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« Last post by bcw8 on Today at 12:51:33 PM »
Gabriela and Valeria.
When they danced, it was a whirlwind. Their male partners were mere accessories; the two women, one in scarlet red and one in royal blue, were the ones everyone raptly watched. Their dark eyes gleamed. Their raven hair whipped. Their breasts threatened jailbreak from their plunging necklines. Their long legs flashed like switchblades through the slits in their short skirts. Their stiletto heels were cockfighting spurs.
When the music ended, the men faded away, and they stood face to face in the center of the empty dance floor. Tendrils of hair teased their faces. Their cleavages rose and fell with their heavy breath, their glowing honey skin inviting fantasies of cum-streaks in their sweat. Their community was there to witness, gathered around them, clouds on the horizon, harbingers of storms.
Their dance was over. A new dance was about to begin.
As if they both still heard the same beat and throb of music, their hands moved in perfect synchronization, stabbing into their rival’s chest, ripping open her bodice. The crowd gasped as brown breasts spilled free, as stiff dark nipples hardened and thickened. Gabriela and Valeria moaned … in anticipation. Shoulders thrown back, eyes locked, they stepped forward, their breasts lifting and swelling together, burying their black diamonds in a grinding embrace. Their painted fingers gripped torn dresses tighter and finished the ritual of ripping. Fabric flowed to the floor, sequins winking. Bared backs flexed under cascaded hair. The curves of their asses were lush and sublime, quivering with effort, bisected by thin thongs, red and blue
Each chin lifted slightly as they strained against each other. The men stared in fascinated tumescence, dreaming their hands caressed those curves. The women winced and whispered knowingly among themselves. The still-beautiful mothers of the two young women glanced grimly at each other. They were rivals once as well, for a man. By no accident were Gabriela and Valeria so alike in form and spirit.
The half-sisters bit their lips and moaned again. Their spines arched and their shoulders shifted. Nipples thick as thumbs grappled and ground together in their bed of bounty. The thin blades of their heels scraped the polished floor. Their hands flexed but remained for now at their hips, readied like gunfighters. The sweat that beaded on their upper chests began to break ranks and flow, rivulets over the contours of their crushed breasts and down their ribs.
It was Gabriela who first sobbed, giving voice to the burning in her breasts, the hot needles stabbing her nipples. How the fire in Valeria’s eyes leapt at the sound! Her calves and thighs and ass tightened. Her belly slapped hard into her rival’s. Her back arched deeper and the once-firm round shape of Gabriela’s breasts seemed to collapse still more.
“Te poseo, puta,” she hissed. I own you, bitch.
Unseen, Valeria’s nipples surged and stabbed. Tears wet Gabriela’s cheeks and her mother looked away. Valeria’s mother spoke in the hush, “Aplastarla!” Crush her. Gabriela cried out as her nipples were driven back into her, folded, inverted, humiliated, stones broken by harder stones. She staggered back, her hands rising to cradle herself.
Wounded prey only further arouses a true predator’s fury.
Gabriela’s head snapped sideways, the print of Valeria’s palm like stigmata on her cheek. A second slap arced up into the underside of her left breast, lifting it, displaying her still-inverted areola, the harsh sound of punished meat lost in her scream. Valeria’s nails sank into her breasts, caught, and slashed. She twisted away, mouth open, blind with pain.
The contest of their breasts had been only the beginning.
Valeria’s arm flashed again, a brown whip-crack, the back of her closed fist the leaded weight at its end that lashed Gabriela’s head in the opposite direction, her hair across her face, her lower hip split open, a scarlet trail of blood drops flung to the side. Valeria’s fist again, reversed, driven hard into Gabriela’s belly.
She fell to her knees, unable to breathe.
Valeria stepped behind her, a single long graceful stride, and gathered her thick hair in one hand. With the other, she drew with her thumb across her own throat a signal of death, but it was Gabriela’s breast, not her jugular, that her nails cut, long shallow gouges, lines of longitude red in a tortured sphere.
Valeria’s mother nodded, proud of her daughter. “Mostrarla,” she ordered. Display her. Cruel direction was unneeded by the daughter, but she nodded as well and with her hand burrowed in Gabriela’s hair she dragged back her head and turned her, on her knees, to the cardinal directions, a circle of gasps greeting the gashes made.
“Entregarla!” barked Valeria’s mother to her counterpart. Surrender her. Surrender your daughter.
Gabriela’s mother gazed upon her kneeling daughter, the bleeding slashes in her bruised breast, the tears upon her cheeks. She shook her head. “No,” she answered. Some shames are too deep to accept. She herself had fought and submitted to the other woman, twenty-two years before, when they both carried the seed of the same man, the two daughters freshly conceived in their still-flat bellies. Her humiliation had never waned. She could not condemn her daughter to that fate.
At her mother’s refusal Gabriela screamed, and drove her elbow back, between Valeria’s honeyed thighs, into the scarlet triangle that hugged her pussy. Those behind Valeria saw the impact in the shudder of her ass, those in front saw the bloom of pain in her beautiful face. She fell to her knees next to her half-sister and Gabriela greeted her with hate and ten claws dug into that same face.
Valeria’s first scream echoed her first blood as Gabriela scored her cheeks, then her neck, then her breasts, dragging the knives of her nails downhill. Without a shred of sin, Gabriela’s mother murmured thanks to Saint Joan, the Maid of Orleans, the patroness of fierce women, as her wild-eyed daughter brutally mauled the breasts of her rival, her lacquered nails nearly gone to the quick in Valeria’s titmeat.
The predator becomes the prey; the torturer in turn is tortured.
Gabriela stood and dragged Valeria upright, not by her disheveled hair or even her throat, but by a vise-grip on the nipples that had buried hers, fingers curled under, thumbs stabbing down. Valeria shrieked as her areolae distended, stretch marks radiating out from hellish points of pain. Her hands clasped Gabriela’s wrists to no effect. Gabriela snarled and spat in her face and drove her forehead into the spot of saliva before it dripped. Her grip held fast and Valeria’s breasts grotesquely stretched again as she reeled, her mind dazed, her head lolling back.
“Rasgarlas!” screamed Gabriela’s mother. Rip them off.
Gabriela truly tried. Valeria batted at her arms and screamed and screamed. Hate bestows strength. Gabriela pulled Valeria’s breasts to her ribs then smashed them together like cymbals. She dug her fingers into her meat like a butcher. She paid her debt of pain with interest compounded. Her fingers were blood-smeared when her foe finally tore free.
Valeria’s mother reached for her to help her, but Gabriela’s mother leapt forward. The dance of two became four as the matrons clashed, their bodies somewhat thicker than in youth but no less fierce. Breasts that had once nursed the daughters were stripped bare and mauled in a matter of seconds, their slight heavy sag only adding to their erotic appeal. Time had perhaps slowed their bodies a beat but their hate was unabated.
The daughters fought on as if nothing had happened. With blood on her breasts, Valeria again attacked Gabriela’s face with her nails and as she did, she drove her knee into her enemy’s groin. Gabriela’s heartrending sound of pain was a trigger to Valeria’s bloodlust; she ripped at Gabriela’s blue thong, tore it aside, punched her womb and pussy with fresh fury, uno, dos, tres, quatro. Gabriela collapsed again to her knees, unable even to scream. Valeria stepped back for space then her leg flashed upward in a perfect high kick; her scarlet shoe snapped back Gabriela’s head like an assassin’s rifle shot, blood from her mouth fountaining up and falling like brief rain on her breasts.
The mothers were locked together like cruel lovers, bodies twisted, first one then the other on the top. Those who remembered their infamous brawl chose again one favorite or the other, but this would end in devastation not submission. Valeria’s mother locked her legs across her foe’s throat; Gabriela’s mother clawed at her hips and ass to no avail, jerking in agony as her own breasts were shredded, blood running down her ribs as she was slowly strangled until she fell limp.
Gabriela lay on her back, her hips turned. Valeria stood over her, breathing hard. She lifted her foot and first twisted the pointed toe of her shoe into Gabriela’s breast. The fallen girl stirred, jerked, moaned. Valeria smiled to know she still felt pain. She turned her foot and pressed her stiletto down through Gabriela’s nipple, more and more of her weight added as Gabriela screamed, screamed her pain and then her surrender over and over but Valeria stabbed down until the screams stopped and Gabriela lay limp like her mother.
The dance ended, the crowd drifted away. Valeria’s partner came to her, kissed her, carried her away in his strong arms. Outside, she pushed him into the backseat of his car and mounted him and took his seed in a whirlwind, just as she had a week before, just as Gabriela had as well. Valeria prayed silently for a child but it was an unnecessary plea as she was already a week with child, the beginnings of a girl child.
No one came for Gabriela but her own mother, crawling, her own beaten breasts dangling and swaying as she sobbed. She kissed her child and held her and tried to comfort her, her broken body and her shattered spirit, but she well knew herself the pain and humiliation that Gabriela suffered, and she could not hold her own tears for her daughter and for the nascent granddaughter that lay protected within the fortress walls of Gabriela’s womb.
Dance is rhythm and repetition, a ritual of passion.
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