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« Last post by The Dance on Today at 07:51:41 PM »
Two moms- years of pent up fantasy, and dislike.
In the golden haze of mid-morning spring air, warm and laced with the faint bloom of jasmine from nearby gardens, Jen and Riley emerged onto their facing porches like mirror images forged in rivalry. Both early-thirties visions of toned perfection—5'6" frames carrying 127 firm pounds each, light brown hair tumbling in soft waves over shoulders, 34C breasts swelling proudly against the whisper-thin floral summer dresses that danced with the slightest breeze. The dresses were identical temptations: pastel petals printed on gossamer fabric so light it molded to every curve, hems flirting mid-thigh, necklines dipping just low enough to tease the shadowed valleys of cleavage. Their sons—those wild boys who'd always orbited each other in boyish chaos—were both marooned in school suspension today for their latest clash: vandalizing lockers, each mom blaming the other's spawn as the ringleader. Nine years of neighborly disdain hung thick between them, born in that first year of polite nods that curdled into silence, exploding privately in bedroom rants to husbands about slutty outfits, lax parenting, everything wrong with the *other* woman. They'd never stood this close, never truly measured their eerie similarities, but the hate simmered with an undercurrent neither acknowledged: a dark, throbbing curiosity.
Jen settled onto her lounger first, crossing her shapely legs with deliberate slowness—the toned thigh muscle flexing visibly under sun-kissed skin, hem riding up an inch to expose more smooth expanse. She lifted her watering can, the cool stream pattering against vibrant petals, but her eyes—hazel fire—locked onto Riley across the shared yard. Riley mirrored her instantly: legs uncrossing with a languid stretch that made her calf arch, then recrossing the opposite way, the motion pulling her dress taut across hips that swayed imperceptibly. A hair flip—fingers threading through those silky waves, tossing them back with a flick that caught sunlight like sparks. Jen's gaze narrowed, squinted to slits of contempt, as she brought her coffee mug to full lips, sipping with exaggerated calm, steam curling like unspoken threats. Riley's eyes matched—darkened to stormy pools—flipping her own hair in retaliation, the strands whispering against her bare shoulders. Legs shifted again: Jen uncrossing, thigh sliding over knee with a soft rustle of fabric, exposing the inner curve where skin met skin; Riley countering, her cross lingering a beat longer, muscle quivering under the strain. The air hummed with it—no words, just this visual duel, posturing that screamed *I see you, I loathe you, I own this space*. Coffee sips drawn out, watering cans tilted in sync, every glance a blade, every posture a promise of violence wrapped in floral silk. Minutes stretched, the spring breeze teasing nipples to faint peaks beneath fabric, hearts quickening not just from hate, but from the electric pull of bodies so alike, so primed.
Riley's *tsk* finally pierced the silence—sharp, disgusted, dripping with years of pent-up venom. Jen's stare intensified over her mug's rim, the sip pausing mid-swallow as she growled low, throaty: "Excuse *me*?" Her body straightened millimeter by millimeter—spine aligning, shoulders rolling back, dress fabric whispering as it pulled across her chest, eyes flashing lightning bolts straight through Riley's soul.
Riley shuffled on her lounger, feet planting firmer, squaring her posture like a warrior queen. She played dumb, rolling her eyes with a slow, mocking arc—lashes fluttering just enough to taunt. "Excuse *you* what?" The edge sliced deep, years of cattiness boiling: Riley's too-tight dresses at block parties, Jen's smug yoga posts online, sons' troubles always *her* boy's fault.
Jen rose fluidly, confidence radiating as she stalked to her porch's edge—hips swaying with defiant grace, dress hem swishing against thighs. "You got something to say, Riley? Just *let me know*." Her tone left no room for bullshit—pure, unfiltered malice laced with challenge.
Riley surged to her feet, hands snapping to hips, fingers digging into her own flesh as if to steady the tremor of craving. "Ok, Jen," she purred, voice thick as honeyed poison, "I *do* have something to say. But it would be best if we go *downstairs*... to have this conversation *alone*." She spun on one bare heel—foot arching gracefully, dress flaring briefly to flash toned calf—then vanished into her house, front door left gaping wide like an open invitation to war.
Jen's world ignited. Heat bloomed from her core, spreading slow and relentless: scalp tingling, cheeks flushing, blood pumping thick and hot through veins, flooding her chest until her nipples stiffened into aching diamonds—rigid peaks tenting the thin floral fabric, throbbing with each heartbeat. Between her thighs, an inexplicable fire sparked—slick warmth gathering, clit pulsing faintly as visions crashed: *fighting this bitch for real*, nails raking, bodies slamming, dominance claimed. She'd ridden her husband countless nights moaning about this exact moment—*I'll wreck her, make her beg*—hips grinding down on his cock as she painted the fantasy in filthy detail. But now? Reality clawed in: the rollercoaster of *what ifs*—lose and submit? Win and gloat? Hundreds of dreams replayed in flashes: her on top, Riley's gasps; Riley pinning her, that mirrored body crushing down. Not fear paralyzed her—no, it was an overwhelming deluge of sensations raining down: skin hypersensitive, every breeze a caress on flushed arms; pussy lips swelling, moisture seeping to dampen panties; heart thumping heavy in her chest like a war drum, breaths deepening into hurried pants that lifted her breasts rhythmically. She'd never tasted this wave of the unknown—thrilling, terrifying, *arousing*. She stood frozen at her porch edge, mind spinning scenarios: first grab at hair? Leg hook for takedown? The feel of Riley's sweat-slick skin yielding? Ten minutes felt like eternity in her head—contemplating grapples, grinds, the scent of her rival's arousal mingling with her own. In truth, two seconds ticked by.
A deep, shuddering breath—chest rising high, nipples scraping fabric deliciously—and Jen turned. Each step to Riley's door was deliberate: porch wood creaking underfoot, grass whispering against ankles as she crossed the yard, pulse syncing with the sway of her hips. Hand on the doorframe, she paused one last beat, inhaling the threshold air heavy with promise, then stepped inside and eased the door shut with a soft *click*. Riley's scent slammed into her—musky vanilla, warm skin, faint arousal-tang invading nostrils, nostrils flaring as it coiled straight to her core, making thighs clench involuntarily.
Forward: living room dim, curtains half-drawn, Riley's silhouette at the corner hallway, motioning with a crooked finger—*come here*—before vanishing like smoke. "Right down here, honey," echoed off walls, voice sultry, mocking, dripping invitation. Jen's bare feet padded forward—cool tile sending shivers up calves—turning the corner to spy Riley at the basement stairs' base: one foot lifted behind her, flat sandal slipping off with agonizing slowness, arch flexing, toes pointing before it *thupped* to the floor. Riley disappeared again, deeper into shadow.
Jen's descent began: hand trailing banister wood—smooth, warm from prior touch—each step down creaking faintly, skirt hem brushing thighs, heart slamming harder. One step. Two. Breath hitching. The air cooled, basement scent rising: concrete dust, faint laundry, overlaid with Riley's intensifying perfume. Halfway down, Jen kicked off her own flat—*slip, thud*—bare soles meeting cold steps, toes curling at the chill that shot straight to her dripping core.
At the bottom, Riley waited—no, *thrummed*. Her body was a live wire: nipples protruding like tiny thimbles, stabbing the dress fabric obscenely, every inch tingling with foreign fire. Like Jen, she'd never fought—never thrown a punch—but oh, the fantasies: breaking Jen in sweaty tangles, mirroring bodies locked in hate-fueled ecstasy. Nine years of private venom—complaints to her husband about Jen's prissy walks, her kid's bad influence—now pulsed as arousal. Seeing Jen emerge from the stairwell shadow sent a rush: skin prickling from scalp to soles, heart battering ribs like it might shatter bone, breaths shallow and quick. Thoughts whirled—*attack her throat? Grab tits? Wait for her move?*—second-guessing the challenge she'd hurled at her life's most despised bitch. Their sons' endless tussles mirrored this: boys play-fighting, moms seething blame. But now, barefoot and primed, Riley's pussy throbbed wetly, clit aching for contact.
Jen approached with predatory slowness—five feet, four, three—eyes locked on Riley's, no words, no sound. Fate sealed in silence. Two feet: breaths syncing, chests rising-falling in unison. One foot: heat radiating palpably. Then—*contact*. Jen settled chest-to-chest, the collision feather-light at first: fabric brushing fabric, then... *nipples*. Stiff peaks met through silk-thin barriers—dagger-sharp pain-pleasure stabbing deep, a mutual *hiss* escaping lips as jolts fired to clits. They held there, unmoving for heartbeats—eyes boring soul-deep, unblinking—torsos twisting millimeter by millimeter side to side, nipples dragging, circling, sparking fireworks of agony-ecstasy. *Ahh... nngh...* Tiny sounds, barely audible. Hands rose defiant to hips—fingers splaying wide—then instinct surged: palms sliding inward, gripping rival hips firm, yanking pelvises flush.
*Grind.* Wet heat bloomed—cores colliding through sodden fabric, lips parting on gasps as throbbing mounds nudged, pressed, pulsed in sync. Not rage—no fists, no slaps—but bodies hijacked by primal need, rubbing deliberate and slow. Breaths mingled hot: Jen's exhales fanning Riley's parted lips, Riley's mint-coffee tang teasing back. Eyes never wavered, staring into mirrored souls—light brown depths reflecting hate-lust. The similarities *drove them insane*: identical swells mashing, waists equal in grip, thighs equal in flex—untapped sexual angst exploding into slow fire. Feet shifted minutely—left, right—angles tested for leverage, hips circling wider, deeper, fabric dampening further as pussies wept arousal.
Faces drew nearer: cheeks brushing soft at first—velvet skin on velvet—then rubbing with building pressure, noses nudging, lips hovering a whisper apart. Ears filled with symphony: tiny grunts of exertion *unh... hnn*, moans of acceptance *mmph... ahh*, breaths ragged. Fingers twirled upward—slowly threading into hair, tugging scalps back to arch necks, exposing throats that bobbed with swallows. Chests mashed fuller now—breasts compressing, nipples trapped in vise of flesh, each inhale-expire grinding them anew. Pelvises rocked: forward, back, circles—clits sparking through layers, thighs quivering from strain.
The dance evolved languidly: Riley nudged first—heel dig, pivot—pushing Jen millimeter by millimeter toward the cool finished-painted wall. Jen resisted, hips bucking counter, but yielded inch by inch—backsweat beading, dresses clinging translucent. *Thud*—Jen hit wall hollowly, air whooshing from lungs in a moan, Riley's body pinning full: pelvis wedged, chests squashed, faces cheek-mushed. Sweat matted disheveled hair to foreheads, brows furrowed in effort-ecstasy. Jen reversed slow: legs hooking Riley's, twisting—*grunt*—now Riley against wall, Jen grinding down triumphant. Back and forth they traded—five minutes of pins, each reversal a Herculean grind, dresses stretching obscene over heaving breasts, hems riding to expose panty lines soaked dark. Breaths panted into mouths, lips grazing teeth; hair-pulls escalated to yanks that bowed heads back; cores humped relentlessly, slick sounds faint *schlick... schlick*.
Fabric strained—taut over swollen tits, nipples outlined like beacons. Jen's fingers clawed first: hooking Riley's neckline, *rrrr...* slow tear building—*Rrrrrriiiip!* Front gaping wide, baring sweat-glistened melons: firm, heaving, areolas puckered, nipples diamond-hard begging war. "Oh, you *bitch*," Riley rasped—first words in ten throbbing minutes—voice husky, lust-drenched.
*Rrrr... rrrriiiiiiip!* Riley retaliated, exposing Jen's identical swells—glistening orbs quivering free. Blood scented the water: tits freed, they paused—staring at mirror-flesh—then crashed slow. First slam deliberate: Riley thrusting forward, breasts *clap*-ing heavy into Jen's—flesh rippling, nipples fencing. "Ughhhh..." Jen gasped, fire lancing tender globes, but hands latched Riley's shoulders—nails digging—lunging back: *SLAP*—her own attack mashing deep. "You goddamn *whore*," she grunted through gritted teeth.
The frenzy built *torturously* slow: shoulders twisting left—*clap-clap*—breasts swinging pendulous, slamming side-on; right—*thwack*—grinding up in scissoring mash, nipples dragging trails of fire; down—*smack*—heavy underboob collisions. Grunts escalated: "Fucking *whore*," Riley snarled mid-thrust, hips bucking to add pelvic jolt. Jen countered: "Slut... *unh*... bitch!" Room reeked—sweat-salt, pussy-musk, turmoil-thick air clinging skin. Tenderized flesh reddened, bruises blooming, tears tracing cheeks—pain exquisite, fueling determination. Reversals continued: wall-pins with tit-locks, grinding circles that smeared sweat, pauses for stares—eyes promising *break me if you can*. Slaps echoed louder—*CLAP! THUD! SLAP!*—bodies slick-sliding, cores clenching untouched but nearing edge from friction alone. Neither yielded; the duel stretched eternal, hate's slow burn forging shattering release in endless, throbbing symmetry. MTC?
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