6
2 Dancers, 15 years of betrayal. 1 night
Moments before they took the stage. The mirror was cracked. A single, jagged line bisected the glass like a lightning strike, dividing Polina’s reflection from her own, but tonight, the fracture seemed to bleed. Two women stood in the cramped, velvet, draped costume room beneath the Mariakov Theater, and the air between them was so thick with perfume and hatred that the oil lamps flickered.
Their costumes identical. Not similar. Not inspired. The exact same obsidian silk, cut to cling like a second sin, slit to the hipbone on the left, backless to the base of the spine. On Polina, it looked like a weapon. On Lisa, it looked like a threat.
"You look *tired*, Lisa." Polina’s voice was smoke and arsenic, honey dripping from a blade. She didn’t turn around. She was painting her mouth a shade of red so dark it was nearly black, each stroke deliberate, merciless. "Still playing catch, up after all these years? How exhausting for you."
Lisa’s fingers twitched at her sides. Fifteen years old. The fever. The sweat, soaked sheets while Polina………*her Polina, her shadow, her other half*, had spun across the stage of the Imperial Youth Competition in a solo that was meant to be *hers*. The spotlight had eaten Polina alive that night, devoured her, made her a god while Lisa coughed blood into a handkerchief.
"You stole my breath that night," Lisa whispered. Her voice was lower than Polina’s, rougher, ruined by the screaming they’d done in this very room three nights prior. "You stole my solo while I was dying. Did you dance better because you knew I was suffering? Did you think of me when they threw the roses at your feet?"
Polina capped the lipstick. Slowly. The click echoed.
She turned.
They were identical, 5’7” 123 lbs 34B’s 28 years old. The same high cheekbones, the same violently blue eyes, the same mouth shaped for cruelty. But Polina’s pupils were blown wide, black swallowing emerald, and Lisa knew that look, it was the look Polina got when she wanted to *consume*.
"I thought of you," Polina said, stepping forward. Her hips rolled with that obscene grace that had made the instructors whisper. "I thought of you lying in that pathetic little bed three streets down, sweating through your mother’s linens. And I thought, *good*. Let her rot. Let her fade. I’m the one they’ll remember."
"Liar." Lisa’s chest heaved. The silk strained across her breasts, nipples hard and visible through the fabric, not from cold, never from cold, but from the volcanic, septic rage that had been their shared language since puberty. "You were nothing without me. We were *one*. They called us the twin stars. And you couldn’t bear it. You had to sever us."
"Someone had to be born first." Polina was close now. Too close. The heat radiating from her body was obscene, familiar, a fever that Lisa had caught a thousand times in secret. "Someone had to be the original. You’re just the echo, Lisa. The sickness. The spare."
The slap never came. They were beyond slaps.
Lisa lunged, not with a closed fist, but with open hands that grabbed Polina’s face, those perfect, hated features, and crushed their mouths together. It was not a kiss. It was an invasion. Teeth clicked, sharp and dangerous, and Polina moaned into the violence, a sound that was half, laughter, half, agony.
"Filthy," Polina gasped against Lisa’s lips, her hands flying to Lisa’s waist, digging nails into the silk, seeking the flesh beneath. "You taste like resentment. Like second place."
"You taste like my leftovers," Lisa snarled back, and then they were moving, a brutal choreography more precise than anything the judges would see tonight. Polina shoved Lisa against the cracked mirror, the glass spiderwebbing further as Lisa’s spine hit it hard, but Lisa reversed them, spinning Polina, slamming her into the vanity. Bottles crashed. Scent, jasmine, opium, rage, exploded into the air.
They were grinding now, a slow, savage roll of hips against hips, seeking dominance through friction. The silk of their dresses whispered against each other, two shadows trying to occupy the same space, to annihilate one another through sheer proximity. Polina’s thigh forced itself between Lisa’s legs, pressing upward with cruel precision, and Lisa’s head fell back, exposing her throat.
Polina struck. Her mouth attached to the pulse point, sucking, *marking*, her teeth breaking skin.
"You’re bleeding," Polina purred, licking the copper taste. "You always bleed for me."
Lisa’s hands fisted in Polina’s hair, platinum blonde, chemically identical to her own, stolen from the same bottle, and yanked hard enough to tear. "Tonight, I take it back. The solo. The spotlight. *You*."
"You think you can out, dance me?" Polina laughed, a wild, broken sound, and captured Lisa’s wrists, pinning them above her head against the mirror. Their bodies were flush now, breast to breast, sex to thigh, heartbeat to heartbeat. Through the thin silk, Lisa could feel Polina’s heart hammering, a trapped bird, a war drum. "You think you can out, *fuck* me? We’ve been doing this for three years, darling. I know every spot that makes you beg. I know you cry when you lose."
"I’m not crying tonight." Lisa’s voice trembled, not with weakness, but with a murderous arousal that made her vision blur at the edges. "Tonight, I’m going to split you open on that stage. I’m going to dance so hard they’ll forget you ever existed. And when we’re done, when the curtain falls, I’m going to drag you back here and make you admit that I was always the better half. The *real* one."
Polina released one wrist only to drag her nails down Lisa’s side, leaving red welts that rose instantly on the pale skin. She traced the curve of Lisa’s hip, possessive, disgusting in her entitlement.
"Let’s make it interesting," Polina breathed, her tongue tracing the shell of Lisa’s ear. "Winner takes all. The title. The contract with the Paris company. And the loser..." She bit down on the lobe, hard. "The loser kneels. The loser admits, before God and everyone, who the original is. Who the *owner* is."
Lisa’s body was shaking, not with fear, but with the exquisite, razor, wire tension of holding back. They had fought like this a hundred times, sweat, slick, naked, grinding out their hatred on the floor of this room until one of them broke, weeping, spent, conquered. But tonight was different. Tonight was the terminus. The end of their shared, twisted history.
"Look at us," Lisa whispered, her free hand grabbing Polina’s chin, forcing her to look into the cracked mirror. Two women, tangled, indistinguishable, beautiful as knives. "We’re monsters. We made each other."
"We were always monsters," Polina said, and kissed her again, softer this time, deadly soft, a viper’s caress. "I just grew fangs first."
The bell rang. Five minutes to curtain.
They didn’t separate immediately. They stood there, panting into each other’s mouths, sharing the air like it was poison, their bodies still locked in that ancient, hateful embrace. Polina’s hand was between Lisa’s legs, pressing, claiming; Lisa’s fingers were tangled in Polina’s neckline, threatening to rip the dress to shreds.
"I’m going to destroy you," Lisa said. It was a promise, a prayer.
"Try," Polina smiled, and stepped back, adjusting her dress with fingers that trembled only slightly. Her lips were swollen, her neck bruised, her eyes bright with something that looked like madness. "Try, little echo. Try to erase me."
The door to the stage creaked open. The roar of the crowd was a beast waiting to be fed.
Polina walked out first, her hips swinging, leaving the scent of war and jasmine in her wake.
Lisa stood alone for one heartbeat, two, staring at her reflection in the broken glass, at the girl who looked exactly like her nemesis, exactly like her lover, exactly like herself.
Then she smiled, sharp as a scalpel, and followed her into the light.
The lights died……not softly, but like a throat being cut. Blackness swallowed the theater, and into that void, a single cello note groaned, low and obscene, a sound that might have been a moan or a threat.
They emerged from opposite wings.
The stage was a bare, polished floor of black marble, reflecting nothing but the two of them. Polina stood stage left, Lisa stage right, separated by twenty feet of gleaming darkness. They wore the same costume, second skin, liquid obsidian, backless, ruthless, but Polina’s hair was swept up in a knot that looked like it had been tied with wire, and Lisa’s fell loose, a platinum curtain that moved like it was underwater.
The music shifted. A drum. Then another.
They began to move.
Not in unison. Never that. This was not a duet; it was a declaration of war performed in 4/4 time.
Polina’s first step was a *grand jeté* that seemed to hang in the air, her body a blade suspended, threatening to sever the space between them. She landed without sound, a cat landing on prey, and her eyes, those violent blue eyes, found Lisa’s across the expanse.
*I’m cumming for you.*
Lisa didn’t leap. She rolled her spine in a *undulation* so slow it was vulgar, a wave of flesh and defiance that traveled from her tailbone to her crown, her hips circling with the lazy, arrogant precision of a snake preparing to strike. Her lips moved, barely, shaping words only Polina could read:
*You’ll have to catch me, thief.*
The choreography demanded they meet center stage. They collided not with the soft grace of partners, but with the impact of two vehicles crashing at speed. Their hands clasped, fingers interlacing with enough force to bruise bone, and for a heartbeat, they were frozen in a *promenade*, spinning, Lisa’s leg whipped around Polina’s waist, locking at the ankle.
Chest to chest. Heart to heart. Hate to hate.
Polina’s thumb dug into the pressure point of Lisa’s palm, a secret assault hidden in the lines of the dance. Lisa’s smile was serpentine, unflinching, and she used the locked position to grind her pelvis against Polina’s hip, a slow, filthy circle that the audience would interpret as artistic chemistry but which Polina felt as a burning brand.
"You’re trembling," Polina breathed, her mouth close enough to Lisa’s ear that the shell picked up the vibration.
"That’s your heartbeat," Lisa whispered back, her teeth grazing Polina’s jawline as they broke apart, a movement disguised as choreography. "I can feel it. Rabbit, fast. Terrified."
They separated, whipping away from each other with centrifugal force, and the dance became a mirror game of aggression. When Polina executed 15 *fouetté* turns, flawless, showing off, Lisa stalked the perimeter of her circle, never blinking, her own body moving in counter, rhythm, a predator pacing the cage of a spinning top.
The music built. Strings screaming. Percussion like breaking bones.
The climax of the piece required a lift. Polina was meant to hoist Lisa above her head, a display of strength and trust, a beautiful arc of submission. But as Polina’s hands found Lisa’s waist, her fingers sank into the flesh with predatory cruelty, nails breaking skin through the thin silk.
Lisa’s gasp was audible, a sharp intake that the front row mistook for artistic transport. But Polina knew it for what it was: the sound of her mark being made.
Up Lisa went, held aloft, her body horizontal, a living blade above Polina’s head. For three seconds, they held eye contact, Lisa looking down, Polina looking up, and in that suspended violence, Lisa mouthed the words clear as glass:
*I fucked your replacement. Last night. In this costume.*
Polina’s smile shattered. Her grip tightened, and for a dangerous moment, it looked as though she might drop her, might let her crash to the marble and shatter like the mirror in the dressing room. But instead, she lowered her slowly, inch by inch, dragging Lisa’s body down her own front with deliberate, sensual friction, until Lisa’s feet touched the ground and their faces were aligned.
"Then you’ll taste like her," Polina murmured, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, her breath hot against Lisa’s mouth. "I’ll scrape her out of you tonight. With my teeth."
The music demanded they part, but they lingered, foreheads touching, enemies sharing a breath, before Lisa shoved her, hard, a push disguised as a dramatic separation, and they flew to opposite ends of the stage.
The finale was a sequence of * développés* and *attitude* poses held in agonizing stillness, each woman facing the audience but seeing only the other in their peripheral vision. Polina extended her leg in a line so high and sharp it could cut glass, holding it there, her body shaking with the effort of restraint, restraint from running, from leaping, from finishing this here, now, on the boards, with her hands around Lisa’s throat.
Lisa held her own line, higher, trembling with the same murderous discipline, and when their eyes locked across the divide, the electricity was palpable, a current that made the footlights flicker and the conductor pause, confused, wondering why the air had suddenly gone thin.
The final note hung, a single piano key pressed and held until it wept.
They moved toward center stage, converging with the inevitability of magnets, and met in a final embrace, not the soft collapse of exhausted artists, but a rigid, standing entanglement. Polina’s hand found the small of Lisa’s back, pressing her thumb into the hollow there, a promise of what would happen later. Lisa’s fingers tangled in Polina’s chignon, pulling hard enough to tear hair from the scalp, her other hand hidden between their bodies, clawing at Polina’s stomach through the silk.
The lights dimmed, but not before Polina leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Lisa’s ear, and breathed the words that had no music, no choreography, only the weight of years of hatred and lust.
The curtain fell, heavy and red as arterial blood.
In the darkness behind it, they didn’t separate immediately. They stood entwined in the blackness, panting, sweat, slick and shaking, the performance having served only to sharpen the appetite that could never be fed on stage.
Footsteps retreated, one pair, then another, moving in opposite directions through the wings, toward the inevitable collision that awaited when the applause died and the theater emptied.
The war had been danced. Now it would be waged.
The water in Polina’s shower was scalding, deliberately so, a penance and a purification. She stood beneath the spray with her palms flat against the marble, watching the rivulets carve paths through the stage makeup still clinging to her collarbones. The heat turned her skin pink, feverish, but it could not touch the cold core of her that had been burning since Lisa’s mouth had shaped that filthy confession in the dark.
"Slut," she hissed to the empty room, the word dissolving in the steam. She tilted her face into the water, imagining it was Lisa’s tongue, treacherous and hot. "You think you can make me jealous? You think *she* left any mark I can’t erase?"
She scrubbed herself raw with a loofah, vicious circles over her hips, her stomach, between her thighs, not to clean, but to prepare. To make herself a canvas so pristine that Lisa would choke on her own inadequacy when she saw her. When they finally met in some shadowed corner of the penthouse suite, away from the champagne and the oblivious patrons, Polina would be immaculate. Untouchable. The original.
Across the theater, in a mirror, image room that smelled of jasmine and spite, Lisa stood before her vanity naked, still damp from her own shower. She traced the faint red welts Polina’s nails had left on her waist, marks of ownership that had not faded. Her fingers lingered, pressing hard enough to hurt, her eyes never leaving her own reflection.
"Look at you," she whispered, her voice a blade dragged across velvet. "She thinks she’s the architect. She thinks she built this hunger." Lisa’s hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the trimmed blonde hair at the apex of her thighs, then pulling away with a sharp breath. "Not yet. Not without an audience. Not until she’s begging."
She turned to the garment bag hanging on the door. The dress inside was weaponized femininity, champagne silk where Polina would undoubtedly choose noir, cut to expose the spine and suggest the rest. Lisa extracted it with the reverence of a terrorist assembling a device.
The stockings came first. She sat on the velvet bench, back straight, dancer’s posture, and unrolled the sheer black silk with religious precision. No runs. No snags. The material was whisper, thin, expensive, and she drew it up her left leg with excruciating slowness, watching the way it transformed her calf into a sculpted thing, the way it hugged the muscle of her thigh and stopped just below the curve of her ass with a lace border that would leave marks if she sat too long. The right leg received the same treatment, her fingers smoothing the fabric with obsessive care, ensuring the seam ran true up the back, a line drawing the eye to the destination she would deny until the moment was perfect.
"She’ll wear black," Lisa murmured, fastening the garters with snaps that echoed in the quiet room. "She thinks it makes her look dangerous. Like death." She stood, admiring the contrast of black silk against her pale skin, the way the stockings made her legs look endless, powerful. "I’ll look like a blade. Like the thing that cuts the darkness."
Meanwhile, Polina was sliding into her own hosiery, thigh, highs in midnight silk that she’d purchased specifically because she knew Lisa couldn’t help getting wet at the sound they made when they rubbed together, a whisper of skin on skin that could drive her mad. She rolled them up slowly, methodically, her fingers tracing the topography of her own legs, the toned calves, the knees that had never bruised from a fall, the thighs that had crushed and been crushed in their secret battles. She was 5’7” of engineered perfection, 123 pounds of muscle and malice, and the stockings were her second skin, unblemished, taut.
"This will do," she said aloud, watching her own lips move in the mirror as she adjusted the dress she’d chosen, a backless column of obsidian that weighed nothing and cost everything. She lifted her breasts, firm, high, perfectly proportioned for her frame, and settled them into the built, in cups, adjusting the fabric until the dress gripped them like jealous hands, presenting them as an offering and a threat. The neckline plunged just enough to suggest, to tease, to remind Lisa of what she’d tasted and lost. "Not vulgar. Not excessive. Just enough to make her feel like a cow. Like she’s trying too hard."
She turned, examining the rear view. The silk clung to the tight, perfect curve of her ass, hugging each cheek with obscene fidelity, the hem stopping mid, thigh to showcase the lace tops of her stockings. No panties. She’d left them on the dresser, a deliberate puddle of crimson lace that seemed to pulse in the lamplight, a promise of what she was carrying into battle. She wanted to feel the air between her legs, the vulnerability and the power of it, knowing that when the time came, there would be no barriers. Only friction. Only victory.
Lisa, too, stood before her mirror, her own panties abandoned on the vanity like a shed skin. She smoothed the champagne silk over her hips, watching the fabric catch the light and throw it back in liquid waves. The dress was cut to the hipbone on one side, revealing the garter strap and a sliver of bare flesh that would drive Polina to distraction. Her own breasts, 34B, identical twin to her rival’s, were positioned to perfection beneath the draped bodice, nipples hardening already in anticipation of the night’s cruelty, visible as subtle peaks that betrayed nothing and promised everything.
"She’s dressing now," Lisa whispered to her reflection, her hands flattening the material over her stomach, pulling it taut to emphasize the flat plane of her belly, the subtle flair of her hips. "She’s looking at herself and thinking she’s the goddess. The template." She leaned closer to the glass, her breath fogging it. "But I’m the evolution. I’m what comes after. And tonight I’m going to prove that she’s just the rough draft."
She grabbed her clutch, small, lethal, containing only a keycard and lip stain the color of arterial blood, and walked out without looking back. The hallway was empty, the theater silent save for the distant clinking of glasses from the reception hall above. She moved through the loading dock to her waiting car, the driver holding the door, and she slid inside with a grace that made him stare. But she didn’t notice. She was already planning the moment, the corner, the collision.
One minute later, exactly sixty seconds of manufactured delay, Polina emerged. Her heels clicked against the concrete with the sound of a countdown. She paused at her own car, checking her reflection one last time in the tinted window, a blonde vision in black, 28 years old and built from spite and symmetry. She adjusted the dress one final time, feeling the silk settle between her legs, feeling the absence of underwear as a secret weapon, a loaded gun.
"Let her wait," Polina said to the night, sliding into the leather seat. "Let her think she’s won the first round. Let her gloat."
She touched her own thigh through the stocking, feeling the heat of her own skin through the silk, and smiled a smile that had no warmth in it.
"Then let’s see who’s standing when the music stops."
The car pulled away into the darkness, carrying her toward the inevitable.
The marble foyer of the penthouse seemed to tilt when Lisa entered, as if the building itself recognized the shift in atmospheric pressure. She moved through the crush of patrons and patrons with a predator’s patience, accepting compliments with a smile that never reached her eyes, *"Divine, my dear, simply divine"*, the host leading to her table. A perfect circular banquette tucked into an alcove of shadow and velvet, separated from the main floor by a curtain of hanging crystals that caught the light and fractured it into rainbows.
She slid into the curved seat, her champagne silk dress riding up just enough to reveal the lace tops of her stockings as she crossed her legs. The wine arrived, Burgundy, 1996, liquid garnet in crystal, and she wrapped her fingers around the stem with the delicacy of a strangler.
Then the temperature dropped.
Polina did not walk; she *arrived*. The obsidian silk of her dress drank the chandelier light and gave back nothing, a walking eclipse that parted the crowd without her touching a single shoulder. The host, a nervous man in a too, tight tuxedo, seemed caught in her gravity, leading her through the throng with the desperation of a man delivering a tribute to a capricious goddess.
"Your table, Miss Polina," he stammered, gesturing to the alcove.
"How thoughtful," Polina purred, her gaze never leaving Lisa's face. "I do prefer intimate settings."
She slid onto the banquette with serpentine grace, and immediately, deliberately, her right knee drove forward, pressing hard into the softness of Lisa's left thigh, pushing between her legs with the insistence of a battering ram. The silk of their dresses whispered against each other, champagne against midnight.
Lisa didn't flinch. Her own leg lifted, wrapping around Polina's with the precision of a python, her calf locking behind Polina's knee, pulling her closer, trapping her there. Beneath the tablecloth, their thighs mashed together, sweat beginning to bloom where skin met stockings met more skin.
"How... *neighborly*," Lisa cooed, taking a sip of wine, her tongue lingering on the rim. "Sharing a table. Like old times. Like when we were girls."
"Like when you were copying my homework," Polina replied, accepting her own glass from a passing waiter without looking away. Her hand disappeared beneath the table, finding Lisa's knee, her fingers digging into the sensitive hollow behind the joint with cruel pressure. "Or trying to copy my choreography. Tell me, did you practice that desperate little grind in the second act in front of a mirror? Or did you just watch the videos of my rehearsals?"
Lisa’s hand dropped, covering Polina’s, not to remove it but to guide it higher, pushing those manicured fingers up her own thigh, beneath the hem of her dress, until Polina’s fingertips brushed the bare, heated skin where stocking ended and flesh began. No panties. Just as promised.
"Feel that?" Lisa whispered, leaning in as if sharing a secret, her breath hot against Polina’s earlobe. "That’s what *original* desire feels like. Not your cheap, stolen copy."
Polina’s eyes dilated, black swallowing blue, but her smile remained porcelain, perfect for the benefit of the crowd. Her own free hand drifted beneath the table, finding the slit in her own dress and guiding Lisa’s wandering fingers through it, pressing Lisa’s palm against her own bare hip, then lower, to the slick, naked heat between her legs.
"And this," Polina hissed, her voice barely audible over the string quartet, "is what *victory* tastes like. Wet. Ready. Un, fucking, defeated."
They sat there, locked in that secret handshake of flesh, while above the table they discussed Proust and Stravinsky with a curator who had no idea that beneath the linen, Polina was circling Lisa’s clit with the pad of her middle finger, and Lisa was thrusting two fingers deep into Polina’s cxnt with a rhythm that matched the music.
The competition escalated.
They drank without breaking eye contact, glasses lifted, throats working, wine spilling just enough to stain lips crimson. When a young composer asked Lisa to dance, she stood, smoothing her dress, and Polina’s hand withdrew with a slick, obscene sound that was luckily lost in the applause. Lisa moved to the floor alone, executing a slow, vulgar *tango* with the composer that was really a performance for Polina alone, her hips rolling, her hands tracing her own body, her eyes locked on the shadowed alcove where Polina sat with her legs slightly parted, one finger glistening in the candlelight as she brought it to her mouth and sucked it clean.
Polina retaliated by accepting three glasses of champagne from three different admirers, standing to accept them with a stretch that arched her back and presented her ass in the black silk like a weapon. She made sure Lisa watched her throat work as she downed the first glass, the second, the third, never blinking, her throat moving with convulsive swallows that made the men around her stammer and adjust their trousers. She set the final glass down with a *clink* and mouthed across the room: *"I can hold my liquor. Can you hold yours? Or will you spill everywhere like you did at fifteen?"*
By midnight, the alcove was a furnace. They had spent two hours in calculated, public warfare, brushing breasts against each other when reaching for canapés, "accidentally" touching hands in the ice bucket, whispering atrocities into each other’s ears while appearing to nuzzle affectionately.
"I saw you looking at the senator’s wife," Lisa breathed, her hand sliding up Polina’s spine beneath the backless dress, nails scraping vertebrae. "Wanting what you can’t have. You always did like my seconds."
"And I saw you watching the bartender," Polina countered, her own hand slipping between Lisa’s legs from behind, cupping her sex from the rear while they both faced the crowd, smiles fixed. "Trying to make me jealous with that boy? He’s a child. He doesn’t know how to touch you. He doesn’t know you like it when someone *hurts* you."
Lisa’s internal muscles fluttered around Polina’s probing fingers. "Then hurt me, you coward. Or are you too afraid someone will see what you really are? A desperate, second, rate….."
Polina’s grip tightened, twisting just enough to make Lisa’s vision blur. "Coat room. Now. Or are you afraid I’ll make you scream where the cameras can see?"
They disengaged with the precision of dancers, Polina standing first, adjusting her dress, Lisa following thirty seconds later, touching up her lipstick. They moved in opposite directions around the perimeter of the room, converging on the dark, oak, paneled coat check like sharks circling a sinking ship.
The room was long and narrow, racks of fur and cashmere creating a maze of darkness. The attendant had stepped away for a cigarette. They met in the furthest corner, between a sable coat and a wall, and the moment they were out of sight, the civilization ended.
Polina struck first, her hand closing around Lisa’s throat, slamming her back against the wall with enough force to make the coats sway. "You’ve been asking for this all night," she snarled, her other hand shoving Lisa’s dress up to her waist, exposing the garter belt and the glistening, naked sex beneath. "Begging for it. Flaunting yourself like a whore."
"And you’ve been dripping for it," Lisa spat back, her own hands tearing at Polina’s dress, hiking it up, finding the soaked, bare heat between Polina’s legs and thrusting three fingers inside without warning, hard and deep. "Feel that? That’s how much I own you. You’re soaked. Ruined."
Polina’s knees buckled, but she didn’t fall. She matched Lisa’s intrusion, driving her own fingers into Lisa with brutal force, curling them to find the rough spot inside, the place that made Lisa’s eyes roll back. They stood there, forehead to forehead, panting into each other’s mouths, fucking each other with their hands in a rhythm that was violence made physical.
"You. Fucking. Copy," Polina grunted, each word punctuated by a hard, upward thrust of her fingers, the heel of her hand grinding against Lisa’s clit. "I. Made. You. You’re. Nothing. But. My. Shadow."
Lisa’s free hand clawed at Polina’s breast through the silk, finding the nipple and twisting cruelly, making Polina cry out, a sharp, guttural sound that was swallowed by the fur coats. "Say. It. Again. When. You’re. Cumming. On. My. Hand. Bitch."
They were savage. There was no finesse now, no slow seduction. This was the culmination of fifteen years of poison, released in a furious, mutual masturbation that was closer to a fistfight than lovemaking. Polina added a fourth finger, stretching Lisa, filling her, claiming the space inside her body as territory to be conquered. Lisa responded by using her thumb to press hard against Polina’s clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles while her fingers pumped in and out with wet, obscene sounds that filled the small space.
"I’m going to……." Polina gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily, her body betraying her to the enemy.
"Not before me," Lisa snarled, and then she shifted her angle, pressing upward, her fingers hooking into a come hither gesture that battered Polina’s G, spot with machine, gun precision. "Look at me. Look at me when you lose."
They stared into each other’s eyes, blue into blue, hate into hate, as the orgasms crashed over them like a tsunami. Polina came first, her body locking up, her cxnt clamping down on Lisa’s fingers with crushing force, a gush of hot liquid spilling over Lisa’s hand and wrist. The sight and feel of Polina’s defeat triggered Lisa’s own climax, her body convulsing, her internal muscles rippling around Polina’s still, thrusting fingers, her cry strangled into a hiss against Polina’s collarbone.
They stood there, shaking, impaled on each other, breathing hard enough to stir the fur. Slowly, with infinite care, they withdrew their hands. Lisa’s fingers were dripping, coated in Polina’s essence. Polina’s hand was similarly glazed. Without breaking eye contact, they brought their hands to their own mouths and licked them clean, savory, metallic, the taste of their rivalry made liquid.
Polina adjusted her dress first, smoothing the black silk over her hips, her body still flushed but her expression cooling into arctic composure. She found a handkerchief in her clutch and wiped her fingers delicately, then offered it to Lisa.
Lisa took it, cleaning herself with the same methodical precision, then dropped the soiled linen onto the floor between them. She adjusted her stockings, straightened her garters, and pulled her dress down, the champagne silk settling back into place as if it had never been disturbed.
They stepped out of the coat room thirty seconds apart.
Polina emerged first, walking with her usual gliding stride to the bar, where she ordered a vodka neat and drank it down, her hand perfectly steady, her smile dazzling as she accepted compliments from the orchestra conductor.
Lisa followed, her gait equally composed, though her pupils were still blown wide, her lips slightly swollen. She found a young patron and engaged him in conversation about the acoustics of the theater, her voice light, airy, untouched.
They did not look at each other for the next hour.
But when the clock struck two, and the crowd began to thin, Lisa found Polina by the elevators. They stood side by side, waiting for the car, their reflections twin ghosts in the brass doors.
"Your place or mine?" Lisa asked softly, her voice devoid of inflection.
"Yours," Polina replied, adjusting her glove. "I want to ruin your sheets."
The elevator dinged. They stepped outside together, and as the doors closed, they walked side by side, both knowing exactly where fate was leading them tonight. Polina’s hand found Lisa’s ass, squeezing hard, and Lisa followed suit.
The war was far from over.
They got to the suite and Lisa unlocked the door.
Lisa did not turn on the overhead lights. She touched a dimmer instead, casting the penthouse suite in amber twilight, shadows deep enough to hide in, light bright enough to witness by. The city sprawled below them through floor, to, ceiling glass, a kingdom of electric jewels, but neither woman looked at the view. They looked only at each other.
Polina stepped out of her heels first. The black stilettos remained at the door like discarded weapons. Then Lisa, her own heels abandoned with a deliberate *clack* that echoed in the silence. They stood stocking footed on the hardwood, five feet apart, and the air between them was so thick with pheromones it seemed to shimmer.
They moved toward each other with the slowness of continents colliding. Not a rush, but a geological inevitability. When they met in the center of the room, it was not with a crash, but with a magnetic lock, bodies pressing together along their entire lengths with such perfect alignment that a sheet of paper could not have slid between them.
Polina’s hands found Lisa’s hips first, not grabbing, but *reverencing*, palms flat, fingers spread, feeling the topography of bone and muscle beneath the champagne silk. Lisa’s hands mirrored the action on Polina’s obsidian, clad waist, and they began to move.
It was a waltz without music, choreographed in hell. They swayed, cheek to cheek, the soft planes of their faces sliding against one another with friction that generated heat. Polina turned her head, just slightly, and pressed her forehead against Lisa’s temple, then rolled it down until their brows mashed together, hard, harder, the skin reddening from the pressure, white showing at the edges of the compression before they rolled again, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, sharing the breath from each other’s lungs.
"Look at you," Polina breathed, the words hot and damp against Lisa’s lips. "Trying so hard to be calm. Your heart is racing."
"And yours," Lisa whispered back, their mouths brushing with each syllable, "is trying to break your ribs. I can feel it against my tits."
They brought their hands up, framing each other’s faces, thumbs resting on cheekbones, fingers tangling in platinum hair at the temples. They held each other prisoner in this gentle cage, and then they kissed.
It was not a kiss of passion, but of possession. Slow, deep, their lips sealing together with wet suction, tongues sliding out to duel with lazy, cruel precision. They did not close their eyes. They stared into each other, blue eyes locked, while their mouths worked, tasting wine and bile and fifteen years of poisoned honey. The kiss lasted three minutes without breaking, a continuous, undulating merge of mouths, their saliva mingling, their breath ragged and shared in the tight space between their pressed faces.
Polina’s pelvis began to gyrate. A slow, circular grind against Lisa’s mound, not humping, but *worshipping* with hatred, hips rolling in a figure, eight pattern that dragged the silk of their dresses against each other, the friction building static electricity that made the hair on their arms stand up. Lisa responded in counter, rhythm, her own hips circling the opposite way, creating a grinding, churning pressure where their pubic bones met through the fabric.
Their hands slid down, finding the tight, perfect globes of each other’s asses, 34B chests mashed so hard together that their nipples, hard as diamonds beneath the silk, fought for dominance, side to side, rubbing, catching, dragging against each other with each sway of their torsos. They kneaded the flesh of each other’s backsides with the intensity of sculptors working clay, fingers digging into the glutes, pulling each other closer, eliminating all space, their bodies undulating like two snakes twined in a death knot.
Cheek to cheek again, Polina’s mouth found Lisa’s ear. "I’m going to unmake you tonight," she hissed, her tongue tracing the shell, her teeth catching the lobe and pulling.
Lisa’s hands found the zipper of Polina’s dress, a whisper of metal descending. She pulled it down with agonizing slowness, tooth by tooth, the sound of each click a gunshot in the quiet room. The black silk loosened, and Polina let it fall, stepping out of it with the grace of a snake shedding skin, leaving her in only her garter belt and stockings, her 34B breasts bare, nipples jutting out like accusing fingers.
Lisa’s dress followed, Polina’s fingers finding the clasp at the side, the zipper at the back, peeling the champagne silk away like skin from fruit. When both stood in only their lingerie, the black lace garters on Polina, the champagne ones on Lisa, they pressed together again, skin to skin for the first time that night.
The sensation of nipple against nipple made them both gasp. Four hard points of flesh, firm, ultra, sensitive, identical, battled for supremacy. They rubbed their chests together in slow, torturous circles, letting the friction harden the peaks further, letting the sensation arc like lightning down to their cores. They were not soft against each other; they were weapons of flesh, grinding, their breasts compressing, the firm 34B mounds flattening against each other, nipples catching and bending and springing back, a duel of sensitivity and pride.
Polina’s leg snaked up, her thigh sliding between Lisa’s, pressing against the soaked gusset of Lisa’s stockings, and Lisa reciprocated, her own thigh rising to press against Polina’s naked sex. They stood there, tribbing standing up, a slow, wet slide of thigh against cxnt, the musk beginning to fill the room, thick, heady, the scent of two women so aroused they were dripping, literally dripping, onto the hardwood floor.
They sank to the floor together, a controlled collapse, never breaking contact. They ended up sitting side by side on the plush rug, facing each other, their bodies turned inward. Polina lifted her left leg, draping it heavily over Lisa’s right thigh, opening herself completely. Lisa mirrored the position, her right leg thrown over Polina’s left, creating a diamond of intertwined limbs, their pussies exposed, glistening, swollen and dripping in the lamplight.
They leaned in, foreheads pressed together again, rolling, the skin slick with sweat and makeup, reddened from the pressure. Their eyes locked, pupils blown wide, black eating blue, and their breathing became ragged, hot gusts panting directly into each other’s open mouths.
Then, their hands moved.
Slowly. So slowly it was agony.
Polina extended her right hand, two fingers extended, and touched Lisa’s slit. Not penetrating, just tracing the outer lips, spreading the arousal that coated her like glaze. Lisa’s left hand did the same to Polina, a mirror image, two fingers sliding through slick, puffy folds.
"Wet," Polina taunted, her voice a whisper.
"Soaked," Lisa corrected.
They probed deeper. Fingers sliding into the tight, hot channels, not thrusting, but *exploring*, curling to find the rough spots, the places that made the other’s breath hitch. When they pulled back, strings of juice stretched between their retreating fingers and the swollen lips, strings of translucent arousal, thick and viscous, clinging to their knuckles, bridging the gap between hand and cxnt like spider silk made of lust. They turn more, straddling each other, clits inches apart, enough space for them to work their fingers methodically and deeply. Both panting hard in each others faces.
Polina brought her fingers to Lisa’s mouth. "Taste what you do to me," she commanded.
Lisa opened her mouth, her tongue extending, and licked her own fingers clean, the taste of Polina’s arousal, salty and metallic and sweet, coating her tongue. Then she offered her own fingers to Polina, glistening with Lisa’s essence. Polina sucked them deep, her eyes never leaving Lisa’s, cleaning them with her tongue, moaning around the digits.
They returned to their work. Fingers dancing in slow, methodical circles around clits, then dipping deep to gather more wetness, then back to the swollen pearls. The room filled with the sound of it, wet, slick, obscene sounds of flesh being worked, of fingers moving through pools of arousal. The musky scent was overwhelming now, a fog of sex and sweat and perfume.
Polina used her thumb to press hard against Lisa’s clit, rolling it in tight, slow circles while her middle finger pumped in and out with the rhythm of a metronome set to torture. Lisa responded by scissoring her fingers inside Polina, stretching her, curling to batter her G, spot with relentless, soft pressure.
They sat there, locked in the mutual finger dance, foreheads rolling against each other, eyes locked, breathing each other’s carbon dioxide, their juices mingling on their hands, on their thighs, on the rug beneath them. Eyes glancing down their bodies to see the work their fingers were doing, watching the juices ooze and drip from her rival. No rushing. No sprint to the finish. This was the long game. The war of attrition.
"All night," Polina gasped, her fingers never slowing their assault on Lisa’s swollen, dripping sex.
"Until you break," Lisa agreed, her own fingers working Polina’s cxnt with surgical, sensual precision.
They sat in the amber dark, two blonde demons intertwined, and the real battle, slow, cruel, and endless, finally began.
The first crest broke over Polina like a wave of knives.
Lisa had been circling her clit with the pad of her thumb, slow, maddening, clockwise rotations, while her middle and index fingers curved deep inside, pressing upward with relentless, gentle persistence against the rough, swollen patch of Polina’s G, spot. It was a technique they had perfected in secret years ago, a frequency that resonated through bone and blood. Polina’s thighs began to tremble first, the quaking starting in her quadriceps and traveling upward, her stockings whispering against Lisa’s bare skin.
"You’re clamping down," Lisa breathed, her lips brushing Polina’s gasping mouth. "I can feel you trying to hold it. Pathetic."
Polina’s eyes rolled back, her forehead still mashed hard against Lisa’s, the pressure creating a red welt between their brows. "Never," she hissed, but her cxnt betrayed her, suddenly seizing, the muscles locking in rhythmic, brutal spasms around Lisa’s buried fingers. The orgasm crashed through her with methodical cruelty, starting deep in her core and radiating outward in concentric waves. Her back arched, her 34B breasts lifting, nipples scraping against Lisa’s as she convulsed. Hot, thick fluid flooded Lisa’s palm, coating her wrist, dripping onto the rug in obscene pulses.
"Look at me when you lose," Lisa commanded, her fingers still working, still pressing, extending the climax, milking it. "Look at me and know you’re already beaten."
Polina’s jaw locked, a rictus of agony and ecstasy, her blue eyes snapping back to Lisa’s with hate, filled clarity even as her body shuddered uncontrollably. She came for forty seconds, each spasm slower and deeper than the last, until she was gasping, sweat dripping from her chin onto their pressed chests.
But Polina’s hand never stopped moving.
While Lisa had been conquering her, Polina had been mapping Lisa’s interior with surgical precision, two fingers hooked, rubbing side, to, side across the anterior wall with the steady rhythm of a machine. Now, as Polina’s own orgasm faded into trembling aftershocks, she focused her fury and twisted her wrist, pressing her thumb hard against Lisa’s clit, mashing it in tight, crushing circles.
"Now you," Polina snarled, her voice wrecked but venomous. "Cum for me. Cum reacting to my touch."
Lisa’s breath hitched, a sharp, broken sound. She tried to maintain the arrogant smile, but her cxnt was fluttering wildly around Polina’s fingers, the slick walls rippling in pre, orgasmic spasms. "I... don’t... break..." she managed, but her hips were jerking involuntarily, grinding down on Polina’s hand.
"You’re breaking now," Polina whispered, and bit Lisa’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
The pain tipped her. Lisa’s orgasm erupted, not a wave, but an explosion. Her spine snapped straight, her head falling back, throat exposed and vibrating with a guttural moan that sounded like a dying animal. Her internal muscles clamped down with crushing force, trying to expel Polina’s fingers, but Polina pushed deeper, fucking her through it, her fingers a piston of velvet cruelty. Lisa’s juices spurted, hot and copious, running down Polina’s knuckles, soaking the rug beneath them. Her toes curled so hard her arches cramped, her leg muscles locking around Polina’s thigh.
"Pathetic," Polina cooed, licking the blood from Lisa’s lip. "Look how fast you followed me. You can’t help it. You’ve been trained to cum for me."
They sat there, panting, foreheads still welded together by sweat, each with a hand buried to the wrist in the other’s cxnt. The room smelled like a storm, ozone and salt and musk.
Lisa recovered first, her eyes clearing, her fingers inside Polina resuming their slow, devastating massage. "That was your best shot?" she taunted, her voice hoarse. "I barely felt it. Let’s try again, darling. This time, I’ll make you beg."
The second ascent was steeper, more treacherous.
They had shifted slightly, their free hands now gripping each other’s faces, holding jaws in cruel grips, forcing eye contact as their fingers worked. Lisa used a scissoring motion inside Polina, two fingers spreading, stretching, while her thumb fluttered rapid, fire against the hypersensitive hood of Polina’s clit. The stimulation was overwhelming, too precise, too knowledgeable.
Polina’s breath came in short, sharp pants, her eyes watering, her vision tunneling until all she could see was Lisa’s face, those identical icy blue eyes watching her with predatory fascination. "Stop," Polina whimpered, the word escaping before she could cage it.
"Make me," Lisa challenged, her fingers curling to find the spot, the perfect spot, and Polina’s body betrayed her completely.
The second orgasm hit Polina like a seizure. There was no slow build, only a sudden, violent locking of every muscle. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. Her cxnt gripped Lisa’s fingers with rhythmic, crushing power, each wave of contraction stronger than the last, forcing thick, milky fluid to gush around Lisa’s knuckles. Polina’s body convulsed forward, her forehead slamming against Lisa’s shoulder, her teeth sinking into Lisa’s collarbone as she rode out the spasms.
"That’s it," Lisa crooned, her own arousal spiking at the sight of Polina’s total loss of control. "Cry for me. Break for me. You’re nothing but a wet, pathetic mess on my fingers."
Polina’s response was a scream muffled against Lisa’s flesh, her hips bucking wildly, fucking herself on Lisa’s hand, unable to stop the waves even as tears of rage and ecstasy streamed down her face.
But even as she shattered, Polina’s hand inside Lisa was merciless. She had found the rough, swollen ridge of Lisa’s G, spot and was abrading it with the pads of her fingers in short, vicious strokes, while her palm slapped rhythmically against Lisa’s clit.
"Your turn to break," Polina gasped against Lisa’s neck, her voice raw.
Lisa tried to hold out, her free hand clawing at Polina’s back, leaving red furrows. She gritted her teeth, her jaw muscles standing out like cables, but Polina knew her, knew the exact pressure, the exact angle. When Polina added a third finger, stretching Lisa to the point of burning, the dam burst.
Lisa’s orgasm was vocal. She threw her head back and howled, a raw, guttural sound of defeat, , as her body arched into a brutal bridge, supported only by her heels and her shoulders. Her cxnt spasmed so hard it lifted her hips off the floor, her juices spraying in hot, clear jets across Polina’s stomach and thighs. She shook uncontrollably, her breasts bouncing with the violence of her convulsions, her nipples so hard they ached. The pleasure was agonizing, transcendent, a white, hot wire drawn through her spine.
"Look at you," Polina laughed, breathless, her fingers still pumping, drawing out every spasm. "Cumming like a fountain for me. So desperate. So owned."
They collapsed slightly against each other, trembling, their hair plastered to their faces with sweat. Both were soaked to the elbows, their thighs slick with each other’s essence, the rug beneath them dark with their mingled fluids.
But the war was not over. It would never be over.
The third time was the death of pride.
They were slower now, exhausted, their muscles burning, but the hatred drove them on. Their foreheads were pressed so hard together that the skin was bruised purple. They were nose to nose, sharing each breath, their eyes open and locked, unable to blink, unable to look away.
Lisa’s fingers inside Polina were gentle now, cruelly gentle, a soft, fluttering caress against the anterior wall, a teasing, feather, light touch on the clit that was somehow worse than roughness. It was a promise that never delivered, a hovering that made Polina’s entire body scream for release. Polina’s fingers mirrored the torture inside Lisa, both women suspended on the razor’s edge, neither willing to give the final push, both trying to outlast the other.
"Admit it," Lisa whispered, her voice a thread. "Admit I’m the better woman. Admit you’ve always been my echo. Say it, and I’ll let you cum."
"Never," Polina sobbed, the word breaking in her throat. Her hips were jerking in tiny, helpless twitches, trying to force more contact, more pressure. "You... admit... you’re... my... copy..."
They hung there, balanced on the precipice, for minutes that felt like hours. Their fingers moved in microscopic increments, brushing, teasing, denying. Their bodies were rigid, vibrating like plucked strings, their faces contorted in masks of exquisite suffering.
Then Lisa shifted her angle, just a fraction of a degree, and pressed.
Polina’s third orgasm was total annihilation. It started in her toes, a cramping lock that traveled upward like lightning, and when it hit her core, it destroyed her. Her mouth opened in a scream that had no sound, her eyes fixed on Lisa’s with a look of utter horror and surrender. Her cxnt spasmed with such violence that it expelled Lisa’s fingers partially, only for Lisa to shove them back in, deeper, harder, fucking her through the endless waves.
Polina came for over a minute, her body convulsing in rhythmic, rolling seizures, her juices gushing in hot, thick ropes that coated both their laps, soaking the rug beneath them. She sobbed openly, tears streaming down her face, her hands clawing at Lisa’s shoulders, her nails breaking skin.
"Pathetic," Lisa hissed, her own face contorted with the effort of holding back her own climax, watching Polina’s destruction with triumphant, merciless eyes. "Look at you. Broken. Mine. Say it."
Polina’s head fell back, her throat working, but her hand, her exhausted, trembling hand inside Lisa, found renewed strength. With the last of her will, she curled her fingers, rubbed, hard, fast, relentless, while her thumb mashed Lisa’s clit in a brutal, side, to, side grind.
Lisa’s orgasm was instantaneous and catastrophic. She had been hovering on the edge for so long that the release was like a detonation. Her scream was piercing, a shriek of absolute defeat that echoed off the penthouse walls. Her body convulsed so hard she lifted them both slightly off the rug, her cxnt clamping down on Polina’s fingers with enough force to bruise bone. She squirted…….hard……… a hot, clear arc that splashed across Polina’s taught sweaty belly, marking her, claiming her even in defeat.
They froze, locked together, foreheads still pressed, eyes locked, both impaled on each other’s hands, both convulsing in the aftershocks, their juices mingling in a pool beneath them. They were panting, gasping, their lungs burning, their muscles twitching uncontrollably.
"Still... standing," Polina croaked, her voice destroyed.
"Still... breathing," Lisa rasped back.
They sat there, fingers still buried deep, feeling each other’s heartbeats through the walls of their cxnts, knowing that this was not the end.
Only a beginning.
They did not separate. Their fingers withdrew with a slow, wet, obscene sound, flesh suctioning against flesh, strings of mingled arousal stretching and breaking between their knuckles, but their bodies remained locked, magnetized by fifteen years of poisoned gravity. They were sitting in a puddle of their own making, thighs slick, stockings soaked to the thighs, the musk so thick it coated their tongues.
Polina moved first. She leaned forward, not fast, but with the steady momentum of a glacier, and captured Lisa’s mouth. It was not a kiss of reconciliation. It was a consumption. Her lips sealed over Lisa’s with vacuum pressure, her tongue forcing entry with slow, hydraulic insistence, pushing deep, tasting the copper and salt of their previous violence. Lisa met her with equal aggression, her own tongue battling, twining, wrestling for dominance in the hot, wet cave of their joined mouths.
They rose together, a single, entwined entity, their stocking feet slipping slightly on the rug before finding purchase. Standing fully, they pressed together along every possible inch, forehead mashed to forehead, nose crushed against nose, breasts compressed against breasts with crushing force.
"Feel that?" Polina gasped into the kiss, her breath hot and ragged against Lisa’s swollen lips. She thrust her chest forward, her firm 34B mounds flattening against Lisa’s identical pair, four hard nipples, stiff as bullets, sensitive as nerve endings, catching and dragging against each other with electric friction. "Feel how my tits own yours?"
"Delusional... bitch," Lisa snarled back, and ground her own chest upward, a slow, vicious roll that made their breast flesh ripple and compress, the firm globes mushrooming against each other, nipples bending and springing back with cruel elasticity. "I’m... crushing... you."
Their hands found each other’s asses simultaneously, tight, perfect globes of muscle and silk, still framed by the garter belts and the soaked lace tops of their stockings. They kneaded with the intensity of warriors testing armor, fingers sinking deep into the glutes, pulling each other closer, eliminating the last whisper of space between their torsos. Their pelvises met with a wet, audible slap, bare cxnts kissing for the first time that night, slick folds sliding against each other with obscene friction.
"Oh, god," Polina moaned, the sound dripping from her throat like honey mixed with glass. She ground her mound downward, her clit, swollen, throbbing, hypersensitive, seeking Lisa’s matching pearl with predatory precision. "You’re... soaked. Filthy whore."
"For you," Lisa hissed, her own hips thrusting upward, countering Polina’s grind, their pubic bones mashing, their mounds pumping against each other in a slow, methodical rhythm that was more combat than coitus. "All... for... you... copy."
They began to move. A dance of annihilation. Foreheads still welded together by sweat and spite, they swayed, their tits mashing and sliding, nipples tracing burning paths across each other’s areolas, the sensitive flesh aching, throbbing, fighting for supremacy. Polina’s fingers dug into Lisa’s left ass cheek, spreading her, controlling her, while Lisa mirrored the grip on Polina’s right, their hands acting as puppeteers, forcing the rhythm, the depth, the violence of their collision.
"Slow," Polina commanded, her voice a shattered whisper. She rolled her hips in a deliberate, devastating figure, eight, her cxnt lips spreading, opening, engulfing Lisa’s matching flesh, their slick petals sliding, grinding, the hardened nubs of their clits meeting head, on with a spark of agony. "Slow... and... deep. I want... to feel... every inch... of you... breaking."
"Yes," Lisa gasped, her teeth finding Polina’s lower lip and biting, drawing fresh blood, her own hips moving in perfect counter, rhythm, a churning, grinding, wet collision of flesh. "Slow... so you... know... exactly... when... I win."
They pumped against each other with the patience of executioners. Each thrust was measured, calculated to maximize contact, their cxnts spread and flattened against each other, clits grinding side to side, up and down, the friction building a fever that burned from their cores outward. Their breasts bounced with each impact, the firm 34B globes slapping together, nipples kissing, bending, fighting to pierce each other’s flesh.
"Pathetic... little...bitch," Polina taunted, her forehead rolling against Lisa’s, their brows mashing, skin reddening, eyes locked in a hate, filled stare just inches apart. She squeezed Lisa’s ass harder, forcing their pelvises tighter, their mounds mashed so flat that their clits were trapped together, pinned in a duel of hypersensitive, throbbing flesh. "You’re... just... rubbing... against... me... like a... desperate... cat."
"And... you’re... leaking... all over... my... cxnt," Lisa shot back, her voice breaking as she felt another pulse of arousal gush from her, coating their joined sexes, making the slide slicker, hotter, more obscene. "Admit... I’m... wetter... admit... I’m... hotter..."
"Never," Polina sobbed, the sensation of their clits grinding directly, pearl on pearl, hard and slick and burning, shattering her composure. She moved her hands from Lisa’s ass to her face, framing her jaw with cruel tenderness, thumbs pressing into her cheeks. "Kiss me... while I... destroy... you."
Their mouths crashed together again, a fusion of lips, tongue, teeth, and spit. They kissed with their mouths wide open, sharing the air, sharing the taste of blood and sweat and sex, their tongues stabbing deep, licking the roof of each other’s mouths, a grotesque, beautiful parody of feeding. All the while, their bodies moved in that slow, grinding, pelvic dance, asses flexing beneath each other’s hands, thigh muscles trembling with effort, cxnts pumping, spreading, sliding with wet, rhythmic sounds that filled the room.
"My tits... are harder," Polina gasped against Lisa’s mouth, breaking the kiss only to press their foreheads together harder, creating a white, hot point of pressure between their brows. She thrust her chest forward, mashing her breasts into Lisa’s, feeling the give of flesh, the resistance of muscle, the ache of nipples that had been hard for hours. "Feel them... piercing... yours..."
"Harder... yes," Lisa moaned, the sound guttural, animalistic. She grabbed Polina’s ass again, kneading the flesh, forcing Polina’s hips to roll in a circle that dragged their clits in a maddening, torturous spiral. "But I... can take it... I can take... your best... and ask... for more..."
They changed angles, Polina leaning back slightly, pulling Lisa with her by the grip on her ass, changing the pressure so that their clits rubbed top to bottom instead of side to side, a vertical slide that made both women scream, high and sharp, in unison. Their breasts separated for a moment, nipples catching with a audible *snap* of flesh, before Polina crushed them together again, shifting so that her left nipple stabbed directly into Lisa’s right, the hard points dueling, trying to bend each other back into the yielding flesh.
"Look... at us," Polina panted, her vision blurring at the edges from the intensity of the clitoral friction, from the feeling of Lisa’s cxnt lips spreading against hers, sucking at her, grinding her. "Two... whores... humping... like... animals..."
"Your... fault," Lisa gasped, her legs beginning to tremble, her thigh muscles burning from the slow, controlled pumping. "You... made me... this... you... created... this... monster..."
"Then... let me... kill you," Polina snarled, and she increased the tempo, just slightly, not fast, but harder, deeper, more brutal. Each thrust of her mound against Lisa’s was a statement of ownership, her pubic bone mashing Lisa’s clit, her own clit seeking the shelter of Lisa’s folds only to attack again. "Let me... grind... you... into... nothing..."
"Try... try... you... fucking... try..." Lisa chanted, her hips meeting every thrust, her own hands pulling Polina’s ass apart, spreading her, controlling her, forcing their cxnts to align perfectly so that their clits battered each other with every slow, wet, heavy slap of flesh.
They were covered in sweat now, their hair plastered to their faces, their stockings drenched, the garter belts cutting into their hips. The sound of their breathing was like bellows, harsh, ragged, desperate. The sound of their bodies was obscene: wet, slick, sticky sounds of cxnts pumping together, the soft *thwack* of breasts colliding, the guttural moans that escaped their locked mouths.
"I feel... you... twitching," Polina hissed, her eyes rolling back slightly before snapping back to Lisa’s, her forehead still pressed so hard against Lisa’s that she could feel the pulse in Lisa’s temple matching the throb in her own clit. "You’re... going to... cum... again... on my... cxnt... like a... defeated... slut..."
"Not... before... you... break..." Lisa sobbed, her internal muscles fluttering, her clit screaming, her tits aching from the constant compression and friction. "Not... before... you... admit... I’m... the... original..."
They pumped harder, grinding their mounds together with mechanical, merciless precision, their clits trapped in a duel of hypersensitivity, their juices mixing, foaming, running down their inner thighs. They were fucking each other to death, a slow, wet, methodical slaughter of pride and will, and neither would break first.
"Never," Polina gasped, her entire body shaking, her ass flexing beneath Lisa’s claws, her cxnt burning, her tits throbbing. "Never... you... copy... you... echo... you... shadow..."
"Then... we... burn... together," Lisa screamed, and she bit Polina’s shoulder, hard, her teeth sinking into the muscle, her hips jerking in a spasm of approaching climax.
They ground on, tit to tit, clit to clit, forehead to forehead, two blonde demons locked in an eternal, wet, pumping dance of mutual destruction, each determined to be the last one screaming.
They sank to the floor as one, a tangle of trembling limbs and ragged breath. The rug beneath them was soaked with their previous efforts, a dark stain of victory and defeat already blurring between their bodies. They separated only to reposition, to prepare the final battlefield.
Lisa sprawled back first, her legs spreading wide, knees bent, feet flat on the floor. She was utterly exposed, the garter belt framing her hips, stockings still clinging to her trembling thighs, and between them, her sex lay open and glistening. Polina mirrored her, scissoring her own legs between Lisa’s, pressing forward until their ankles locked and their knees formed a diamond of taut, straining muscle.
They lifted their hoods simultaneously, fingers sliding down with obscene delicacy to pull back the protective flesh, revealing what lay beneath. Their clitorises stood forth like little thimbles, hard and swollen, flushed a violent, engorged pink, pulsing with their heartbeats. They jutted out from their slits, aggressive and erect, sensitive nerves bundled into twin bullets of pure sensation, rigid and weeping arousal.
"Look at it," Polina hissed, her voice shattered glass. She thrust her hips forward, her swollen pearl protruding visibly, throbbing, seeking. "Look at what’s going to destroy you. My cxnt is going to fuck yours into submission."
Lisa laughed, a wild, broken sound. She pressed her own hips upward, her matching clit standing equally proud, equally hard, a mirror image of defiance. "That pathetic little thing? I’m going to grind yours flat. I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name, copy."
They reached between them, fingers spreading their own labia wide, opening themselves completely, presenting their weaponized sexes to each other. Then they surged together.
The contact was electric, flesh meeting flesh with a wet, heavy slap. Their swollen clits kissed head, on, grinding shaft against shaft, the rigid bundles of nerves mashing with immediate, catastrophic sensation. Their slits aligned, slick folds spreading and suctioning, labia kissing and clinging, creating a seal of wet, hot flesh.
"Fuck!" Polina screamed, her head snapping back.
"Too much for you?" Lisa shrieked, already thrusting, rotating her hips in a vicious circle, grinding her clit against Polina’s with mechanical fury.
They began to hump, hard. This was no slow dance. This was war made physical. Their pelvises slammed together with audible *thwacks* of wet flesh, their clits battering each other like rams against gates. Polina grabbed Lisa’s thighs, her nails digging into the muscle beneath the stockings, pulling Lisa into her thrusts, forcing deeper contact, harder friction.
"Break!" Polina grunted, each word punctuated by a savage thrust. "Break! You! Fucking! Echo!"
"Never!" Lisa howled, meeting every thrust, her own hips jerking upward with violent, piston, like precision. "You! Break! First!"
They were evenly matched, two perfect machines of sex and hatred, grinding their most sensitive flesh together with abandon. Their clits slid side to side, up and down, mashing and twisting, the friction building an inferno. Juices squelched obscenely between them, frothing white, coating their locked sexes, making the slide slick and furious.
"Feel me winning?" Lisa gasped, her face contorted in a rictus of agony and ecstasy. She reached down, grabbing Polina’s ass, spreading her, controlling her rhythm. "Feel me grinding you down?"
"Feel *this*," Polina snarled, and she changed her angle, thrusting forward with her hips tilted so that her clit scraped directly across the top of Lisa’s, a vertical abrasion that made Lisa’s vision explode in white stars.
They fucked like that for what felt like hours, raw, hard, mechanical tribadism. Their breasts bounced with every impact, 34B mounds slapping together, nipples dragging and catching. Sweat poured from them, making their bodies slick, their hair plastered to their faces. The room filled with the sounds of their war: the wet *schluck* of cxnts colliding, the smack of flesh, the screams and grunts torn from their throats.
The first orgasm hit them simultaneously, a mutual detonation. Lisa felt Polina’s clit swell even larger against hers, pulsing, throbbing, and then Polina’s scream told her she was there. Lisa’s own climax ripped through her a half, second later, her cxnt convulsing, gushing hot fluid that slicked their grinding sexes even further. They didn’t stop. They fucked through the orgasms, grinding harder, forcing each other to ride the wave until it became torture.
"Stop!" Lisa sobbed, her body convulsing, but Polina only laughed, a mad, triumphant sound.
"No mercy!" Polina shrieked, and she redoubled her efforts, her hips becoming a blur, her clit battering Lisa’s hypersensitive, post, orgasmic pearl with cruel, relentless strokes. "Cum again! Cum for me! Show me you’re weak!"
Lisa came again within minutes, a brutal, tearing orgasm that made her back arch off the floor, her hands clawing at Polina’s back, drawing blood. "Please!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. "Please! I can’t"
"Three more!" Polina commanded, her own voice ragged, her body trembling with exhaustion but driven by years of rage. "Three more before I’m done with you!"
She shifted them, rolling Lisa onto her back and mounting her in a dominant press, their cxnts still locked, Polina now controlling the rhythm from above. She ground down with her full weight, her clit spearing Lisa’s, crushing it, dominating it. The angle was devastating, Lisa’s clit was trapped, battered, subjected to Polina’s entire body weight grinding against it.
"One!" Polina counted, her hips working in tight, vicious circles, her pubic bone mashing Lisa’s mound flat. Lisa’s third orgasm hit like a seizure, her body locking up, her cxnt spasming wildly, her juices squirting up between their pressed bodies in hot jets.
"Two!" Polina screamed, not stopping, grinding through Lisa’s convulsions, her own clit throbbing against Lisa’s spent, overwrought flesh. She reached down, grabbed Lisa’s face, forcing eye contact. "Look at me! Look at me while I fuck you broken!"
Lisa’s fourth orgasm was agony, pleasure turned to pain, her clit so sensitive that every grind was torture. She sobbed openly, her face contorted, her pride shattering with every thrust. "I’m sorry!" she wailed, the words torn from her soul. "I’m sorry! You win! You win!"
"Not yet!" Polina howled, her own climax building, feeding on Lisa’s destruction. She ground down with inhuman force, their clits mashed so hard they were flattened against each other, the friction white, hot. "Five! Cum for me one last time! Cum and admit you’re second rate!"
Lisa’s fifth orgasm was silent, her voice broke, her scream nothing but a ragged breath. Her body convulsed beneath Polina, her cxnt spasming weakly, her juices flowing in a continuous stream, soaking them both. She went limp, her hands falling away from Polina’s body, her eyes rolling back, tears streaming down her temples into her hair.
Polina came then, one final, victorious climax, grinding her clit against Lisa’s defeated, twitching sex, feeling Lisa’s broken body beneath her. She screamed her victory to the ceiling, her back arching, her breasts thrust forward, her cxnt gushing hot fluid onto Lisa’s ruined, trembling mound.
She didn’t stop. She kept grinding, slower now, milking the last shudders from Lisa’s unresisting body, her clit dragging through the mess they’d made, dominating Lisa’s flesh even as Lisa sobbed beneath her, broken, destroyed, officially second, rate.
"Look at you," Polina gasped, her voice a whisper of triumph. She grabbed Lisa’s hair, forcing her to look up, to see the victor. "Look at what I’ve made you. A crying, cumming mess. My shadow. My whore."
Lisa could only sob, her body twitching involuntarily, her pride lying in ruins around her. She was empty, drained of every orgasm, every ounce of will, every shred of defiance. Polina had fucked her into oblivion, and now there was only the truth: Polina was the original. Lisa was the echo.
Polina collapsed atop her, their cxnts still kissing, their sweat and juices mingling, and she whispered into Lisa’s ear: "Mine. Forever."
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his reputation by dwelling on a gratuitous mud wrestling scene. BUT again he did do fight club which pushed the envelope at times and the movie was written by Quinton Tarantino and judging by his extreme love for all things Grindhouse and exploitive there's a chance us messy wrestling fans could get what we've been wanting since arguably the mid 90s! *fingers crossed *
