The gym lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the empty training floor. The place was closed for the night—no trainers, no staff, no distractions. Just me and her.
This had been building for months.
Jess and I were never going to be friends. From the moment we met at that first private sparring session—an invite-only event that blurred the line between sport and spectacle—the tension was there. We were built too similarly, walked with the same heat, carried our size like a challenge waiting to be answered.
We both knew only one set of breasts could own the spotlight in our scene and neither of us was willing to step aside.
But words only go so far.
Trash talk turned to side-eyes. DMs turned to escalation. Our last run-in ended with a staredown in the locker room that nearly turned physical. That’s when we made the call to settle it, one on one. No crowd. No rules. No excuses.
Tonight was that night.
I was confident, toned, and unapologetically heavy up top. My 40GGs had ended matches before the first press even landed. Jess stood across from me now, barefoot and stripped down to a black bra barely containing her infamous HHs. She looked smug—like she already had the win wrapped in cleavage.
“You finally showed,” she said, that smirk ever-present. “Thought maybe you’d stay online where your tits can’t get tested.”
I peeled off my top slowly. My breasts bounced free, slick with oil and ready for war.
“Just didn’t want to ruin your ego in public,” I replied. “Figured I’d break it in private.”
She chuckled. “Big talk. Let’s see if those things can back it up.”
There were no instructions. We both knew how this worked: no hands, no tricks. Just bare, oiled flesh. Breast to breast. Winner takes the other’s pride.
The first contact was slow and deliberate.
We closed the distance with practiced ease, letting our curves touch, slide, and settle into position. My skin tingled at the warmth. Jess’s chest was as firm as it was full, her presence commanded attention, her posture exuded defiance. We shifted, realigned, nipples brushing in a slick, teasing graze.
“Feel that?” she murmured. “That’s what’s going to shut you up.”
I didn’t answer. I pressed in deeper.
Then she moved—fast.
Her rack slammed into mine with a thick SLAP, the sound bouncing off the gym walls. The force knocked me back a step, and she followed immediately, grinding in like she was trying to leave a dent. Nipples dragged across mine, hard and deliberate, like they were staking territory.
I bit back a groan. Her weight was real. Her grind, relentless. She shifted left, twisted right—smothering, trapping, smirking the whole time.
“Not looking so dominant now,” she whispered, tightening the press.
I braced, pushed back, and broke free—our breasts separating with a loud, wet pop. Oil misted between us.
“You’re strong,” I growled. “But I’m not finished.”
I charged. She met me head-on.
We collided again, our breasts clapping together with brute force. Her smirk slipped—just a little. We tangled, locked, and grinded hard, our bodies shaking with each thrust and counter-thrust.
She angled, trying to outmanoeuvre me again, but I kept pace, matching her pressure beat for beat. Then she twisted suddenly, low and sharp. I hit the mat, her rack landing on mine like a weighted blanket of heat and pressure.
She leaned in, voice low and breathy.
“Getting quieter down there…”
I gasped, struggling under her weight, but not just from pressure. Her boulders were moving in rhythm now. Rolling slow, deep, and dominant. My nipples sparked at the friction, her body coaxing reactions I didn’t want to give.
But I wasn’t done.
I twisted my hips, shoved hard, and flipped her beneath me. My GG’s crashed down with vengeance like twin anvils, flattening her beneath me with a soaked smack. Her mouth dropped open in a breathy moan, her mountains quaking under mine.
I rolled my chest across hers, slow and punishing. “My turn.”
We grinded. Sweated. Pressed. Our nipples clashed again and again—sharp, swollen, angry. She bucked once—twice—then slipped under me with surprising speed.
And just like that, she was back on top.
“Almost had me,” she whispered, flushed and panting. “But I don’t break that easy.”
Her bombs dropped again, burying mine beneath them. She was trying to end it—right here. Her chest pressed harder, her breathing shaky but determined.
I let her think she had it.
Then I moved.
My legs locked. I twisted, arched, surged and reversed with everything I had.
We slammed down once again, the impact wet, brutal, and final. I pinned her with everything left in me, my wrecking balls flattening her HH’s into the mat. My ribs ached. My chest screamed. But I pressed down anyway-slow, steady, dominant.
Jess bucked weakly beneath me, but there was nothing behind it now. Just heat and exhaustion.
Our racks slid together in one last grind—slick, swollen, and sore. Her nipples softened first. Then her breath hitched as her arms dropped, and her chest... finally stopped pushing back.
Victory didn’t come with fireworks. It came in quiet breaths, shared heat, and the slow sinking of her body beneath mine.
I didn’t smirk. I didn’t crow.
I just leaned in close and said, “You're strong. Just not strong enough to stop me.”
Then I stayed there. Chest resting on hers, both of us soaked in sweat and oil—until I was sure she knew it was over.
When I finally pushed myself up, I felt it: the ache across my sternum, the bruises blooming under my skin, the sting where our nipples had clashed too hard, too often.
But I stood.
She didn’t.
Jess lay back, chest rising and falling, bruised and breathless. Her juggs were still full, still dangerous—but tonight, they’d been outmatched.
And mine?
They were just as sore... but standing over her.
That was enough.
to be continued...….
