The Better Woman vs. Clawie – Warehouse Weardown

The Better Woman vs. Clawie from FCF

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Jennifer – The Better Woman

It is a rule, on FCF: if you know Ewa — if people KNOW you know Ewa, you are a target. A target of love, hate, jealousy, and every other emotion that can be created by synapse, and set afire in a woman’s heart. And so since she and I first fought, I have fielded them. Her friends. Her enemies. Her fans and followers. Coming to me for a taste, of what the brunette goddess has. Usually, they come in messages on the forum, or directly to you. Waiting to ask about her, and she and I, until we are alone in a text message.

Some of them leave, after getting their answers, or stay after being refused them. But of all those in that near unending-line. You are different. For I heard about you, before your name came from her lips, or hers came from yours. ‘She’s looking for you’, they told me. ‘She was asking about you’, they said. ‘She heard X.’ ‘She heard Y.’ ‘She is coming’. ‘She’s messaging you.’ At first I waited, excited at the meeting. And then I waited, frustrated by it non-occurrence. And with every passing minute, I get more and more irritated. Not at you, or what I heard but that everyone knew you, but I. That everyone knew me, but you.

In that frustration, I festered, until finally. We met. We spoke. And arranged. And now, here we are — or I am, more accurately. Standing in a set my boss uses for some photo shoots. A corner room in a hot, muggy warehouse downtown. The old, iron-rod heater turned onto high.

In that heat lay two, side-by-side mattresses, with empty, acid-stained walls in the surrounds. And though those walls are barren, outside are row after row of abandoned industrial parts, tools, and mechanatia. They look good shadowed, or with a bright light at their back, but for me they represent something different.

An assent to the violence you are legendary for. To let you know that if claws, and hairpulling are not enough, I am willing. Wanton. And READY to fight you. To whatever end. To whatever stakes we find to desire. In that acceptance, and with bated breath I wait in short, cut-off jean shorts. A tight, white t-shirt, and my hair pulled up on a ponytail. Wanting worse than anything for you to arrive. The door to the warehouse and the room unlocked and open. Leaving you nothing to do, but just show up.

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Chloe – Clawie

They say the best things come in small packages. And they were not entirely wrong. I am the definition of that phrase. The embodiment in flesh and blood. And that’s not something I made up myself, no hollow self proclamation. It’s what every woman I’ve crossed said. Whether they were in a heap of pain and tears at my feet. Or if they struggled to get up off me, and failed.

I am terror. I am torment. I am hell. I am Chloe Portsmith.

. . . And I am scared.

A lot of girls that I’ve met never understood it. Never dared to show their emotions, admit their fears and insecurities. All act like unbeatable Deities. Flawless and devoid of imperfections. A cheap, lame act that did nothing but confirm to me the vanity behind them. The hollow laying within, that made pounding their armor in more and more satisfying.

But you were not one of the. Not this woman. Not Jennifer. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Reluctant to make contact. Hesitant. Terrified. It ate at me how inadequate I felt sometimes, but after a good pep talk, I finally womaned up and made the contact. And my hesitation turned to nothing but rage.

She was as advertised. Perfect. Sublime. Confident. Fearless. And she wanted me as much as I wanted her. In the worst way possible. There were no bravado’s or posturing. Not much of it at least. There was just sheer desire to meet and hurt. To maim and torment. We both demanded a heavy price, a high stake, and we both agreed. We put our bodies. Our sexes on the line. Winner does as she pleases. A terrifying thought really. But we would not have it anywhere else.

The choice of location came down to you. And you did not disappoint. You’re a woman of means and connections. And with the closest subway a good 1 mile away from the warehouse, I had a good warmup heading there. I turned some heads and warranted some wolf whistles with my tiny daisy dukes that showcased my tattooed thighs. A black tank top tied to the side in a small knot, to show the subtle definition of abs, and the navel piercing. My nails were short, but sharp, in case it came to it. Painted black, like my lipstick and mood.

The studio door open, I walked in. Chuck Taylors scraping against theindustrial floor. Seeing you standing there. Stunning. Ready. And eager. I give you a dirty look. I say nothing. I turn and push the door of the studio shut. It’s heavy, but I don’t ask for help. It surely did look embarrassing a little, like a little hamster trying to push a car tire. But I did it. My feet slip out of my shoes. Bare foot. I walk up to the edge of the mattress. All 5’2” 105lbs of prime fury glaring at you. Defiant and fearless. Someone’s getting hurt. At least one.


As soon as I hear you, my heart pounds in my chest. So loud I can feel it. Hear it. TASTE it. God I want this. You. Not to fuck, at least not yet. No to have. To know. To HURT! To learn how it sounds as you whimper. To see your mascara run when I twist. To see you squirm as I dig my nails deep into you. And the moment for that. For US! Clawie and Jennifer is here. FUCK!

The excitement almost chokes me, as without a word, you kick yours shoes off, and as you do, I follow suit. Removing my own flip flops, and tossing them against the gray-tone wall. With them off, I step onto the, my frame only slightly larger than yours, standing 5’4’’, and weighing 125 lbs. My eyes, which are usually soft and filled with love are narrowed, as I watch your every move. My lips which usually part and give greeting and affection, remain closed as I near the center of our connected beds. Wanting the silence. Relishing it. Needing it. As I wait for you. Wait to have the fight of a lifetime. With a woman I have wanted more than any other. In a battle that will leave us scarred, but obsessed with each other.

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No words. Good. Parlay would only serve to humanize us more. Reason would only quell the fires. Drown the heat and hatred. I don’t want to think of you as someone who is loved, capable of good and adoration. I want to only think of you as an object of my hatred. I want nothing to do with you that does not involve pain, a lot of it, and suffering. I breathe hard. Glaring intently. You walk on the mattresses. And quickly creep to the middle. Rapidly moving to dominate the center, and force me to the edges. Using your thicker, curvier body to intimidate me, no doubt.

But that’s not how it works with me. I glare at you. Heart pounding. My hands balled into fists. And I just march in towards you. Feet crushing the mattress. And I get up into your face, to the edge of my own mattress, and I smack my body into yours. Chest to chest. 105 to 125 lb. 5’2” to 5’4”. Woman to woman. Bitch to bitch. In the ultimate I don’t get a fuck gesture.

My feet spread. My arms wide to my sides. I lean into you. Not caring for your intimidation. Heart pounding. It’s now or never Chloe. Now or fucking never.

My wrapping around you. In a half hug. But not an innocent one. I make a grab for your long lush hair. Pulling down. Not for anything but a hold, to make sure your body remains where it is. In the perfect spot for my right fist to plow in, and connect with your lower ribs.

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I don’t know what to expect, as from the descriptions I have heard, you are a monster. Forged in the pits of hell. Taken from a mold made in fire, and poured forth from the coup of malice by Hades himself. And so as you approach, I raise my hands, expecting a punch to the face. A claw to the cheek. A sudden lunge, figers-first, looking to rip my hair out by the roots. But instead you just step. Slowly. Methodically. And then press your body against mine. Immediately it takes me off guard. So much so that my lips part to ask if there has been some sort of mistake. If perhaps in all our frantic, hateful texts, you thought we had come here to test breasts and bodies, without pain and torment. But as I search for reasons why, and how, I feel it, my ponytail pulled back, my chin raise up, as I let out a slight “owe, bitch”. Sounds of pain and insult that come, just before you bury a fist deep into my stomach.

In an instant my light sound of pain, becomes heavy, and I let out a deep, guttural groan, as my knees almost buckle from the unexpected shot to my ribs. The blow causes me to fall, but with your body pressed to mine, you keep me up. In ANY other battle, with ANY other person I would just stay. Rest. Wait for another salvo, to find someway of recentering myself. But NO! Not with you. Not here. Not after everything that has led to this moment. And so, even though I am not ready for a fist fight. Not ready to recover. I drive my own, left hand into your stomach. Landing it right in your solar plexus, hoping to knock the wind out of you, and earn myself a breath or two. Hoping to not start off our fight as prey, when going into it we both believed the other to be hunter.

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When you’re just used to fighting bigger bitches, you fear nothing. It’s all you know and expect. And it teaches you to get creative. Vicious. To fight faster, harder. To never abide by the rules. And to only stop when she is down and out. And in your case, I can fucking feel the strength beneath you. It’s not fat, it’s muscle. And with a scary reputation that cries accolades and tales of how you know how to use that body, I’m out of options. I need to get this done. I need to take you down and fast.

And down you go. Your body bends over. The howl of pain so satisfying, blowing through my jade hair and sending it back. But I mistake it for weakness. All you’re doing is pulling our bodies apart to create the room for the vicious left, that crashes into my solar plexus!

“Uhhhfff!” My Ivory face flushes red. My lungs shot. They feel paralyzed. Savage pain that makes me wince. My grip on your ponytail weakening. And I slink back. Stumbling onto my mattress. Right leg weakening, I drop down to my knee. Gasping for air.

My left hand pushes on your hip. To keep you away. At back. My right hand pressed on the ground. I wheeze and heave. Feeling you pushing into me. To trample. Attack. Grab. To throw me down.

But I have been punched worse, and I will show it. With a ferocious right uppercut swinging up right between your thick thighs. Aiming for the crotch of your jeans shorts.

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In what seemed like seconds, we have each gone from walking implements of the others destruction to broken. As with one first from me, and another from you, we are both windless and wobbly. And though you held me up, to continue your onslaught, as my strike lands, you collapse backwards and down to the mattress.

There, after you right yourself, you look to attack, and assume, as you should, that I am already recovered, and ready to do the same to you. But you misread my face. My body movements, just as I misread yours, we two having just met. And so as you prepare to uppercut me, assuming I will be charging forward and on top of you, I instead, simply collapse to my knees with you. Your target is my crotch. And though you reach such a place, you do so awkwardly. As your quickly moving uppercut finds itself after only an inch caught between my thick thighs. And though they do not clamp around your forearm, I still use that hold, by leaning into you, reaching out, grabbing you around the neck, and pulling you forward. Into another, hard, punch to your stomach.

One that is hardened as still suffering from your blow, I almost fall into the punch. Again leaning against you to stay upright. But this time, using the strength in my arms to pull you into me. Wanting to wind you. Yo leave you without energy for the rest of this fight. Knowing that if I can make you weak early, I can lean on you with my thicker frame, and take you out. For all it takes is one facesit. One breast smother. One straddle with pinned wrists, and you’re done. Or at least, that’s what your smaller body has tricked me into believing.

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My move is purely defensive. But with profound offensive utility if it was to land. A move that I caught so many bigger opponents by surprise with. But not you. I miscalculate, and you make me pay for it. I feel your thighs clamp on my fist. Tightening. It pushes up few inches but stops inches before hitting your pussy and you drop down to your knees. Holding me by the neck. You pull me in for another gut buster.


This time, a spray of spittle leaves my lips and washes all over the left side of your face. And I slump into you. My lungs have barely recovered their rhythm, and there you are plowing me straight in the gut with such a vicious blow. Your body leaning into me. You practically trap your fist between us. And I feel you doing that dirty, filthy move that all bigger bitches use against me. You just lean into me. Letting me fight gravity and your mass, while you are doing nothing.

And fight I must. My legs tensing, my glutes flexing, pushing up. Groaning and trying to stop the weight coming down. Forcing me back. It’s a huge struggle and I know that while I’m fighting you, burning through my strength you are recovering. But not for long. Not for fucking long Jenn.

I yank my right fist back, pulling it from between your thighs. My hand shoots up to join my left at your head. You want to come towards me FINE. On my terms cunt. I make a grab for your face. Fingers holding on to anything. Hair, ears, cheeks. Anything to form two grips on your head. I pull mine back, tucking my chin in and with an effortful grunt I swing my forehead into your pretty pouty lips. Time to bust them open, and show you what a dirty fight is like.

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My punch landed, I lean with everything I have. Every extra, extra-fat latte’s worth of weight, making you hold all of it up and off of you, OR have you collapse beneath it, and have me atop you. God I can feel it, transfering your strength to me. Your grains of sand disappearing, and reappearing in the upper half of my hourglass. Mmm, it’s yummy beyond belief. Using everything about my body to weaken everything in yours. A feeling of warmth matched as I feel your previously punching fist trapped between my thighs, and your forearm against my jean-covered sex.

And yet, even with all that warmth, some mental and some physical…. Literally never. NEVER. In my life. EVER! Have I been headbutted. And so, even as I bask in the warm glow of the spastic, blinking overhead fluorescent lights. Even as I knock from you not only spit but sweat with a gloriously effective follow-up punch to your stomach, I am devastated. As your headbutt lands, and my lower lip bursts, tasting copper in the seconds thereafter. A taste which spreads, or more like floods through my mouth as I try to curse at you. To tell you what a fucking bitch you are. What a cheating fucking whore, even though we agreed to not a single rule, other than having none. And yet, even with that intention, I feel myself again collapse, this time backwards onto my ass on the mattress in front of you.

And though that’s bad, it becomes worse. As my hand, the one behind your neck. The one I used to such great effect not a moment earlier, pulls your tired body forward, and almost on top of me. Almost handing you a straddle. One that I try to fight off by at least kicking my legs out, and trying to spread them, so ingrained in my many matches of catty wrestling that I fully expect to apply a leg scissor without any attacks that don’t involve hair pulling or scratching. But in this fight, against YOU, I may have made a terrible error. Something I would be finding out, much too late.

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My forehead explodes on your chin and mouth. Clearly sluggish and awkward. But it still bursts your bottom lip, and sends a warm tingle down my skin. I can see it a moment later, when my vision clears. With your body receding back, like the Colossus of Rhodes, plummeting into the sea.

I can’t see straight, not with you pulling me with you. Insisting to keeping us together. Something I don’t really mind. So far, you’ve proven as much as a nasty, dangerous, hard striker as any I’ve met. And if not for the forehead, I’d dare say you’ve done it better than me. I slump forwards, my hands immediately slapping on the mattress to your sides. I don’t want to be pulled down into a rolling motion, or worse, a smother between those perky breasts of yours. I’m more endowed, but that cleavage must have snuffed the lights out of so many girls before me.

Your thighs move up. Brushing against my sides, and I know what I must do. My chance to not only dish more pain. But show you, that once I put a target in my mind, I won’t let go of it. I’m going to get my straddle. Oh I will. But first . . . .

With your legs going out wide, to wrap around my body, I push my body up, using my arms for thrust, my knees pushing up in the air, almost balanced on my arms for a split second. My knee caps pressed together. I could just slide them forwards to push my body up and drop my ass on your gut. But that’s not what I want.

I wanted to bust your pussy. And by God. I will do it. And with your legs wide open, I let gravity does its dirty work. And plummet my knee caps down on the front of your jeans!

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Unless you drug it from my lips. Tortured me until I could take not a second more. Broke beyond the point of reason, and made me submit you FULLY, I wouldn’t tell you. Wouldn’t admit it. That though yes, I pull you into me — down to me, and spread my legs, because I had some plan. And because my hand was just there, and I was too wounded to retract it. I want your body against mine. Want our wills to struggle against each other close. To feel your hot breath on my neck as we writhe. Tired of it. FUCKING tired of NOT having you. Of not fighting you. Of not being the one you picture when your hand drifts between your thighs as you please yourself one last time before drifting off to sleep. Of not being the girl you imagine fighting in the shower, as you do the same. Of you NOT thinking of me, the way I, ALREADY, think of you. And so I pull you with me as I fall. Even in my state of pain, and dizziness. And like one lover following another down to their bed, you come with me. My legs spread for you. And though, yes, they move to wrap around you — and though yes, you plant your hands to my sides, you then lift your lighter rear-half up, hop into the air, and then with two knees, drive downward.

Again, being so unfamiliar with a fight like this, ou being not only my tormentor and rival, but my teacher, almost, you instruct me. This why you do not give your enemy such an opening. This is why in a real fight, body scissors are dangerous. This is WHY … you are feared as a NHB fighter, and why I am instead feared for lighter fare.

And though the lesson comes swiftly, my groan is long, and my pain lingering. As my left hand moves down from your neck, to my own crotch, in a desperate, instinctual attempt to protect myself. Though the damage is already done. Though you have already left my kitty in ruin.

I see you savor your good work out of tear-filled eyes, eyes which I aim my right hand for, claws-first. Coming in a wild, hateful slash that lands just above your perfectly-applied eyeshadow, and drags downward. Wanting to hurt you. Wanting to kill you at that moment. For the pain you have caused. For the perfect threat you represent.

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Grunts and huffs are all that rise around us. The studio, is poorly ventilated. Or is intentional? It feels unnaturally hot, even for the fact that I’m grappling, trading blows, and wrestling with a woman bigger than me. Someone as quick, dangerous, and wild.

But I can feel rivers of sweat rolling down my body. Between my braless breasts, and down my spine. Down my lower back and into my crack. My Ivory, tattooed thighs glistening now. And the overall sensation, which should feel utterly disgusting and off putting feels nothing short of filthy sexy for some reason. Because I can feel your own sweat, rubbing off on me. Both smearing our essences on each other. And without doubt, in this embrace, you can feel stiff nipples poking through the black tee, brushing against your own discolored top.

But my emotions apart, my desires have to take a second place to this savage intensity. This absolute battle of wits against this dangerous foe. And with my knees crashing down on your sex. I grin, grinding my caps down for a moment, before letting them slink up and slide over you, for the straddle I have well earned. My tight round buttock sticking on your abs. Feeling your trembling muscles under me.

But you don’t just take it laying down. No. Your hand shoots and I feel almost like you are adjusting a strand on my hair. Your claws are well removed before I feel the sharp pain. Like razors slicing skin, it comes delayed, with a burn and a horrible sting.

“AAHHH!! FUUUUCKK!” I cry out in pain. My body leaning back. I lift up on my knees, then drop down, drilling my tight buttocks, that I heard before packed more punch than a pair of 8Oz Everlast gloves in the hands of an amateur boxer, drill into your gut vengefully.

My hands going for your white tee, I pull it up hard, over your face. I want to expose those breasts of yours. You want to claw. I’ll show you claws. My eyes watering from the pain, I stare at your bare breasts, full nipples, and lash with a quick right, then left slash!

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I can feel it. Smell it. TASTE it. The sweat beginning to dampen our skin, and clothing. This was to be the nastiest fight I have ever been it. The cruelest. Most filthy struggle I have ever imagined. And for that, we needed heat. And so for an hour before you arrived I clamped closed every window, and with ladders brought shut rusty air conditioning vents. Funneling all the hot air I could into this room. And though our battle has been fierce, and unforgettable, the heat, tension, and anger between us palpable — we sweat because I made us. Each of us painting each other, with unseen markings of our claim. Our sweat mixing on each other’s every exposed inch of flesh. Our every press beginning to squeeze small droplets of it from our clothing.

In that heat, that fiery, almost unbearable heat, my lips remain parted as a pained groan filles and echoes off the walls of the room. One which plays as symphonic overture as you move into your well-earned mount. One that comes home for a harsh, and breath-stealing landing, just as my utterance of pain fades and my claws wipe that disgustingly cocky smirk off your face with claws that dig in deep and leave bright red trails — trails that fill with salt-laced only a blink later.
And though I still attack, through the pain, and empty lungs of your crash down, with your perfectly tight ass. As that pain sets in, you fight through it, reach for my shirt, and with a single yank, you pull the near-soaked cotton up and over my face. There you leave it, for a moment. I expect you to attack instantly, but you do not. Instead you wait, and through the wetness of my shirt I can see you staring. Your eyes wide with desire, when you lay yours eyes on my full, Latina breasts and shamefully rock-hard nipples. Desire you think I cannot see. But even as I revel in knowing you find me as attractive as I find you, and my breasts as mesmerizing as I am sure yours will be, the pain as you bring down your hands in two, consecutive slashes hurts no less. Attacks which cause me to scream out, as in panic my hands move to my shirt, and begin to tug at it, needing to see again, before anything else.

As I do so fumble, you continue to slash my tits. And I can feel the pain. The agony with every attack, finally I free myself from my shirt, and as your eyes glow with a malice-filled glee, I reach for your shirt, and like you, lift it up, hooking it’s bottom behind your head. With it there, and with you as helpless as I was, I then bring my right arm back, and then slam it forward, in another, brutal punch to your stomach. One with lands with such force you immediately keel over, when you do, I reach my hands to your breasts, latch on, and then SQUEEZE. Claws digging in, as I try and roll us, and you to your back. All as your shirt continues to cover your eyes and face. All as we destroy each other, in exactly the way we have always dreamed we would.

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It’s pretty much what I imagined. Although I will admit, I didn’t see myself suffering so much, so early in my weeks long fantasy leading up to this fight. And there was far less sweat. But hey, I guess I am learning something about myself right now. I love sweating against another hot bitch. And not just regular hot sex or fight sweat, I’m talking melting, dehydration threat level of sweating. Maybe I should set my next match in a Sauna!

Your breasts bear my red streaks. And I smirk. They look perfect, and I add yet another two streaks, each forked into five mini ones. You cry and tremble, but with alarming speed, you grab my top and yank it upwards. You stretch my top up, covering my face. Then you grab my 32DD’s. Perfectly poised and hanging high enough for the nail attacks to assault. You grab, knead, tighten, grab, and pull!

“Ackkk!” Still wrestling with my damp, black top, I feel my left shoulder hitting the mattress hard, and we roll over. Now your body over me. And immediately, my legs coil around your waist. My abs still knotted with your most recent punch. It makes it hard for my abs to flex and push you away. So you keep over, and your own breasts hang down, nearly touching the backs of your palms.

I writher, twitch, fight my own top. The knot on the side makes it harder to pull off. Giving you a good 20 seconds to catch up on marking my chest. But I finally pull it off. I don’t throw it away. I roar and thrash. Swinging the top at your head and face. But using it as a whip is useless at such close range, so I push it against your throat, and bring my hands around, to loop it around your throat and I close my right fist on it. Pulling, jerking, tugging. I try to choke your pretty slender neck, my left fist pumping back, and firing two punches to your hanging right tit. The second one, grinding my fist deep. Flattening your boob into the chest bone.

“Get . . . Off . . . Me!” I hiss and thrust my hip, rolling us over again. Both topless. And pissed!


My punch doing what it was designed, I take your mind off of your swipes, and focus it all on a desperate need to pull your damp, black shirt from your face. Focus there diverted, I roll us, and as I expected, you are helpless to stop me. Helpless not only then, but for moments thereafter, as I am given time to not only work your breasts with my fingers, kneading them. Gouging them. Twisting you nipples. But in between, batter them with my own. Stabbing my nipples deep into your flesh. Even finding yours and giving us both short glimpses of what a different fight between us might be like.

But eventually, you free yourself from your cotton prison. Unlike me, you do not toss your shirt, but instead use it as a weapon, by pressing it up and against my throat. It is at that moment that my eyes widen in panic, as again I am surprised by the viciousness of our battle, even though I pushed for it. Wanted to take you on in your arena. But as scary as such a choke might be, it becomes even worse, as you then begin to work the cloth around my neck, and then grab it’s loose ends. Strangling me, with your sweat-drenched top. I could move my hands from your breasts to your wrists. To your hands. To the shirt itself, to try and pry it off. But instead, I have one plan. One idea. And as you lock your thighs around my abs, and with a single press of your hips into my stomach, and roll us, I enact it, by wrapping both of my hands around the back of your neck.

You smile, as you mount me, your scissors releasing to let you fully straddle me. To finish me off with a perfect stranglehold. But in all of that. The scissors. The release. Your roll and the mount. You have brought yourself further and further down my body. And with you there, and with my hold I suddenly yank you forward. Face first into my sweaty tits. Your hands struggle to find room to keep your hold of my shirt, and though they do, we find ourselves locked. You strangling me, and me smothering you between my 36D breasts. Neither of us able to breathe. Neither of us able to escape. Both of us rushing towards an imminent unconsciousness. A fate aided by the heat which is so oppressive, I regret having brought it upon us. Even if every moment of this is as intense and sexy as I ever could have dreamed.

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What a perfect bitch. My mind is filled with rummaging thoughts, unable to use my mental capacities to their fullest. It’s so hard with your fingers kneading my breasts, and your hard nipples driving down with each gyration, to stab and brush with mine. Like two amateurs fence fighting.

The dark and damp black cotton around my face not helping. It gives me the sensation of being waterboarded. Of drowning under a sea of breasts and sweat. But I fight it off, and with an exact lasso toss, I wrap your head and twist. We go in a roll and I gain the top position. An effortful groan leavs my lips. My hips thrust down on yours. The front of my daisy dukes roughly rubbing yours. It’s not just sweat causing the dampness. All the friction, the grinding, the wrestling with this heavier, bigger foe has my juices flowing. My shorts feeling more like a swimming pool than a garment.

I grind my body down even more, my bare tummy now pressing on yours. My naked breasts adjusting and I shift them to drive my 32DD’s into your perky pair. But my nipples don’t stab into yours. Far from it. They graze the gentle soft undercurves, and I grunt as they impact your chest bone, with more force than I planned. Because your arms, latched around my head pull me in, and drive my face right between your breasts.

“Uhff!” I gasp in shock. My eyes going wide. I flail and thrash. I try to get away, but there is no escape this velvety damp prison framed by your arms. I wiggle and twist, but the most I can do is turn my head, your right nipple poking my ear, my mouth against your left nipple. I open my mouth, suckling your nipple into my mouth. The head throbbs down into my mouth, and I just suck on more, and more, filling my mouth as as much of your flesh as I can. Then I chomp, grinding my teeth on it. Trying to crush your nipple between the mollars on the right side of my mouth, to coerce you into letting go.

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Though you are atop me, in the violence and wildness of our catfight I feel at home. A sensation I have NEVER had in such a fight. Feeling almost as if there is something about you that calms me. Something about hurting you that steadies me. Something about you, me, and WE struggling against each other that brings me focus. But then it happens. You thrust your hips down and into mine. Smashing our sexes together, though through painfully-present shorts.

At first, I see it only as you fighting for position. To establish yourself as in control and atop me. But then it comes again. And AGAIN. And it is that third, but most assuredly the fourth such contact that tells me. That makes it crystal clear. Yes, you’re a fighter. Yes, you are a legend for brutality and viciousness. But just like me. Just like Ewa. Just like every hot-blooded woman I love to battle, this. THIS. Our harsh, stinging, bitter battle of sweat, and tears, and blood turns you on. YES! I scream internally. Not because I know that of the two of us I am not alone. NOT because you are some vixen whose pants I must find myself in (though you are). But instead because … I have a found a weakness. A chink in your armor.

For though here, in this writhing and pain you are the more experienced. The more worn. The more tested. When it comes to sex, and using lust to control my opponent, I‌ am all of the same. And though I will not use it now, I put that knowledge away, ready to spring it upon you like a perfectly set trap when you are least able to handle it. Not that there is much choice, as I can focus on near nothing else as an attack, other than trying to smother you out, before you do the same to me in strangle. Your shirt wrapping and tightening around my throat like a vice.

I counter with a sudden and hard pull at your neck, dragging you into my breasts. I try so hard to stop you from turning. You are fierce, however, and do it despite — at the cost of your choke, which comes nearly undone as your hands loosen around the shirt, and in turn, it around my neck. Then, as I cough, and suck in air, free to breathe again, you surprise me. By going for my nipple. Not in a bite, one that comes down with a vengeful swiftness, but instead you stretch your lips, and suck. Wind at first, until finally you work my nipple into your mouth. Then you continue, and then on. At that moment, my eyes widen. Foolishly thinking that perhaps, you have already given in. Already lost yourself in the passion and lust of this combat. But just as a smirk begins to crawl across my face, you finally bite. And when you do, I SCREAM! My voice shattering the seemingly quiet sounds of scuffle, exhaust, and the sizzling of the humming heater.

I want to say I countered quickly. Pushed you off and punished you. But instead, I give into the pain. Releasing your neck, and bringing them to the back of your hair, not even pulling, as once there I realize such might make the pain even worse. And so, instead of doing anything of use or of offense, I simply lay beneath you screaming. My back arched. Eyes shut with a force that almost hurts. And my hands merely resting on the back of your head. God, how pathetic I am, I think to myself, as your hands let loose the shirt, no longer needing it in your moment of dominance.

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They were right. All of them. All the Ewa’s, the Bri’s, the Kayla’s. You are something else. You are by far the most divine creature I have battled. They fooled me though, or was it you who fooled them? The whole preface that you do not fight rough. That you are a creature of seduction and sexuality. All the bullshit about you not liking it rough.

Like an obsolete prenup, you crumbled it and tossed in my face, along with your fists, your knees, your knuckles in the first minutes of the fight, bringing me down to my knees. And you didn’t seem to break a sweat doing so.

So cunningly forcing me out of my game, and taking me down to yours, we have been at it. Stripping and writhing and wrestling. A game of despair and chess. Taking turns straddling and choking and poking. But it all comes down to the choking. My hands around your neck with my shirt, not only strangling you, but ensuring that it happens with my scent and pheromones floating off my top and into your nostrils. Filling you with my scent. Hardly a tactic, but a fact, that I try on hard, because that’s exactly what you’re doing to me now. Smothering my face into your perfect D’s. Filling not only my nose, but my tastebuds with the purest essence of Jenn.

It’s a unique struggle. An out of body experience, where we float down and watch our bodies struggling while balancing on a thin wire. Who will lose it first, who will trip and slip and fall. And all realities point out to you coming on top. You have the size, the experience, and the strength, now that we are rendered to our lactic acid infused muscles. Biology speaks, and so does Physics.

But fuck school and fuck science. I was never an academic. I grew up in the streets, and that’s how I fight. Like a tough street bitch. I bite and chew. And you erupt. Your body shuddering, weakening, and I litt my head up. Chin resting on your bitter breast. Grinding down on your hard nipple. My eyes stare down at you, and I hiss with effort, my fingers letting go of the top, they go for your throat. For your slender neck. If Michaelangelo had you for a model, he would have carved nothing but statues of you. And I want just one of them, to have that ring bruise around the throat. Courtesy of me.

My body pushes up. Thighs plastered to your side. Tattooed flesh rubbing and brushing your side. My denim crotch grinding on yours. My breasts hover up, and slip over your own. I arch and body press on you fully. Using my exhausted arms to push on your neck. You wanted to play the strangling game. And I have no doubt that you won it more than you’ve lost it. If you ever had. But I’m here to show you otherwise. I’m here to give you some truths, that you were not prepared for.

I’m here to give you the Chloe Portsmith experience. All of it. Heaving, grinding my 32DD’s down on you, and milking your windpipe for every breath, on the sweat stained mattress.

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In my head I see it. My future. The nightmare into which I hurdle. One in which you, after such a brief but incredible fight, settle in and just chew. Just bite at me. My pain-bought inaction not ceasing but instead continuing from this moment on. All as I just lay there beneath you. Suffering. Languishing in this hot, sweaty room. You switching from one breast to the other and then back again. And in response I give nothing. Making no counter. No attempts at escape. Merely holding you. As if being tortured by Clawie was my fetish, and you being the perfect rival to give it to me.

But to my complete shock, even with the opportunity to continue biting, until I force you to stop, you release my nipple and crawl. Up. Forward. Straddling my hips. And pressing your upper body to me. Pressing our large tits together. And though my nipple still aches. Still burns from your bite — your teeth marks no doubt planning to linger for weeks, I watch you. Want you. FUCK! What is happening!? I ask myself, as I am almost paralyzed by a sudden desire to feel your flesh against mine. To rip our shorts off and fuck each other as we war. I try to block it out, that though — that need, and yet still, you continue. Pressing, grinding, and dragging your crotch into and against mine; driving me insane even through our bottoms.

So methodically did you make such a climb however. So confidently did you drag your body up mine. That I have time to refocus. Recenter. Recover just enough from the pain and ready myself. And so as you reach for my neck, I reach for yours, and almost simultaneously, do we wrap our fingers around each others neck. Then, with a force that escalates at a mirrored clip to we start to squeeze. Each of us pressing our breasts together. Mine up, and yours down. All aas I pull you down, and your face to mine. Pressing my forehead to yours as we again fight to steal each others every breath. Glaring at each other. Wanting to destroy each other, before we give into our passions.

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A surreal picture of what it means to be in the struggle of your life. I don’t think either of us thought things would end like this. I’m cocky, arrogant, a fool even. I only got where I am today by biting more than I can chew, and having my ass kicked repeatedly. It happened so much until I got just damn good, so used to fighting the bigger and stronger, that I lost respect or sight of what could happen if I was to fight a woman who has it all, size, speed, strength, and the will to fight dirty and hard.

You’re my reality check Jenn. You’re the cold hard marble my cheek is resting on, with the heavy boot of truth crushing my neck down.

You’re divine. And I both hate you, and love you for it.

And no matter what happens, what brews, I know no winners and no losers are walking out of this studio. I know it because I can feel how your perfect, thick Latina legs curl around my own, hooking and pulling me in. How your fingers move up to latch around my throat. And your lips purse, firing me that steely determined look.

How the fingers squeeze back, pulse. How your body arches more, pressing your flat, perfect abs on mine. Not to throw me off, not to bridge and topple. But to just grind and press. So much that my abs are forced back, and I can feel our ribs rubbing and rippling together.

Your breasts pushing mine up, forcing them outwards, bulging and battling me. With the claw bruises and gouges, the bite mark. No fucks given. You want this moment. You’re telling me to bring it. And your fingers gouge deeper, squeezing, throttling me.

A soft croak leaving my lips, staring at you. You unbelievable bitch. My cheeks flushing with a rosy color. A hard gulp slowly forcing its way under your thumbs. And I pour even more power down. Squeezing, while you pull me down. Our faces resting together. No breaths exhaled or inhaled. Just leaky wheezes. Of our stern struggle for supremacy.

Only sounds leaving are the creaks and crunches of the mattress beneath us. The protests and rusty shuffling. A sound that I haven’t heard when I laid on a mattress like it, with my first lover. Giving away my virginity when I was only 13 years old. A memory so deep, so intimate, and yet I find it provoked and stirred by this. One that might replace it as my deepest and yet highest throe of passion.

With you I share it. And with you I’m trying to ruin you for it.

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Never in my life have I been at once, so deeply afraid, and yet so intensely excited. Not of you, or your fingers tightening around my throat. Not that hateful glare in your eyes, that meets my own midway between us and sparks with the electric emotions running through our bodies. Not any of that, but instead, of us. Of what we are bringing out in each other. Of the depths we are dragging each other to. Knowing for absolute certain that if the chips do not fall in order, if the cards are not dealt in exactly the right way, we would gladly strangle each other until we had not a breath left in our body, and only let go from an onrushing unconsciousness.

It is that knowledge that scares me. A fear that doubles and then triples as I feel you settling in atop me. Your eyes not darting back and forth, seeking asylum. Your body not tense, and ready to pull away. But instead shimmying in. Bring us closer and closer. Our shamefully hard nipples stabbing into each other so deep that I swear blood begins to trickle out from between us. But none of that pushes me to loosen my grip. None of it urges me to be the one to submit or attempt to break and look for some other, less lethal hold. No, for just like you, I settle to. Our legs coiling around each other like anacondas, desperate for a meal. Our mutual strangles and insatiable urge to be closer bringing you so close our lips begin to brush as open to let out the smallest, breathless, soundless gasps.

Any sane person would hate whomever was applying such a choke to them. Despise the person putting their very existence at risk. And though part of me hates you. Wants you hurt and wounded. Whimpering, crying, and begging me to stop the pain. I have never wanted anything more than to kiss you. Even as we strangle each other. Even as my eyes start to fill with dark spots and spaces, and my body begins to shake from a lack of oxygen. In reaction to such signs of oblivion, I act. Twisting slightly left, and then fully right, and without resistance from you I turn us, having you on your back again. But then, rather than pull back and away, as I can see in your eyes you fear, my fingers squeeze tighter, and lean even further into you. Into us. Closing my eyes, not wanting to see you — unable to stand looking at you another moment where our lips are not locked together. In that darkness I wait. For what is to come next. A slumber either atop your unconscious body, the same sleep but quickly to be woken by your victorious and grinning face, or some miraculous even that lets us continue this battle. This mind-blowing war we have locked ourselves into.

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Gyrations. Grinding. Rubbing our semi naked bodies. Summoning every bit of will power, every molecule of oxygen and every strand of strength. We have no way out of this. None at all. This is more than just being a fight to win or beat each other. This is almost romantic. Like two Victorian, honor bound rivals, locked in a duel. Each seeking satisfaction. And yes, there is HONOR involved.

I know it because I’m not releasing your throat, to throw a fist at your side, or a claw across your eyes. Because I’m not spitting down your face. Because I’m not trying to uncoil our locked legs, and drive a knee between your legs, instead of grinding my own womanhood down on you.

It’s gone beyond my usual, almost animalistic to hurt, maim, and defeat. I’m seeking one thing. Proving that I’m better than you. That I can take you, everything you throw at me and still beat you down.

But you won’t let it happen so easily. A rock to the left then the right, and we roll over. So much that our legs flop off the edge of the mattress. My ass pressed on the very edge of it. Half hanging. And your body leans down. Exerting everything with your strength and weight.

My eyes flutter. The barely there life stream of air wheezing in through my throat is dried out now. Your fingers grinding my neck. Bruising my throat and leaving me hapless.

In my mind’s eyes I see it. My hands weakening, Falling off your neck. Lashing with some weak slaps at your face, that never connect, before falling to my sides. A bitter sweet surrender. Laying under you like a virgin who’s given up fighting her groom’s attempt in some jungle bungalow, millenia past. I see it. And I feel the fingers slipping off your neck.

No. No. NO!

I tense. My legs are off the mattress, and yours are curled tight. It’s impossible to muster the power to roll us back ontop. There is only one way, and it’s off. And off I do. Rocking my body and scraping my heels against the ground, I twist and we flop to our sides. Completely off. A lucky notion that the tilting of the cushioning surface allowed me. Bodies pressing tightly. My throat completely closed. And I lack the power to exert more on yours. You must have caught a breath or two during my weakness. But are they enough to reinvigorate?

Can I afford to find out? Survival comes to mind. And with it, the release of my left hand. The palm pressing on your mouth. Fingers spreading on your swollen, slapped cheeks. The Uff of effort, trying to push you away and back. The need to break this contact before I’m one and done.

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No, no, no! I was right! You aren’t breaking. You won’t break. I promised myself that same strength. That same resolve in the face of imminent oblivion. For somehow, and somewhere along the line, this became more than another battle. More than you wanting to even your score if not on Ewa, but her friend. This became PERSONAL. Deeply. Unmistakably. Not because of words, because we spoke none. Not because I took something from you, or you from me, because before today we were strangers. No, it was the fight. The skill. The brilliance of the other that has drug us here, kicking and screaming. That has bound our souls together, and cast us into the fire of hades — our fates ever-linked. You are so much better than I had ever imagined, and I hate it. I am so much more than another overrated, hanger-on for you to conquer and throw down at Ewa’s feet to impress her. In fact, neither of us now, even think of her. Not her face. Not her name. Not her words to each of us about the other. For obsession has set in. Addiction. Not only to this fight, but each other.

But such mad need. Such crazed desire rushes towards a swift end, as we each begin to shake in each others grasp. My closed eyes beginning to blink as we together spasm. With your last ounces of strength you roll us again, this time off the mattresses and onto the searing cement floor of the factory. There. Unable to roll back, or more. We are stuck. Two turtles having pushed each other to our backs. Destined to end each other here. Our rivalry. Our feud. Magnificent as it was, merely a brief flash in the FCF cosmos. Our names and legends ending at each others hand here on this day.

But to my great shame, to such a course I cannot abide. To such a finality I cannot give in. And so I panic. Using everything left within to release your neck and push. Sliding my hands to your sweat-covered chin and shove back. To my relief, and astonishment you do the same, and without a winner. Without a quitter. Without a blink of time passing between the two, we both succumb to each other, and when we do, we stop. Me letting myself roll left, and you rolling right. Not away from each other. But next to each other as we sputter, and cough hoarsely. Wheezing loudly, and violently next to each other. Overcome by the most desperate needs to breathe. Forgetting, at least for that moment that I need to hurt you. Or beat you. Then only wanting air, oxygen, and to recover. Even if it must be done shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Our sweat-covered still shaking, as our breasts rise and fall with every deeply taken breath. Bested, broken, but not finished, each of us is. And for that moment, we simply lay. Simply rest. The curses and attacks to come soon. The need to re-engage building with every second that passes.

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A supernova of wills. Two comets trailing millions of miles of icy cosmic matter behind them, smash together, and obliterate one another. Or perhaps, conjoin and merge, creating an object far grander, brighter, and majestic than they were individualy.

I do not know which. All I know is, I’m faltering. I’m losing, and I want you off me. Away from me. I need a separation. A change to recover and redeem. A bitter shame fills my contracting through. A venom rushing through my veins. The angst of surrendering, seems unbearable and awful.

But what’s that?

Why are you not rolling into me. To pin my back against the side of the mattress?

Why aren’t your fingers tightening, pulling me in. To squeeze me like an empty toothpaste tube, and drain whatever is left of me?

Why are you just . . . releasing and pushing.

God. It’s not the time to question. Just push her . . . OFF.

With a mutual grunt we both flop to our sides. Even our legs, losing their traction on the other. Smooth and tattooed flesh sliding, untangling. Mostly at least, our ankles and shins still crossed.

I heave, pant, my left hand cupping my throat. It’s bruised. It feels like a deformity that will not wane. A crunching sensation that will prevail until the end of time. I rub and massage it. My right hand lazily laying on your waist. Palm spread. Trying to make sure there is some resistance when you try to push back into me.

But the seconds pass, and all we do is lay there, coughing, sucking in air, and hacking. Half a minute, then another half. Then I feel a stir. I turn my head to gaze at you. Through the waterfall of tears I see your face gazing at me.

I can’t read your expression. I can’t see it. Everything is too blurry.

But I need to assume and act upon the worst. And that’s you coming for me.

My right hand on your waist, slides down. I grab the waist of your jeans shorts. And I yank hard. Strong enough that I feel the buttons snapping off. And my own elbow smacking into my right side painfully.

But it’s ok. It’s worth it, to give me the torque of twisting, and sending a much, much weaker than before, yet hopefully solid enough crushing punch to your right breast!

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With every breath I take in, more and more emotion begins to descend from brain down to my body. Emotions that had been trapped in our strangle. Stuck, in our struggle. And now-now that they are free, they flood. And from my eyes come tears. Tears that I hate to shed in front of you. To let you see even a flash of my softer side. For you are known for being hard and strong. Tough and rugged. And all I am known for is being soft. Sensitive. Loving. Sensual.

So far I had hidden it. Buried it. And been EVERYTHING I wanted to be with you. Mirroring your violence. Your brutality. But after such an intense moment of combat. WIth us nearly killing each other. I cannot help but cry. My hot tears stinging my cheek as they slide, brought about by hate, respect, fear, desperation, frustration, and every other feeling that you have roused in me.

Through that waterfall I finally find the courage to look to you. To see the state you are in. You, this warrior woman who has taking everything I have to give, and withstood it. And to my utter amazement, and a salve to my own shame, I see you too cry. It brings a smile to my face, and brings forth in me another emotion. Sympathy. How it must feel to be you, and to cry in a battle with me. ME! Jennifer!! The soft one! I would never tell. Your secret is safe with me.

I raise up, feeling you hand resting on me, and begin to lean towards you, to tell you that of those promises. Not offering with an offer to bring an end to our battle, but as an act of humanity shared between rivals before we begin again. But as I come, you reach out, grab my jean shorts, and pull. Yank. Tug them so hard, my button snaps, and zipper bursts. My eyes widen, and I look to down to see what you have done, and just as I do, a punch slams into my right breast and knocks me down to my ass. During that fall your hand catches on my bottoms and you pull them off of me, as you ready yourself for battle.

And though there are so many ways I could strike back at you. So many tactically sound ways I could attack. Instead, driven by a white-hot rage, I yell “Arrrggghhhhh” and then dive at you, grabbing the waistline of not only your jeans but also your panties, and yanking with every ounce of strength I had recovered. Wanting them off. Wanting to steal from you every shred of clothing you have. Every claim to the world outside of this struggle you yet cling to.

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If I could read your thoughts, I would probably come at you with a sledgehammer. With full intent to hurt, maim, and murder. How could you at this moment bear such thoughts. How dare you even, for a moment, taunt me in my misery. Give a voice to the frustration filling me. Sure, I’m the harder edged ones. I’m the fighter, not the lover. I’m the one who seeks wars, not peace. But I was always forced into it.

I’ve always been viewed as the easy target. The first pick to be bullied. Be it my size, my cheap clothing, lack of expensive makeup, or the six year old phone. The 2 digit number of facebook fans, and single digit of Instagram followers. It’s easy to pick on the loner. And when you’re a target, you either fight back, or lay down.

And I spent so much of my life down. On my back heaving and aching, or on my face, tasting my own blood through my busted lips. I’ve heard the teasing, tormenting words, and cruel intentions of girls who looked just like you. Too pretty and popular. So desired it drove me crazy.

So pardon me, for knowing nothing but to fight. To hurt and maim. And if you think I’m frustrated now, you might be right. But I’m also proud. I’m damn proud to keep up with someone your size. To stay in battle with a class-A slugger. A pristine bitch.

I don’t give you the pleasure to come closer. To rub your hard nipples on mine, lick my cheeks, or give me a teasing kiss. To gloat and pretend that you will go easy on me. No. I twist, flail, and punch. And the impact achieves the trifecta. It knocks you back. It rips your shorts open. And it also pisses you off majorly.

You scream, roaring. And I push up. My lungs struggling to catch up on what they missed. And you don’t wait. You slam your body into mine, and tackle me back. Back on the mattress that squishes under me. And your hands reach down. Short nails scraping my abs, grabbing my shorts. Your knees fire up, hammering into my thighs and hip. You pull, twist and rip. I cry in pain but I also reach for your panties. On our sides we pull and flail. You’re so violent you actually yank me over you. But with a knee to my hip, and a foot to my thigh. You levitate my body in the air, louder ripping filling the other. I fall face first into your shoulder, and you monkey flip us. The motion tearing the shorts and panties off. Settling on me. We both feel it. My nakedness. But also yours. Your damn panties wrapped around my fist like mine are around yours.

“RRAAARRRGHH!” I roar loudly, sitting up. Furious by the sensation of your naked pussy on mine. Mainly because now, you can sense how wet I am. I sit up and wrap my left arm around the back of your head. I push my right hand to the mattress and twist us, sending us crashing down. I’m struggling to get you in a sideheadlock, my right hand clutching your left boob. Kneading and clawing it. Wrestling you down, in a manner that could get us expelled if we were in some School’s gym.


If we could read each others minds. If we were speaking. Hashing this out. Crying on each others shoulders about our weaknesses, pasts, and flaws. At that moment we would have solved it. The riddle. The core of what drives us together, and the gas which has lit this incredible flame between us. You view me, as the popular girl. The worthy one. The fighter. The wunderkin. No different from every girl that has ever picked on you. No better. No nicer. No sweeter. No softer. Just an arrogant fucking bitch who would torment you if she had the chance. Who would laugh at you, when the boy chooses her over you. Why wouldn’t you. I am pretty. And you’ve heard my name, spoken about in reverent tones. In fact we are only together now, fighting because you had to shut everyone THE FUCK UP about me.

And yet, in that same way your view of me is warped, mine of you is no clearer. For to me, I see not a past, or the pain. The bullied or the bashful. Hiding in the corner in the cafeteria as girls who look like me use their spoons to flick food at you and into your hair. I see only what I am not. What I want to be so bad. A catfighter. Through-and-through. Brutal to the core. Vicious beyond reason. And in the same way you think back to being bullied, seeing you. Hearing about you. Thinking about you brings my own memories back. Opponents turning me down because I am too soft. Not a catfighter. “You have no claws”. “Sorry, I need a girl with bite.” “I’m not into sexfighting, no thank you.” With each such denial, after being turned away, my head hung, and my heart sank. All I wanted was a chance to practice. To try. To be what you are now in spades. And so with every glance I see you, and my jealousy boils. Just as you see me, and you remember what my type did to you. Such we could discover. Solve. Work out. But instead, in a blink, we are back at it.

Me diving through the air and slamming into you. Our tits reuniting, as we fiendishly struggle to pull the others clothes off. For an instant our hot, soaking pussies unite, and I desperately pull mine away. Terrified that you might find out how hot all of this has made me. But before I can let that fear sink in, we struggle back up. You groping at my chest, my panties wrapped around your hand and yours wrapped around mine. And so, as you try to wrap me in a headlock, I reach up, and stick your panties in your mouth and then forcefully slam your jaw shut. Focusing my efforts on keeping them inside, wanting to send you a message. A message that is delivered at the exact moment it dawns on me. How wet your panties were. Before I even know what to do with that information, you lock in your headlock and twist my neck. Bending it awkwardly and painfully as I struggle to keep your mouth closed and your mouth full with your own taste.

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Back to the mattress. A place for comfort, for the weary to rest their head, and the sick to put their backs. For lovers to press and writhe until they become one. And yet, strangely enough. For us. It’s nothing but a frenzy aphrodisiac. A place to do battle. To fight and struggle and maim. It’s almost like we’re two electric trains, and the mattress is our powered track. The moment we tumbled off it, the fight waned and our strength faded. And now we’re back on it. We’re going at it in a full frenzied vengeance.

You’re bigger than me. And yet I’m trying to aggressively make you forget that fact. My 105 lb body wrapped around your neck. Trying to wrestle you down. Feeling the full nakedness of your right side brushing my left. Our side boobs brushing and mashing. Your brown hair brushing and slapping my face. Sticking to it with sweat and spit. My abs crunching and trying to wrestle you down.

But you won’t take it laying down. You slap my face, and shove the panties inside my mouth. They fill and you jam my jaw shut by the chin. I grunt. My tongue pushing at the panties, shifting them to the front of my mouth so I don’t choke on them. But my meaty, beaded muscle poking and shoving them serves only to extract the nectar that has soaked them. Letting my juice ooze into my mouth, flooding my tastebuds with the shameful delight, that you’ve forced out of me.

I can’t curse you or call you names. At this moment, all I can do is wrench my arm harder, toppling us to the matterss, pushing a right foot into the spongy covering, rolling you to your back. My smaller body sprawled across your chest. My body wedged between your breasts. Forcing them apart. My right hand tiring from squeezing and sliding off your naked breast. I release and bring my hand down. I press my pam on your mouth. My fingers moving up to the sides of your nose. I push, grind, and pinch. Squirming and fighting with every ounce of strength. A hand smother meaning to sap your energy and drain the fight. All the while, our bodies grind, slide and struggle. Lubed with sweat and . . . other fluids. My left thigh pushing between your legs. Spreading them. Using my hip to grind and rub your clit down.

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It was not why I lunged for you and fought desperately to strip off your bottoms. Or why you grabbed at my waistline and snapped the buttons off my jeans. But as our bodies reunite in the center of the mattresses. This time with each of us bare, our clothes shed, and beautiful frames revealed and writhing, I cannot deny it or ignore. Cannot push it out of my head, or avoid the thought taking a corner of my mind to dominate. It feels amazing. Right. Like this was what we were meant for. To roll and wrestle together naked. My body vs yours. Flesh pressing and sliding against flesh with every move applied, and hold escaped.

It is that feeling that delays my realization. That though you have my head, and are dragging me down. Pinning me to the mattress with your shoulder wedged between my breasts, My every resistance moves you. And every pull, drags your body. I should have thought about it before now, but in the moves and attacks we had exchanged it hadn’t been relevant. You, despite having a mouthwateringly sexy body, are small. Smaller than me at least. Power. It dawns on me. Strength. It becomes clear, though only just as your palm presses over my mouth, and fingers pinch my nose closed.

In a flash does the thought enter my mind to return that attack. To once again lock us in a battle of cutting off the others air. But through my body runs a reflexive shudder at the very imagining of it, the first such engagement nearly ending us both. And so instead, and finally in retaliation to your near constant willingness to bring your body to bear against my pussy — attention I have resisted to counter so far, I begin to roll. Left, and then rather than right, left again. Quickly rolling you face-first into the mattress. There I do not keep you, for almost immediately do I get my legs beneath me and drag you and your lighter frame to your knees.

I feel you wrench to pull me back down, as a lack of oxygen sets my already half-burned lungs afire, but I resist you and then clasp my hand down, between your legs and over your mound. Bringing my middle finger’s nail down in the very center of your clit. There I leave it without action, letting you worry. Letting you wonder what might be next, but to do so as I lift you into the air, as you still cling to my neck and mouth. There, I raise you up as high as I can and then dive forward onto the mattress. Hoping that in our impact, your headlock is loosened, along with your smother. My hand never uncupping. My finger against your clit only beginning to press and hard as we fall together.

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Oh yes. Oh fucking YES! This is it. This total frenzy. The menacing aggression that I did not expect nor anticipate. I thought I’m here for a challenge, a match of sorts. But this goes far beyond it. This is wacko crazy! And I am digging it.

A whole thirty seconds. Of rolling, writhing, tugging, and jamming fett into bellies, breasts, and chins even. A whole thirty seconds dedicated to one thing only, and that’s stripping the other naked. And before long, we are both at it. Nude.

I don’t know why. We’re fighting. It shouldn’t make sense or much difference to punch or knee a naked pussy, or one wrapped in a damp thong. But it just felt good. It felt needed. The humility of being force stripped by a girl who wants nothing but to hurt you, is just too powerful to ignore.

And like that it happens. We flop over, writhe in on the mattress. I get the headlock on, and plant a palm on your face. I drive us down with my weight and leverage. I feel the hard tips of your nipples against my side. Your naked sloppy pussy rubbing on my hip. There is no hiding it now. Your body is reacting to this in ways I did not expect, but the shocker how mine is doing the same!

Shudders and gasps. Then you begin to stir. You push into me just enough, and your arms slide down. One behind me, one to the front, and your fingers interlock, forming a little hammock for my pussy. Your thumb jams into my clit. And I wince. You don’t push it there. But you make its presence abundant.

And using the fear that the press becomes a stab, you maneuver me up to my knees, then with a gasp I feel myself lifted. MY knees leaving the mattress. You’re too damn fucking strong. My eyes go wide. You’re not THAT strong to just lift me forever, but enough to do it for a couple of seconds, so when you turn us, I free fall into the mattress, my face planting in it, which is perfect to muffle my scream, from feeling the hard thumb nails spike me in my clit!


My mouth gaped and biting at the sweat soaked foam padding. Your head is now pulled out of my armpit. You’re free of the headlock. The pain in my clit is making me squirm like a worm, and I half turn to you, wedged on my right shoulder and temple, I gasp out.

“You dirty cunt! Good job acting up the nice girl, you slut!” My left leg pulling back and I slide it between us, wedging my foot against your upper tummy. Lifting your breasts a little bit even. Just to keep you from throwing yourself at me.

You do have your size on me, but I’m tough and stubborn as they come. My left hand snatching up your dark pretty hair.I don’t pull, I don’t yank. I don’t twist. I just hold it at a comfortable length

Then I thrust my leg violently, to push you back and off your knees. To let gravity take your heavier body back and away from me.

But I’m linking your head by my hair grip. You’re going to fall back, and your neck will come to a painful, painful halt.

Happy whiplash day, sluts! Courtesy of Chloe *******!

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We fall, and then we crash hard into the mattress. Doing so with an impact and an angle that jabs my thumbnail into your clit. I want to hear it. The resulting scream. The telltale sound pain tearing past your lips and into the sweat-moistened air that surrounds us. But cruelly you deny me that hearing, as you release into the bitten mattress. Maybe if I had been closer, I could have still enjoyed the glorious oration of your sudden spike of agony. But as we fell, you released, both smother and headlock. Leaving me behind you, though not far.

From that distance, I scramble to be atop you — upon you. Wanting not just to take advantage of your momentary state of pain-bought distraction. Not just to hurt you in some new, wicked way. But also, though I would not admit it, to feel our sweat-covered bodies press together once again. But as I come, you roll. And as I descend to my knees, you kick, burying your foot into my sternum. All as you say something about me pretending to be the nice girl. To that comment, still some of the first words we have shared I have so much to say. So much to respond with. But, not now. Not until I have you secured in some long, lingering hold from which there is no plausible escape, or we catch each other in a mutual lock of the same ilk. And so I instead focus on you. Getting to you, almost trying to press my way through your foot. At first, it works, as your leg pulls in, though it remains planted. As I get closer I reach out for you, but before I catch a grasp, you catch your own, lacing your fingers through my long brown hair, and then tightening.

At first, I do not see it or expect it. But then, with only a blink left before it is launched, you kick out with all your might and send me hurdling backward, only to come to a sudden, brutal stop, as your hold on my hair drags me back. The totality of the attack actually sending me horizontal in the air, as I land on the mattress flat on my stomach. I did not have time to scream as I flew, nor the breath to do so when I landed, and so it is left to thereafter. For the sounds of my destruction to fill the room. Coming in the forms of moans, and groans, as my hands instinctively moving to my scalp to try and massage out a pain that cannot be so easily forgotten.

There, 3 feet from your toes, I lay. Rolling in 1/8th turns from one side to the other, trying to recover. Not even clear-headed enough to imagine what nastiness you have in store for me. What pain is coming as I writhe without offense.

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You are absolutely right. I’m not as big as you, or as heavy, or as strong. Pound for pound, maybe I am stronger. But after a grueling battle, I’ve lost more strength than you, and now, every pound of flesh you have on me counts.

But I haven’t created my rep by being the small engine that could. I am the little bitch who devastates. You don’t get this much better than almost everyone else, by fighting girls my own size. I always looked up, always fought uphill. And I know how to take a big, tough, sexy bitch like you down.

I can see the shock in your eyes when my foot catches your sternum. But you lean in. And in a way I let you. Coiling my leg back like a spring about to be launched. My legs spread, and years of playing Kinect Yoga on my Xbox come to handy. Even though I see your eyes glancing down, to check the devastation you caused on my young, pink, soppy pussy. My petals parted, and you sure notice the glistening far more than the tiny red nail jab your thumb spiked into me.

The trap is set, now, to spring it. And I catch you fully in it. With a grip on your hair, I launch, you, only to anchor that one body part of you. Your scalp, and of course your neck.

There is always a method to the madness. And I always found it, that no matter how big a girl is. You can take her down if you know how to handle her neck.

And I started with the headlock. And now, the whiplash. Your hair slips off and you crash down. Just out of my kicking range, flopping and holding your head. Squirming in pain.

I grin, breathing hard. My pussy hurting. But I roll to my sides, then up on my knees, and I crawl towards you ,frenzied, hurried. Tossing my left leg up and over your body, I shift up, and then drop down. Smacking my naked ass down on your perfect breasts.

My legs spread. Shifting, I move them over your shoulder. Pushing down to pin your upper arms. My hands slipping down, my palms pressing on your ears, my fingers interlocking behind your skull.

I stare down at you. Sweat rolling down my breasts, beading over my nipples, a droplet falls onto your cheek with a little miniscule splash.

“Just try to enjoy this, as much as I will.” I hiss in udder sadism.

Then I pull up hard, yanking your head, while your shoulders are pinned down. Force bending it forwards. To press your chin into your chest bone in a throat constricting choke. Counting on the repeated assault to your neck, to make this move hurt ten times more!

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It seems like only seconds because it was. And yet, despite that brevity of time, quickly you are upon me. Reaching my position on the mattress just as one of my smaller rolls becomes one in full, taking me to my back, just in time to look up and see you. Your beautifully tattooed leg stepping up and over me. My sightline graced by your giant, natural breasts which dwarf mine in size normally, but from this angle look positively monolithic. But below that, again, a sight my eyes continue to be drawn to is your sex. One that you have brought to bear on me numerous times in this battle, and now, I am certain, you plan to again.

A fear that intensifies and a certainty that hardens as you drop down on my breasts. Doing so with an air of confidence, more appropriate for Caesar riding home from Gaul, than a naked girl, in a hot factory, bringing herself to sit upon her rival. And yet here. Atop me. You are an empress. A queen. And I, having been outfought, and straddled, your loyal — or perhaps disloyal subject. Held in chains, waiting for your decree of punishment.

One you levee, as you reach down, wrapping your fingers around the back of my head. I expect it. You to yank me forward, and give me a face full of your wet, hot, kitty. But no! No…. First! Or maybe exclusively! PAIN. A pain you expertly create, focusing on my neck again. Bending it cruelly forward. Pulling my head so hard, whilst also pushing and pinning my shoulders to the mattress. One that has such give, the pain is even worse, as my body sinks in, even as my head does anything but. In such a hold my face contorted with pain. One so great my eyes close, just trying to bear it. All as beads of sweat slide down your majesty body and drip onto me. One after another. Washing me with your scent. Your salt. The after-effect of our struggle. As if this was some form of Chinese water torture, and each drop was meant to impress upon me the futility of resistance and the doom that I no doubt face.

I try to struggle. To Push you off of me. And though due to my size advantage, with every press I do lift you — an inch or maybe two, my strength gives out not long after, causing you to crash back down atop me, making my pain even worse. Such close shaves with escape, are cruel and mocking — each making me more and more angry, even though they are of my make and not yours. And yet still, I continue, pushing. Trying to get you off of me. All as you just sit. Bending my neck. Working it not only forward but side to side, smiling as you do. Enjoying having me caught between your thighs and in agony. And yet you do not ask for my surrender, as you do not want it. Nor would I offer it, if you did. For this is a different kind of battle. One that will go on, until one or both of us are broken, completely. Words of submission not even on the table. Thoughts of saving some for another day, or clinging to the better part of valor: absurd.

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Focus . . . Focus Chloe. Try to ignore them. Everything she’s throwing at you.

Don’t falter, don’t weaken. Lock the fingers! Wrench the wrist! Tense the biceps and roll the shoulder into it!

Yes . . . Yes just like that!

Ughh! Fuck no no. Ignore them I said!

My inner dialogue would sound insane to you. Like a psychotic fighting Don Quixotic shadows all around her. You’re not doing anything. Except hurting. Groaning. Except being my prey and target of abuse. You’re just flinching, shifting, rising and dropping again. Hurting yourself further.

But you’d think that.

To me, everything you do is a distraction.

The way your pretty eyes swell with tears. Look at me in a mix of anguish, anger, frustration, and admiration. The way your hard nipples poke my bum. Digging and grazing. Rubbing in a way that’s making my sex shudder, and tense even more.

I need to focus. To just look past these things you do. I lean a bit back, arch my body. My abs clench, shoulders roll back. I pull you even more. I’m trying to give you the sensation I’m ripping your damn head off. I want to weaken that neck. To make you tap. Beg. Just ask for it to stop . . .

And if you are to slip away, I want your own head to be a liability. A ball chained with spikes to your spine. I want it to hurt to turn, to look for me, to fucking talk more smack!

But my power is sapped greatly. And you’re not tapping. You’re not surrendering. My arms are beginning to tire. So I let go of your head finally and I gasp. My body swaying for a second. Above you.

I just stare down at you. You’re just gazing up at me. A moan rising from your throat. But a moan is not a surrender. You want more. Fine. I’ve got more.

I shift a bit higher. I need to let my arms wrest, but gravity is free. Sheer mass comes at no cost or tax. And that’s precisely what I do. I move up. My butt slipping down your risen valleys and drop down into the grove of your neck.

“No need to thank me. I know you want to taste it. You might be the better woman, but I’m the BEST woman!”

My left holds a tuft of your hair, I pull up. Yanking your mouth right on my soaked kitty. My hips shrugging and rubbing. Smudging your lips and nose with my sweetness.

“Don’t be shy Jenn! I won’t tell . . . If you do it right.”

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It is not a decision, but an acceptance. That I will not submit, even though my neck aches so bad, that the back and bottom of my skull feels as if it might explode. No, I will endure. I don’t care how fuc…”OWE! Arrrggghhhh” MY own thoughts of holding out forever find themselves shattered, as suddenly you lean back. Further and further, wrenching my neck, hanging back off of it like it was a stripper pole! At first, though my eyes open, filled with tears, I cannot see. I cannot even think. All I can do is feel. But finally, as that pain settles into a constant, agonizing stretch, I regain enough composure to try to escape. Kicking my legs up, into the air, wanting to catch your head in a leg scissor as you lean back. But at the very moment I do, you release my neck, and straighten. The relief of it, causing my attempt to fade, as my legs come back to the mattress and I feel it. No more bend. No more angle. The pain still there, but fading by the second. Thank god! I think to myself, beyond joyous that the pain has ended.

But again you act quickly, sliding forward, dragging your wetness across my chest. And as you do, I know what is coming. What I expected in the first place. What on any other day I would have loved to have. Your pussy pressing into my mouth. Before you give me such a kiss, with your lower lips and my upper, you taunt me. Saying that you know I want to taste you.

Back at you I glare, just as you grab my hair and pull me forward, and into you. Your soaking wet sex engulfing my lips, your engorged clit centered in the middle of my open mouth. Immediately I can taste you. Your sweat-mixed essence pouring into my mouth. I shake my head, trying to turn it. To pull away, but like a bull rider, you hold me beneath you. No doubt enjoying my struggle as it stimulates your most sensitive of places. Your most delicate collection of nerves.

It is that mix of stimulation and punishment, I hope to use as a weapon — as a ruse. And so, slowly, as you grind yourself into me, taunting me. My eyes, which had been etched in fire and hate, even through yet-rolled tears, begin to soften. And my attempts to turn cease. My hands, at the end of arms you have pinned move gently to your thighs, and land. Communicating to you a softening and almost a submission to your will. Then, with all those signs as backdrop, my tongue moves to your clit and begins to gently, almost imperceptibly lick. Wanting you to have to guess? Is she…? Is she really…?

Then, when I finally see you pick up on all the hints I lay down, and your lips part to comment on my subjugation. My hands upon your thighs lock down, and my teeth slam closed on your clit. Biting hard. So very fucking hard. Every bit of my strength used to keep you atop me, and to keep you from removing your sex from my mouth. Wanting to gnaw on you. To brutalize you. And to teach you to never, EVER feel confident in your dominance again. Such is the message I send, as I work closer and closer to adding a third flavor to those taste in my mouth. One reminiscent of copper. One you know so well….

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So that’s how it feels? To ride a Goddess? I smile. Staring at you. The frustration. The defiance. The anger and rage.

How you thrash and toss. How you throw and turn. Like a caged lioness. Throwing her body against the bars, eyes promising doom and gloom upon the laughing spectators and trainers. They shall pay, sooner or later, the deathly yellow eyes promise. And she sits in the corner, tail wagging.

The vision coming to my eyes for some reason. And I smile. Like one of the buffoons wielding chair and a whip. Dressed like a clown. Laughing at the force of nature.

Your arms settle down. Your shoulders roll back. You eyes blink once, and all the fury is gone, and it’s just replaced with complacence and lust.

The tail wags again.

“See? It’s not too bad. Just let yourself into it.” I tease.

The chair bumps against the bars.

Your head leans in, and your tongue slips out. It licks, laps, and kisses. And I moan louder. My head arching back. Uhh Finally. I’ve tamed her. Finally this is damn over.

And over it is, indeed.

The tail coils, and the lioness lunges.

“What that !!!” A gasp leaves my lips. And nothing else. My body tensing. I feel it and the sheer shock makes me disbelieve it’s actually happening. I feel the teeth wedged into my kitty. The incisors gnawing on my clit. This is no warning shot. This is no drill. This is the whole damn armada, the Enola Gay roaring through the skies of Hiroshima, and dropping the biggest bomb in the history of human annihilation in active combat.

I scream and flail. My hands push on your forehead. My claws dig in. I’m scraping and crying. I push up but you stretch my clit. You won’t let go. Only on your terms. I cry out and feel the sharp blinding pain, then I fall to the side. You roll with me. Cheek resting on my thigh.

The lioness is tearing and shredding. Mayhem in the circus. Headlines will talk about the tragedy, the vanity of man in the face of nature.

And when you let go, after whatever long you decide to. I roll in pain, curled in a fetal position. I’m clutching my womanhood. Moaning in pain. Biting the mattress. You sure got what you wanted. I can feel the silent bleeding running down my palm. A howl of an animal wounded rising from my throat. My head spins, and I’m barely clutching to consciousness. But why? I should just let go. At least that way, the pain will stop. And I wheeze, slowly drifting away.

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In a span of time so short, that not even a single breath could be taken, our roles switch. You had been the hunter. The predator. Not only in hunt, but having struck — having wounded — having killed, so it seemed. You had already begun to feast on the carcass — M Y carcass. Not by taking bites, and sips, but my torturing me. Slowly. Vindictively. Bending my neck in whatever way you willed. Taking my cervical spine to its absolute breaking point, and then diving past it. Smirking at me, as my eyes welled with tears and I cried between your thighs. My mascara running, and lips quivering. There in your hands I was pathetic. No longer a rival. No longer a threat. Just a felled foe — one in a long line who have fallen at your feet. And like the conqueror, you sought to shame me. Pressing my face into your wet sex. Waiting for me to lick you. Wanting me to serve you. To submit to you being my better, and taking my title of The Better Woman, only to then strap it proudly around your waist.

It was a step in the road to domination common in a fight such as this. One I had taken hundreds of times against a defeated foe. But such was the key word: defeated. A state you assumed. A state you just accepted as fact, without hearing it from my lips, or watching as I slowly succumbed to your will. No, instead, at the first moment in which you had control, I could not wrest it from you, you slid forward. Wanting me to be done. Wanting me to be defeated. Wanting to to pencil me in to your lists of conquered bodies. And that hunger I fed. Along with your second operative assumption.

That I was soft, weak, and held back by lines drawn in the sand — lines which dictated what I would and would not do. That though I came here to fight you, in the most brutal fight of my life, deep down, I was still a soft, sensual, sexfighter. Able to pull hair, but not else. Into that security you sank, pulling me deeper and deeper. All of your guards relaxing, save for keeping me pinned. Keeping me close. And with every bit of acting talent I had in me, I spoke to the inerrancy of that slow descent into imagined dominance. My eyes those of a cute, subservient puppy dog. My tongue timidly licking your clit, pretending that in part I was terrified to displease you, and in other, that I was ashamed of being forced to lick my better.

Onto every jagged edge of my beartrap you brought yourself to rest, and then, when it could not have been more perfectly times, I sprang it. Oh the glory of it. The majesty. As you screamed and toppled. Writhed and rolled. Stung and stumbled. Off of me, or at least you tried, for I never let go. Keeping my bite and following you. Until at the end of your maelstrom of flying limbs, and half-uttered cries, you laid on your back, with me still attached. Teeth buried in your clit.

At first I held it, because I thought you might try to come again. To counter. To fight back. But when it became obvious you were done…. Broken…. Unwilling to do any of the above, or anything at all, I held on because I wanted to. Held on because I liked the taste. The taste you offered. Your juices, your sex, all mixed with just a hint of copper.

All of which I suckled on, softly — easing my bite, and then softly hardening it, until I hear you whimper. My arms curling around your thighs, and pulling you into me. Wanting to drag you along the very edge of these cliffs of pain. Sadistic. Cruel. EVIL. For the first time in my life, having found someone with whom I, Jennifer Diaz, want to hurt. Want to torture. Want to tattoo with my dominance, so that neither she, nor I, will ever — EVER forget it.

But finally, when I have continued my small, tortuous bites for so long, I must rest my head on your soft inner thigh just to keep my injured neck from hurting: I release you. Both your beautifully shaped thighs and your tasty clit. Letting you roll away, as take a moment to breathe. To recover. Not from pain, like you, but from fatigue. Needing more energy than I have at that moment to do what comes next. To punish you. To humiliate you, as you no doubt what have done to me.

It takes me minutes, nearly ten of them. But when the exhaustion has passed, and a second wind comes. I look to you and find you brimming the rim of unconsciousness. From that brim I grab you, and take you. Pulling you to your feet in a wobbly, near dead-weighted stumble. One that I lift you from and take you. Off of the mattresses, onto the hard, acid-stained, cement floor, and then to an as of yet obscured part of the room. The part of the room where the cast iron heater sits. Its structure shaking. Its metal almost glowing with heat. The air around seeming to come up from its surface in waves, like a view of distant on a hot summer day.

There, I sit you, holding you up until I come to a seat behind you. There, I wrap my legs around your hips, and coil them around your legs, holding them open with my hooked heels, only a foot in front of the heater. Then, I take your left arm, and hook my own left beneath it, pinning your left arm behind your back in a hammerlock. Then, wirth my right, I grab your hair, straighten your head, and whisper into your ear. “Wake up, slut…. It’s time to talk….”

The End.

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