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« Last post by Enigma on Today at 05:34:44 AM »
Neither woman could keep this up much longer. The sand had done its work—Mara’s strength was bleeding away in waves of sickening pain, her movements growing weaker, more erratic. But her free hand was still raking, still fighting, still searching for any weakness she could exploit.
The water rose higher by a few inches., cold and relentless, tugging at their battered bodies like an impatient spectator waiting for the kill. Mara’s world had narrowed to white-hot agony between her legs—every movement sent fresh fire through the sand-packed folds of her pussy, the gritty invasion grinding deeper with every thrash. Her strength was guttering, leaking away in sick waves, but rage kept her conscious. Rage and the animal certainty that if she didn’t end this now, Seraphine would.
Seraphine was still astride her, one hand grinding more wet sand into the brunette’s violated sex, the other braced on Mara’s collarbone to keep her pinned. The blonde’s breaths came in triumphant little pants, golden hair plastered to her blood-streaked face. She thought she had won. She thought the fight was over.
Mara’s last gasp came in a single, explosive surge.
She bucked upward with everything left in her core—hips, back, legs—all at once. The motion was primal, desperate, fueled by pain rather than strength. Seraphine’s balance broke; she pitched forward with a startled cry. Mara twisted beneath her, using the momentum to roll them both. Water exploded around them in a white froth.
Seraphine landed face-down in the shallows, arms flailing, mouth filling with saltwater and sand. Before she could push up, Mara was on her—straddling the small of the blonde’s back like a rider breaking a wild horse. The brunette’s knees dug into the sand on either side of Seraphine’s ribs, pinning her flat. One hand shot forward, fisting a thick handful of dripping golden hair. Mara yanked back hard.
Seraphine’s upper body arched out of the water with a choked scream, spine bowed, breasts thrust forward into the open air. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the sand, nails digging furrows that the tide immediately erased. Mara kept the pull steady, merciless—hair wound tight around her fist like a rope—holding Seraphine’s torso suspended just above the lapping surf.
With her free hand, Mara went to work. She raked her nails down the side of Seraphine’s face first—five deep gouges from temple to jaw, splitting skin in ragged lines that immediately welled bright red. Seraphine shrieked, head jerking, but Mara’s grip on her hair kept her from turning away. The brunette’s fingers curled into claws again, slashing across the other cheek, then down the elegant column of throat, leaving bloody ribbons in their wake.
But the real damage was lower. Mara shifted her weight forward, pressing Seraphine’s chest harder into the shallows so the blonde’s full, mauled breasts hung exposed and vulnerable. She seized the right one in a brutal grip—fingers sinking deep into already swollen, abraded flesh—then dragged her nails downward in a long, deliberate tear. The skin parted like wet paper. Blood poured. Seraphine’s scream turned raw, animal. Mara didn’t stop.
She hooked her fingers under the tender underside of Seraphine’s breast—the soft, heavy curve where skin met rib—and ripped upward. Nails sank in, tore, dug. Flesh gave way in a wet, obscene sound. A long flap of skin peeled back, exposing raw pink muscle beneath. The wound gaped open, wide and ugly, blood streaming down Seraphine’s ribs to mix with the seawater. The blonde’s body convulsed, legs kicking weakly, hands slapping at the surf in blind panic.
“You wanted to make me filthy?” Mara rasped, voice cracked and low, barely audible over the waves. She yanked Seraphine’s head back farther, forcing the blonde to look up into her own ruined face. “Now you bleed like the rest of us.”
Seraphine’s screams had dissolved into wet, bubbling sobs. Her arms trembled, strength failing. The open wound on the underside of her breast pulsed with every heartbeat, dark blood mixing with foam.
Mara leaned down, lips close to Seraphine’s ear. "Beg,” she whispered. “Beg, and maybe I’ll finish it quick.”
Seraphine’s lips moved, but no sound came—only blood and seawater and the ragged whistle of breath through torn flesh.
The crew watched in utter stillness. Captain Smith had risen from his throne, arms folded, face unreadable.
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I can't let this MtF slut beat me ... so I lash out angrily with my right leg 
... smiling sadistically as it connects between her spread legs ... crush her dangling cck and balls under my foot ... her face distorting & shock and pain ... 