You Cup Your Breasts

You cup your breasts around her face. Pressing them into her cheeks. Closing her off from the air she needs to keep fighting. The breaths she requires to fuel her hate.

As you do, she squirms and shifts beneath you. Clawing at your back and pulling at your hair. Not realizing, until the exhaustion of asphyxiation sets in, that the key to her survival and cost of continued contest, is to grab for your wrists and pull.

To free herself of the sweat-wet middle of your pressing tits.

And though she does eventually get there, to that most necessary and desperate realization, it is only too late. Her body already ravaged by a quickly gripping exhaustion, just as her lungs find themselves beset with flame. Consequences of your smother that leave your rival too weak to pry your cupping hands away.

It is a mistake she will remember, regret, and oh so many years later, curse, every time she is forced to avert her eyes when you pass.

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