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Wednesday Afternoon by Corvus

Sarah locked her computer screen. She placed her bare feet into the high heeled peep toe pumps, and pushed back from her desk. She glanced at the clock. Two-fifty-one. She had nine minutes.

She stood up and left her office, stopped briefly in the ladies’ room, and inspected herself in the mirror. She saw a 42-year-old woman, weight about 140, wearing a black pencil skirt that ended two inches above her knees. Her powder-blue blouse had a scoop neck that revealed the beginnings of the curves of her breasts. She looked around, saw no one, then placed her hands on them and lifted them slightly. They were well-shaped and matched her frame, and she wore a bra only for work.

She combed her jet-black hair with her fingers. It was straight around her head and then fell into casual waves around her shoulders. Her diamond earrings glittered. She had dark brown eyes that seemed enormous.

Satisfied, she left the ladies’ room.

She exited the floor onto the elevator corridor. She hit the up button and waited, glancing at her watch again. The door dinged and opened, and she entered it, and punched the 29th floor. She tapped her foot lightly during the ride, her high-heel balancing a bit. She was feeling impatient.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. She left quickly and flashed her access card at the sensor. The door lock clicked, and she entered into an otherwise barren floor. It had originally been planned for more cubes and offices, but that ended after a corporate reshuffling.

She hurried down the corridor until she came to a conference room. She opened it, and adjusted the blinds so that they barely admitted slices of sunlight. She went to one end of the room and stood waiting.

Two minutes later, she heard heels clocking in the hallway. She felt a surge of anticipation, and stood straighter.

The door opened and Fiona entered. Fiona was a woman perhaps seven or eight years older than Sarah, but she still carried herself with youthful energy. She had silver hair, cut quite short, and her face was patrician in appearance, with pale green eyes, a firm narrow nose, and plump lips painted with a vibrant scarlet shade of lipstick. She wore a cream-colored skirt and a black silken button-front top.

They had agreed long ago that these contests were to be silent. No words.

Sarah acknowledged Fiona with the barest of nods. They stood twenty feet apart in the empty conference room. The sunlight and shadow made a chiaroscuro pattern over the women who faced each other.

Fiona started. She opened the buttons on the cuffs of her blouse. She slowly, one by one, undid the buttons down the front. Sarah watched, her mouth slightly open, as Fiona continued. The silver-haired woman opened the front of her blouse to reveal a black demi-bra. The bra cups seemed overfull of her breasts and Sarah’s pupils dilated as she saw Fiona’s perfectly formed globes rose and fell with Fiona’s breathing.

Sarah pulled her blouse from the waistband of her skirt, and lifted it up in an equally languid manner, showing her firm abs and the soft ivory cups of her low-cut brassiere. She pulled it off over her head, her hair tangling a bit. She dropped it on the floor, and curls of black hair fell in front of her eyes, half-hiding them. Fiona watched, her blouse open fully now. She let it drop to the floor.

Fiona reached behind her, and as Sarah watched, she unsnapped the hooks on her bra. She leaned forward a bit, and her bra fell into her hands. The pattern of sunlight and shadow played across her breasts, showing the nipples that even now became hard. She tossed the bra onto the floor, and it landed on her discarded blouse.

Sarah mirrored these movements, unsnapping her bra and pulling the straps off her shoulders, then letting it fall to the floor. Her C-cup breasts were crowned with small dark nipples, in areolae half an inch wide. They too rapidly became hard.

The women stood there, regarding each other’s topless figures.

For the past year, they had done every Wednesday at work. Why they did so they could not quite tell. For some reason known only to mature women, they knew they needed this.

Again, with slow deliberate moments, they started to walk towards each other. Their eyes were fixed each other, and their breathing quickened as they came closer. Sarah felt a surge of excitement, as she had every time they played this scene.

Yes, she thought, Oh, God, yes!

The two women stopped when their breasts met. They each looked down and saw that their nipples had touched. They drew in a shuddering breath. They looked at each other, and knew it was time.

Sarah reached out and circled her arms around Fiona’s waist. Fiona did the same. And then, with a sudden convulsive movement, they pulled each other into a fierce embrace, and they stifled the moans that rose in their throats as their heads fell on each other’s shoulders and their breasts crushed together, their hard nipples meeting and rubbing. They closed their eyes and bear hugged each other, and their Wednesday ritual had finally begun.

Sarah felt a wave of emotion as she pressed her bare breasts against Fiona’s. The feeling of the compression of their respective breasts was enticement to continue. She pulled her head back and looked into Fiona’s green eyes. Fiona returned her gaze. They both looked down for a couple of seconds as their breasts continued to flatten against each other. Their nipples were like pebbles grinding together, sending electric shivers of sensation to their bodies. They looked again at each other, brows furrowed, as they pulled their arms tighter, feeling their bellies meet.

As their eyes were locked, the women continued their unrelenting pressure, flattening the flesh, poking each other with their stiff nipples. They felt as hard as the tips of pencil erasers. They luxuriated in the squeezing pressure, feeling a throbbing pain that felt too good to give up. Again, Sarah marveled at how the smoothness of their breasts could feel so hard, simultaneously yielding at the start, and then like rubbery iron when compressed to the ultimate.

As Sarah continued her breast battle with Fiona, unbidden, the scenes from long ago opened.

Speak, memory.

She is twenty years old, at university. She and her roommate Dolores are watching a catfight on the grounds of the quad. Two first-year girls are rolling around, slapping and tearing and cursing at each other. Sarah does not know the girls, but she is subconsciously rooting for the dark-haired girl. Dolores, a lovely blonde, grabs her arm and squeals in delight as the women fight, bodies locked like lovers.

That evening, in their room and under the influence of bottle of cheap white wine, they talk about the fight and how it made them feel (before it unfortunately was broken up by a couple of guys). They are in their underwear, and giggling, they decide to wrestle. Sarah and Dolores roll around on the floor, and their bras get pulled off in their drunken tangle, and they laugh and squawk and yelp as they inexpertly fight. They mock-slap each other and Sarah will always remember how it felt as their young bodies entwined together. To this day, she still dreams of it.

Sarah and Fiona start to pull apart their upper bodies, but still hold tight of each other’s waists. They start to bounce their chests together, back and forth, again and again, feeling their bosoms collide, relishing the movement and the gratifying smacking of their breasts. They look down and almost giggle at the sight of their breasts expanding as they pull apart and flatten again as they bump and push. They start to dig their fingernails into the soft skin on their backs, with each bump jabbing the well-manicured nails into each other.

Sarah and Fiona look to their right a moment, and see the abstract pattern of their shadow playing on the wall. They see striped silhouettes of themselves, the two mature topless women, meeting each other’s bodies, joining and leaving, merging and coming apart. It is hypnotizing.

Speak, memory.

Sarah is now twenty-five years old, and she is again visited by the urge to combat. She joins a gym, and takes up with a group of women who have impromptu fights at each other’s apartments. The first time she does this she is a bit scared, for her opponent is quite muscular, and slender and hard-bodied Latina woman. But Carmen promise to be easy on her.

They start out in one-piece swimsuits. They are fighting on Carmen’s big king-size bed, and Carmen likes to catfight. Sarah has read about catfights on the Internet, and she still has the memory of the young girls at University who wildly fought in the Quad five years before. The memory excites her.

They start slowly at first, grabbing each other’s shoulders as they grappled on their knees. The women feel their bodies meet and they both moan as they entwine into a ball of young female flesh on the big bed. They roll around, and when Carmen pulls Sarah’s hair for the first time, she cries out, and, angered, slaps Carmen hard, harder than she intended.

The fight escalates when Carmen rips the front of Sarah’s red swimsuit down, exposing her breasts. Sarah curses her opponent, and tears the front of Carmen’s blue swimsuit down. They then scream and start a wild melee of slaps and punches. Somehow, rationality asserts itself, and Carmen pleads, please stop! The two women stop and look at each other, enticed by their naked breasts, and they then embrace, pushing their breasts hard together. They hold like this for perhaps five minutes, then, reluctantly, separate. They agree that their other encounters will be limited to wrestling. Sarah, however, is marked by the fight. And treasures it.

Sarah and Fiona continued their breast fight. They moved back and forth, up and down, grinding their perfectly shaped globes together, raking each other with their hard nipples.

Now, their hands are fastened into claws clamped onto each other’s buttocks. As they push and rub their breasts together, they squeeze their hands onto the rumps, feeling the flesh underneath the expensive skirts, their legs seeking purchase on the carpet. They still do not speak, but it’s impossible to mute every moan, every unintelligible expression of pain and pleasure. They close their eyes as they rub up and down, trading places between Sarah and Fiona as to whose breasts are on top, swiping from side to side, hearing the occasional slapping sound as their breasts, now glowing with perspiration, slickly slide together.

They can feel and smell the scent of each breath, as once both sweet and tangy, as well as the light fragrance of their colognes. And if, on occasion, their mouths pass in light touches, a tongue may slip out and liquidly caress its counterpart as they fight, it is but a small moment, one that means nothing, because they are here to fight.

Speak, memory.

At age thirty, Sarah has her first bare-knuckle fight.

She was angry at a woman name Holly, a stuck-up Brit bitch who was the manager of the small newspaper she had just started editing. Holly delighted in teasing her. She would always take an opportunity to poke her and jab her when she walked by, and then when Sarah protested, she would claim it was all innocent fun.

Holly demands that Sarah show up at her house to discuss an article that gone out in the previous day’s edition, an article that Sarah had written.

Fuming, Sarah shows up, and Holly brings her in to her home office, where she proceeds to dissect the article line by line. Sarah takes it stolidly, but her anger mounts.

Finally, Holly says that if Sarah couldn’t do something as simple as this, she could walk away.

Or, she says, Sarah and her could fight.

Sarah has heard that Holly has a kink for rough stuff, a bisexual sociopath, but she has never paid it much mind. But she hears this, and realizes it’s all true.

And she wants to do it.

They go into a spare room, devoid of furniture. Holly starts to strip, and Sarah does likewise. They are naked and facing each other. Holly has a a small curly patch of pubic hair, while Sarah has shaven herself bare. Holly has tea-cup sized breasts with plump nipples, a mound of curly brown hair and eyes as pale as a glass of Chardonnay.

Awkwardly, they circle each other, hands raised. Sarah sees that Holly’s nipples are hard, and she can tell the Brit is sexually aroused by this. And that in turn is arousing her.

With a yell, Sarah darts forward, ready to land her right hand onto Holly’s jaw. But Holly is experienced, and ducks down, and jabs her fist into Sarah’s belly. Sarah, retching, bends forward, clutching her abdomen. Holly pops a left jab into Sarah’s right breast, flattening the tender tissue. Sarah yelps, realizes that she is very much the amateur here, and cries out. She does manage to land a solid right into Holly’s sex, and Sarah can feel the wetness on her knuckles.

It doesn’t take long. Sarah manages a few hits, once into Holly’s jaw, one rabbit punch to her opponent’s backside, but Holly, with quick hooks and darting punches, drives Sarah to her knees.

Sarah holds up her hands signaling surrender. Holly demands one thing before accepting it.

As much as Sarah hates it, she equally submits to it. Holly stands over her, and Sarah takes her tongue and licks Holly to a quick yipping orgasm, spurting a a couple of tablespoons of watery heated juice onto Sarah’s face.

Sarah quits her job the next day.

Sarah and Fiona have done their peculiar war for fifteen minutes now. They are getting tired.

They continue the rubbing, the bouncing, the grinding, and they slowly start to pull up each other’s skirt, titfighting while the hems slowly rise.

At last, the skirts are bunched above the waist, and they feel their panty-covered crotches come together.

The finale is about to begin.

Sarah voiced an unmistakable moan when she felt the moistening crotch of her panties meet Fiona’s. They clutched each other’s asses, digging their hands into the firm sensual flesh. It was unmistakable – the two women’s pussies were wet. She could feel the heated moisture on her sex, and she couldn’t help it. She ground her silken clad cunt into Fiona’s. The labia splayed out under the wet fabric, and her clit thrummed with sexual need.

Unsteady on their feet, the two women slowly descended to their knees on the carpeted floor. They glued their mouths to each other, and tried to merge their bodies, breasts compressing, rock-hard nipples poking the tender mounds.

As they pulled into each other, arms flexing with the effort, Sarah remembered the fateful day.

Speak, memory.

It was a company picnic.

Sarah had been determined to have a good time. The theme of the picnic was a Renaissance Festival, and the employees had been encouraged to wear costumes appropriate to the era. It was held at rural retreat of rolling hills, forest groves, and a big lake. The company spared no expense – they had buskers busking and tavern wenches wenching. The beer and wine flowed.

Sarah wore a long flowing purple skirt and white bodice that was deeply cut, with a corset that pushed her breasts high and together. The cleavage seemed like a mile deep, twin mounds with a narrow valley between them. She had to adjust it quite often to prevent her nipples from popping over the top.

She was sipping a dark beer from a paper cup when she the other woman. She thought she recognized her, a new hire in the marketing department. She had silver hair cut quite short, and she wore a red flouncy dress, high-heeled boots, and a white lace top with a scoop neck. As with Sarah, her breasts were compressed to display a generous helping of cleavage.

There was a contest organized by the corporate powers-that-be. Sarah thought it was silly, but she still felt compelled to watch. Over a river coursing through the retreat was a narrow rickety rope bridge, just wide enough for one person to pass through. The floor of the bridge consisted of planks about 18 inches long and tied to inch thick rope. The idea was for one person to start from one side, and another to start from the other. They would meet in the middle and try to force the other one over the bridge into the water. It wasn’t dangerous; the bridge was just a couple of feet over the water, and the water was only eighteen inches deep.

The contest organizers handed out tickets to those who wished to participate. Sarah got one; so did the silver-haired woman. The two women stood side-by-side and watched the first two contestants start. They happened to be women as well. Sarah recognized one from the accounting department. They were each dressed in long frilly dresses and both had low-cut bodices.

Giggling, one woman went to the other side and started back on the bridge, and the other started from the side nearest Sarah. They were about a hundred feet away. Sarah moved closer, followed by the older woman.

They watched as the two women made their way along the narrow bridge. The women held on with their hands as it swayed in their movemens. They laughed nervously as they met in the middle. The women tried to push past each other to the delight of those watching, their bodies moving against each other, their breasts meeting and sliding. They started to get expressions of exasperation on their faces, and they each banged against the other, their breasts pancaking together.

Sarah and the silver-haired woman were mesmerized. Unbidden, Sarah’s memories of all her combative encounters burst into full awareness. Her breath came faster, her own breasts starting to rise and fall in her low-cut top. She glanced over at the older woman next to her. She was staring wide-eyed, avidly drinking in the sight. At once, Sarah knew that this was a kindred spirit, and she felt a rush of sexual heat.

The two women on the narrow bridge grabbed each other’s hands and pushed against each other. They grunted with effort and their breasts met hard. The smiles on their faces were replaced with grimacing determination. Sarah and the other woman watched with wide-eyed hunger. Sarah heard the other woman muttering under her breath, entreaties to push, to shove, to fight. Sarah felt her nipples grow hard under the tight low-cut top she was wearing. She felt a maddening desire to touch and pull on them.

Finally the two women pushed against each other a final time, and they both stumbled and toppled into the shallow river, screaming with embarrassment and drunken delight. Sarah watched as one of the woman’s top fell down exposing two very shapely breasts. She looked to to her right and the silver-haired woman glanced at her. A strange smile came to her face.

She said, “I’m Fiona. Do you…do you want do that?” She hooked her thumb at the bridge and the two women who staggered out of the water.

Sarah said, “Yeah. I’d love to.”

When the contest organizers called out for volunteers, both women raised their hands. As they walked toward the riverbank, Sarah asked, “So…you think you can beat me?”

Fiona said, “I…I don’t know. I know that want to try.”

They reached the bridge. The contest organizer flipped a half-dollar coin in the air, and said, “Call it.”

Fiona quickly replied, “Heads.”

It came up tails. The man said to Fiona, “You go across the bridge to the other end.”

Fiona looked at Sarah, smiled quizzically, and said, “Meet you in the middle.” She took off, crossed the narrow bridge, which swayed from side to side as she moved.

When Fiona got to the other end, she turned around. The man held a starter pistol up, and fired it into the air. Sarah jumped at the sound, then gathering her long skirts, started up the bridge as Fiona did.

They watched each other with unshaking gaze, both of them nervous, both of them wondering what it would feel like to meet there on the bridge, pitting their mature female bodies against each other.

It didn’t take long. They got to the middle of the bridge, and held on to the narrow rope handrails. The air was cool and the late afternoon sunlight played on their faux Elizabethan outlets.

Fiona said in a low voice, “I think I’m going to like this.”

Sarah replied, “Oh I know I am. Bring it on…bitch.”

With an audible snarl, Fiona leaped at Sarah, shaking the bridge into wild oscillations that could have dumped them both. Their bodies met and they pushed into each other while holding onto the ropes. Sarah gasped as their breasts met and crammed together. The two women could hear drunken cheers from the crowd on the banks.

Sarah and Fiona struggled on the bridge. They each let go with one hand and grabbed onto their waists, digging their fingers into the flesh. They didn’t even notice when the force of their rubbing pushed down their tops and their naked breasts came into intimate contact. Their legs scissored together and they each felt the insistent rubbing of each other’s thighs against each other’s crotches, even through the heavy cloth of their skirts.

The pushed and shoved each other, muttering imprecations and curses, and they could smell their heated exhalations, redolent of beer and turkey legs.

Sarah gasped, “Ohh…ohhh my God….when this is done….we…we have to find a way to do this again and again…oh you cunt….I love this!”

Fiona moaned, “Ohhhh….god damn you….yesss….I’ve been searching for this my whole life….you bitch….crush my breasts!”

They let go of the rope, and fought against each on their feet. They threw both arms around each other and bearhugged, their now naked breasts merging into one four-lobed flower of mature female flesh.

It didn’t take along. To cheers from the crowds on the banks, they both toppled into the water. The splash seemed to bring them to their senses, and they hurriedly stood up and pulled their tops over their bulging breasts. The only saving grace was the crowds were far enough way that they could not have gotten more than a glimpse or two of their exposure.

Holding hands, they staggered through the shallow water onto the bank, where the organizers, grinning, handed them big towels. Since it was a tie, they were each awarded a $100 gift card for their participation.

Later, after taking advantage of some time to change into jeans and a tee shirt, Sarah sought Fiona. They met at the entrance to the grounds.

Sarah: I can’t believe what we just did.
Fiona: I know! And…I can’t wait until we do it again. But where? I’m married – my options are limited.
Sarah: I have an idea. Can you find a way to get away from your duties for a couple of hours every week?
Fiona: Yes…I think so. I can claim a marketing webcast I need to take.
Sarah: There’s an empty floor – the 29th. I can arrange for our badges to gain us and only us admittance for a particular time.
Fiona: What time?
Sarah: How does Wednesday about 3 sound?
Fiona: Yes, I can do that. What are we going to do?
Sarah: We meet. We take off our tops. And we embrace. We fight. We capture what we’ve captured here.
Fiona: Yes! Oh, god I want to do it now….so badly!
Sarah: Patience. Every Wednesday…we fight. We join our bodies and fighrt!

Sarah and Fiona embraced each other, again pressing their upper bodies together as hard as they could. They looked at each other, aware that they must be discreet. Then, with a parting squeeze, they separated. The look in their eyes was that of anticipation.

The mature women rolled on the conference room floor, topless, their breasts jammed together, their nipples hard and aching. They moaned and fought and then fastened their hands in each other’s hair. They felt their panties grow wet and their labia swelled with desire and lust. Side by side on the floor, the late afternoon sunlight playing on their bodies, the hammered their pelvises together, and finally, with aching sobs of release, they orgasmed in their mutual fight.

They lay together for a few minutes. Then, without a word, they rose, and gathered their clothes together. In a few minutes, they had put themselves together in a semblance of their former selves. With one last yearning glance, Fiona left. Sarah waited five minutes. And she left too.

Would this be satisfying them forever? She knew how this taboo activity must be hidden. But she also knew that one day, she and Fiona, despite her marriage, must meet for an all-out confrontation. They must meet and fight, and fight for hours….perhaps for days.

She shivered at the thought.

The End

Thank you for reading! For more of Corvus’ Stories: Click Here!

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