-mate had suddenly pushed her away. But as she went to speak, she suddenly stopped remembering neither had spoken more than they had to for so very, very long.
But just as soon as the black-haired beauty’s eyes sought Emily’s face for answers, the blonde provided the same by reaching behind her back and unclasping her white, lace bra. Doing so without gesture or word. She wearing only a playful smile as her her bra came off, and her glorious breasts were exposed.
In that exposure Beatrix basked, as her eyes lingered in study. Taking in the bare breasts of her rival for the first time. Each centered with strawberry-colored aureole, and hard, seemingly knife-tipped nipples.
Nipples which dared.
Nipples which called.
Nipples which distracted Beatrix, until Emily’s bra softly landed in her face. The blonde having thrown it, teasingly, to wake her rival from her awe-struck stupor.
And wake she did, the alabaster-skinned tempress reaching behind her back and unclasping her own silky, black bra in only a flash thereafter. She who removed giving Emily the same show that had just been given to her. An offering of sight and staring — examination and indulgence that came as the last remaining bra between them fell to the hotel room’s beige-carpeted floor.
Indulgence in soft, half-hued, burgundy centers to breasts which at their middlemost point presented nipples which looked identical to Emily’s own.
But it was not just their crown that made their breasts seem made for each other. No, for their size and shape — station and softness made the same claim. The same cry for comparison and contest.
A contest each wanted — a contest each sought as they stepped once more towards one another. Their eyes fused in equally confident and daring gazes. Their lips each bent in smirks. Their perfectly kept hair resting softly on their upper back and shoulders as they moved.
They two coming closer and closer in silence, but a silence each could read like a book written for a child.
I’m better than you. Hotter than you. And by the time we’re finished here, you’ll know it, each shouted — though without words.
Each screamed, though without sound.
Until finally, when they were separated by only a foot or two, the words came. The cute, preciously small mouth of Beatrix opening to release them, breaking their feud’s long existence in silence.
“You’ve been dreaming about this haven’t you…?” The black-haired vixen asked as she and her rival slowed their approach to a crawl.
“You’re the one who’s dreaming…. Thinking you and I are equals.” Came a confident, hiss of a reply from Emily.
Slow though they moved, when each had broken it. The silence. The utter and haunting absence of dialogue between the two, they then reached. They then grabbed and with a quick exertion of force pulled themselves together. Their mirrored breasts coming together in a quick clap of flesh meeting flesh.
Each, thereafter, taking a firm grip of the other’s arms once more, to pull close and then adjust. To line up, and then compare. Not with their eyes, for such had been done countless times before, though through dresses and tops. But instead in feel and friction — in pressing and push.
They two warring co-workers welling to the very brim with confidence. A confidence that it would be their body, their skill, their will that carried the day.
A certainty of purpose and power that each could see written on the other’s face and fired off like bolts of lightning from the other’s eyes.
A sight that would only make it sweeter, when it was they who conquered. A mutual and yet adverse surety that would only make it hotter, when they broke the other’s will and left her quivering before them in a puddle of their own sexual satisfaction and frustration.
And though such was their future, as they saw it. At that moment, their battle laid before them. A battle Emily began anew as she suddenly shifted her chest to the left, dragging her breasts across Beatrix’.
Such a swift, and bold stroke made the black-haired bombshell’s lips curl into a flirty pursing, before she asked, “and who said you got to start…?”
“Mmmm, pretending I’m not the alpha again?” Emily’s voice was low and smooth — coy and dismissive, as she and her rival fought the urge to return to their kiss.
Though they wanted it.
Though they each dove, in tiny bends of neck that in an instant stopped short. With each moving closer, only to retract. Nearer, only to abandon. Dodging and parrying — darting and daring one another to be the one.
The one who leaned forward for the kiss.
The one who admitted their need for it.
“Pretending…?” Beatrix asked in part, before she suddenly shifted her own breasts against Emily’s, returning the stroke that the blonde had taken without permission. She making sure her tits drug atop and then past those of her rival. “I’ve ALWAYS been the alpha between us. You’ll see….”
As the claiming passed from one to the other, Emily gave her own shift — her own drag. She too, with a small lean, lifting her breasts so that they brimmed and then buried Beatrix’, as they moved from left to right.
“I’ll see, will I-nngghh…?” Came the blonde’s distracted, and pleasure-punctuated response.
And though it sounded like a question, it was really more a sign. A sign that her focus was shifting from words to war, her head tilting forward and eyes drifting down from those of her rival to their battling breasts.
“Unnnggghhh, you will….” Came Beatrix’ equally waylaid wandering of thought and response. She too leaning in, intending to, like her coworker, watch their pressing and displacing chests.
But as she bent forward, the foreheads of she and her beautiful challenger met. A delicate collision that caused each to look to the other. Their eyes angling upward and towards. Each finding on that journey that the same lips they each tried to resist, were so very close.
They could have them.
They could take them.
And as she dealt with that temptation, overwhelming as it was, Beatrix whispered — trying to push her rival to give in first to a kiss they both wanted so deseprately. “You want it….” The black-haired battler stated, as if her rival was alone in that desire.
“Yo-you want it….” Emily replied shakily, as she and the woman she held continued to shift their matched pairs of breasts from side to side. Not harshly or cruelly, but softly. Sensually. Each trying to drive the other wild with the contact.
“Take i-ittt” Through desire and the drain Emily’s brutally hot body and intensely sexual tone inflicted, did Beatrix respond. She too struggling with a stutter as she spoke.
“You-yooouuu take it.” The blonde replied as best she could, as together the two at-odds women quivered and shook in each other’s grasps.
Tiny shakes and squirms brought about not only by their pressing and competing breasts. But also their fiendish and fevered desire to kiss once more. To taste the lips and tongue that was once theirs to enjoy and engage.
And though those feelings wrecked and ate at them, they each felt as if they were on the very verge of breaking, suddenly did it all shift. Suddenly did it all change.
For as they together lingered there on the precipice of giving in to each other, Beatrix’ hand pulled off arm and shoulder and traveled down. It sneaking between their pressing and leaning bodies, and in an instant, beneath the band of Emily’s still-present white lace panties.
And when it did — and as it dove even further, the blonde gasped, trying to pull back and away in a stumble. “Bitch….” She exclaimed in a gasp — more an exhaled breath than a spoken curse.
“Fleeing already…?” Beatrix asked as she chased. Following after Emily and seizing her tight before driving her fingers deep within her already ember-hot and river-wet sex.
“Oh goooddd….” Came Emily’s pleasure-soaked reply as she moved her hands from Beatrix’ body to the wrist of her invading hand. On that wrist Emily pulled, setting her will against her rival’s. She trying to remove, as the fingers of her cubicle-mate strove to drive.
“Don’t fight it….” The invading Beatrix requested softly, as she and her co-worker slowly stepped together. Blonde back and onyx forward — that is until Emily’s back met and pressed against the hotel room’s A/C-chilled wall in a sudden and unexpected thud.
“I…. I hate you….” Emily offered as her eyes closed and her efforts at pulling wrist softened. Her head slowly turning from side to side as she began to give into her rival’s finger-focused attack.
“I know….” Short. Confident. And anything but sweet, the words were. And yet still, as Beatrix spoke them, she was already leaning. Already seeking. She looking to place her soft, supple, and hungry lips just before Emily’s.
The black-haired seductress presenting the blonde with a choice. Not only a choice, but a second, lust-fueled desire to resist. Leaving Emily to give in and kiss, or resist and restrain.
A war of want that she must fight, even as another battle — a far more important battle was ongoing. Namely, Beatrix’ attacking fingers which invaded her sex, pushing the blonde deeper into passions she already found herself unable to control.
In that closeness of lips and driving of fingertips, Emily suffered. Leaning the back of her head hard against the wall, as she tried to ignore the soul-seizing pull she felt to press her lips to her rival’s.
But Beatrix would not let her forget, not even as her fingers began to slide in and out of her blonde co-worker with more and more lubricant-aided ease.
“Kiss me….” Reminded and instructed the onyx as she trapped her cubicle-mate against the wall. The former letting her own topless body and hard-centered breasts lean into and against that of the latter.
“N-Noooo….” Breathed Emily, as her lips drug against those of the woman before her with every word.
“Yeessss….” Came a soft, sensual hiss from Beatrix. A sound of seduction she released as her stroking fingers quickened in pace and deepened in place.
“I…. Oh…. Goooodddd….” Lost. Truly lost, the wall-pressed blonde found herself. Her every effort focused on resisting the desires that coursed through her. Focus though she did. Try though she did. With every passing second, Emily found her will to resist the woman she struggled with slipping away.
And as that lessening — that collapsing of guard came, Beatrix struck once more. Not with speed or force, but by the ebbing of it. The conquering assailant slowing her strokes, and making shallow her dives. Giving less until she gave little. Taking, what she once gave freely.
Upon that semi-cessation, Emily’s once pulling hand grabbed and tightened. It locking hard around Beatrix’s wrist and pulling, driving the busty onyx’s fingers back into her.
An act of forgotten resistance that came with words no less submissive. “N-nnnn-nnnnoOooo…. Plllleeeeaaassseeee, ddoooonnnntttt stttooooppp….”
The words were deafening to the woman who leaned and lavished — teased and tormented, and yet … they were unnoticed by she who spoke them.
A plea of desperation.
A begging built from sexual desire.
A complete and utter surrender, and yet Beatrix wanted more.
“Then kiss me…..” As the raven-haired worker demanded in trade, she fought. Resisting Emily’s maintained pull, as she tried to free her own fingers from the soaked sacred valley of the same.
Not with all her might.
Not in an effort meant to accomplish.
But instead to make the blonde fight to keep them within her.
And when such marginal and feigned force came, Emily gasped and whimpered — shivered and cried. She leaning forward the quarter-inch required. So that she might pay the cost required.
The cost of being the one who gave into their kiss.
The cost of admitting, without reservation, that it was she who wanted it.
And when she did, the black-haired beauty’s efforts returned. She once more driving her fingers into Emily’s essence-seeping sex. One that seized and convulsed, tightening around those same digits she once tried to remove, as a barely denied orgasm began to approach once again.
With its approach, Emily would have spoken in defiance. Would have cursed in frustration. Or screamed out in regret.
But her once iron-forged will had already dissolved. Her previously indomitable flame to compete already flickered and failed.
And so instead, the broken blonde just moaned into she and her rival’s eternity-denied kiss. One the blonde clung to as if she could not breathe without it.
She continuing to press lips and glide with tongue, even as the waves came. Even as they crashed against and through her — causing her to shake and seize. Her hands moving to Beatrix’ hair and grabbing tight.
Not to hurt, but to handle all that was happening.
Not to pull, but to persist in a reality shaken to the very core by lust and pleasure.
A state of shameful, feud-betraying pleasure that curled Beatrix’ lips into a wide and unapologetic smile. A smile worn even as she and her rival continued to kiss. Their bodies and breasts pressing together, as Beatrix’ invading and victorious hand pulled free from the pantyband into which it had delved. It, with its other, sliding up and with fingers through Emily’s golden hair before closing in a light grip.
A mutual holding of locks that allowed each to maintain a grip on one another, as not only Emily’s orgasm but the momentary weakness that came with it passed.
Finally, however, when the shaking had stopped. The moaning had ceased. And the glorious frailty that came with release ended, Beatrix spoke.
“Mmmm…. Pretender….” The words were cruel and yet gentle. Catty and yet soft. A dichotomy of meaning and make that seared them forever into Emily’s mind.
All as Beatrix broke their kiss and with an intentionally playful turn, stepped away.
Without their body-to-body press, and without an ounce of actionable pride left in her body, Emily slid down the hotel room’s once cool wall.
She knowing what her loss meant.
Not because Beatrix had told her, but because of what she would have done, had it be she who proved her rival a pretender.
“Hey, Bea…. How was the trip?” A smirking, and coffee-mug-holding Andy asked from a nonchalant lean against the outer wall of Beatrix’ half of her usually shared cubicle.
To the greeting and question, Beatrix did not reply. She instead letting her lithe fingers tap away at her keyboard, as her piercing and narrowed eyes slowing raised from the work in front of her to the face of he who interrupted above.
“It was … determinative.” The onyx answered, in a half non sequitur.
“Huh….” Came Andy’s confused reply. One he sounded out before, moving on.
“Oh, uh … where’s Emily? I thought I saw her get off the elevator this morning.” As he spoke, he searched — his eyes scanning from one end of the cubicle-strewn floor to the other. The redheaded irritant looking for a glimpse of bright blonde hair poking above the interior canopy of the corporate maze that laid before him.
“Oh…. Yes…. Emily was instructed to…. Hmm…. Uuundertake a private task for her superior.” With a well-hidden smirk, Beatrix answered cleverly. Her words carefully chosen, even if they bewildered the innocent and unsuspecting Andy.
“Superior, huh? I’ve never heard anyone call John that before. He must have given you a raise … or a tongue lashing…. Ha ha.” It was an attempt at humor — at levity to break the ice he felt clinging to Beatrix’ tone.
“Mmmm, yes. The latter. But not from John. But if you’ll excuse me…. I’m trying to send an email to the leaders on the 35th floor. And you know how those two are.” For a moment, the attempt at softening worked, though not for the reasons Andy assumed. Misunderstand though he did, he still took it. Still smiled as the black-haired beauty he spoke to did the same.
A returned expression of something other than loathing that he took as a victory. Enough of one to leave without pressing for more. “Right?! Those two are always fighting! Anyway, back to work. Talk soon — I hope! Tell Emily I said Hi!”
“Mmm hmmm….” Beatrix mouthed in a feigned reply of agreement, just before she rolled her chair back an inch or two, and looked down.
“And who said you were allowed to stop, pretender…?” Came the seated seductresses’ words in the form of a cooed question. One that she asked of Emily, who knelt broken and pride-shattered between her legs. Her face wet, and eyes just the same. The former from saliva and sex, and the latter from shame-born tears.
“Come…. Back to it.” Without allowing her beaten blonde rival to reply, Beatrix scooted forward. She moving her pantiless lower-body and chair once more under her desk, just as she, with a swift reach, quick grab, and sudden drag, pulled the face of the woman she called “pretender” once more between her waiting and essence-smeared thighs.