[Enigma]

The salt wind whipped across the secluded cove, carrying the scent of gunpowder and rum from the anchored brigantine Revenge's Kiss. Captain Elias "Blackfang" Smith lounged on a driftwood throne dragged up from the high-tide line, his scarred face split by a lazy grin. Weeks earlier, he'd plucked Mara from a smoky tavern in Port Royal—brunette hair like midnight waves, curves that had men spilling their tankards, a sharp tongue that earned her bruises from lesser men. She became his prize first, a fiery wench who spat curses even as the irons bit her wrists.

Then came Lady Seraphine Ashford, snatched from her father's merchant galleon off the Carolina coast. Golden hair that caught the sun like spilled coins, porcelain skin untouched by labor, the haughty bearing of old money. She had screamed like a banshee when they dragged her aboard, but the fight had gone out of her eyes after the first taste of the brig's darkness. Two women, one dark and earthy, one pale and regal, now chained together in the captain's cabin like matched hunting hounds.

Smith had grown bored of their sullen silence. He wanted sport. So on this blazing afternoon, with the crew ringed around the strip of white sand like a living fence, he had the irons struck off. Mara and Seraphine stood barefoot on the warm beach, the Caribbean sun turning their skin to gold and shadow. No clothing was permitted—only skin against skin, no weapons, no mercy. The winner would walk free onto the next ship they took. The loser would feed the sharks before sunset.

"Even odds," Smith called, voice carrying over the surf. "No holds barred. First blood means nothing—only the last breath counts. Fight like your lives depend on it... because they do."

The crew roared approval, coins already changing hands in side bets. Mara rolled her shoulders, dark hair whipping across her sweat-slick back. Her tavern brawls had taught her dirty tricks—knees, elbows, teeth if it came to it. She eyed the blonde with open contempt. "Fancy lady thinks she's too good to bleed," she sneered. "I'll paint that pretty face red."

Seraphine lifted her chin, though her hands trembled at her sides. Years of etiquette lessons had never prepared her for this savagery, but pride burned hotter than fear. "You reek of cheap gin and cheaper men," she replied coldly. "When I'm done, the captain will see what a real woman looks like standing over your corpse."

They circled slowly at first, bare feet sinking into the sand, breasts rising and falling with quick breaths. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning every inch of exposed skin glossy. Mara struck first—lunging low, aiming to tackle Seraphine into the surf. The blonde twisted at the last second, driving a sharp elbow into Mara's ribs. A grunt, a flash of pain, but Mara wrapped her arms around Seraphine's waist and lifted, slamming her down hard onto the sand.

The impact drove the air from Seraphine's lungs in a sharp cry. Mara straddled her immediately, knees pinning the blonde's hips, hands seeking her throat. "Should've stayed in your silk sheets," Mara hissed, fingers tightening.

Seraphine bucked wildly, nails raking down Mara's arms in bloody furrows. She arched, throwing her head forward to crack her forehead against Mara's nose. Blood sprayed—hot and coppery—and Mara recoiled with a curse. Seraphine rolled them, reversing positions in a tangle of limbs. Now she was on top, golden hair falling like a curtain around their faces as she drove punches into Mara's ribs and jaw.

The brunette snarled, catching one of Seraphine's wrists and twisting until the blonde yelped. They rolled again, sand clinging to sweat-slick skin, bodies grinding together in brutal friction. Fists flew, nails clawed at eyes and throats, legs tangled and kicked. Breaths came in ragged gasps, mingled with curses and pained whimpers.

Mara managed to hook a leg behind Seraphine's knee and flip them once more, pinning the heiress face-down. She yanked Seraphine's head back by a fistful of golden hair, forcing her cheek into the sand. "Beg," Mara growled against her ear. "Beg and maybe I'll make it quick."

Seraphine spat sand and blood. "Never."

With a surge of desperate strength, she drove her elbow backward into Mara's solar plexus. The brunette's grip loosened just enough. Seraphine twisted free, scrambling to her feet. Both women rose, chests heaving, bodies marked with red scratches, blooming bruises, streaks of blood from split lips and torn skin.

They faced each other again, circling slower now, exhaustion warring with fury. The crew's shouts had faded to a low, hungry murmur. The sun dipped lower, painting the beach in blood-orange light.

Neither had landed a killing blow yet. Neither intended to yield. The fight was far from over.

[Rocko23]

This is a really hot scenario and good beginning. Please continue!

[Enigma]

The two women staggered apart for a heartbeat, chests heaving, sand plastered to their sweat-and-blood-streaked bodies. The sun had slid lower, turning the cove into a furnace of orange light and long shadows. Mara wiped a smear of crimson from her split lip with the back of her hand, eyes locked on Seraphine’s throat like a wolf sizing up prey. Seraphine’s own gaze was wild, pupils blown wide with adrenaline and the raw certainty that one of them would not leave this beach alive.

They lunged again at the same instant—hands clawing for necks. Mara’s fingers clamped around Seraphine’s slender throat first, thumbs pressing hard into the soft hollow beneath the blonde’s jaw. Seraphine gasped, a wet, choking sound, but her own hands shot up and locked around Mara’s thicker, sun-darkened neck in return. They stood locked like that, faces inches apart, teeth bared, muscles trembling with the effort of squeezing the life out of each other. Veins stood out on forearms and temples. Breaths came in short, desperate hisses through clenched jaws.

For long seconds neither could gain the upper hand. Their grips were iron, but neither had the leverage to finish it. The realization hit them both at once: pure strangulation wasn’t enough—not yet. They were too evenly matched in fury and desperation. They needed to break the other’s strength first, sap the will to keep squeezing, make the hands falter. Mara moved first.

She released Seraphine’s throat with her right hand—only for a heartbeat—and drove her palm upward in a vicious slap across the blonde’s left breast. The wet crack of skin on skin echoed over the surf. Seraphine’s cry was sharp, involuntary. Mara didn’t stop. She seized the tender, heaving mound in a brutal grip, fingers digging deep, twisting as though she meant to tear it free. Seraphine’s knees buckled for a second, a ragged scream tearing from her throat, but she kept her own hands clamped around Mara’s neck, refusing to let go even as pain lanced through her chest.

“You think you’re delicate?” Mara snarled, voice raw. She raked her nails down the full curve of Seraphine’s breast, leaving four angry red welts that immediately began to bead with blood. “I’ll ruin these pretty tits before I choke the life out of you.”

Seraphine’s face contorted—pain, rage, humiliation—but she answered with her own cruelty. Her left hand slid from Mara’s throat to claw at the brunette’s fuller, heavier breasts. She caught one in a vise-like grip, squeezing until the dark nipple stood out painfully taut, then raked her nails across it in a long, deliberate scrape. Mara hissed through her teeth, body jerking, but she retaliated instantly—both hands now mauling Seraphine’s chest, kneading and twisting with deliberate savagery, thumbs grinding into the sensitive peaks until Seraphine’s screams turned hoarse.

They staggered in a slow, grotesque dance, locked together by mutual cruelty. Breasts were crushed, twisted, slapped, clawed—skin splitting under fingernails, bruises blooming dark and fast beneath the surface. Every cry from one drew a vicious counter from the other. Sand ground into open scratches. Sweat stung the wounds. Their faces were close enough that they could feel each other’s ragged breaths, taste the copper tang of blood on the air between them.
Neither released the other’s throat entirely. The strangling continued in fits and starts—hands slipping on sweat-slick skin, then clamping down again harder. But the real damage was being done lower now. Mara drove a knee up between Seraphine’s thighs, aiming for the soft vulnerability there; Seraphine twisted aside just in time and answered with a sharp stomp on Mara’s bare instep. Pain flared in both of them, weakening grips, slowing movements.

The crew watched in hungry silence now. No more cheering. Only the wet slap of flesh, the choked gasps, the low animal sounds of pain and hate.

Seraphine’s golden hair hung in wet, tangled ropes across her face. Mara’s dark locks were matted with sand and blood. Both women were trembling violently, strength bleeding away with every heartbeat, every fresh wound.

Yet neither fell. Neither begged. They simply kept tearing into each other—breasts mauled, throats half-crushed—waiting for the moment one of them finally broke enough for the other to finish it.

The tide was creeping in, lapping at their ankles, cold against burning skin. The pirates watched on wondering how much more vicious could these wenches get.

[Rocko23]

Superb! Please carry on. Hope Seraphine wins!

[Hyori]

Mara will kill the blonde and cum over her corpse!

[Serene Savagery]

Very nice.  Waiting for the rest.

[Enigma]

The tide had crept higher, cold water swirling around their calves now, mixing with the heat of their straining bodies. Both women were slowing, movements growing heavier, more deliberate—every ounce of strength hoarded for the next strike. Their throats were raw from half-strangled cries, breasts swollen and crisscrossed with claw marks, nipples dark and abraded from relentless abuse. Blood and sweat ran in rivulets down their torsos, dripping into the surf.
Seraphine saw her opening first.

Mara had just tried to drive another knee between the blonde’s legs, but the strike glanced off a slick thigh. The brunette overbalanced for a split second—enough. Seraphine twisted her hips violently, breaking Mara’s grip on her ruined chest, and drove forward with the full weight of her body. She slammed Mara backward into the shallow water, both of them crashing down in a spray of foam.

Mara landed on her back, head half-submerged, salt stinging the cuts on her face. Before she could roll away, Seraphine straddled her waist, knees pinning Mara’s arms to the sand beneath the surface. The blonde’s golden hair hung dripping over them both like wet ropes. Her face was a mask of feral triumph.

“You filthy dockside whore,” Seraphine hissed, voice cracked but venomous. “Let’s see how you like being dirtied.”

She reached down with one hand, forcing Mara’s thighs apart with brutal strength. Mara bucked, snarling, trying to twist free, but exhaustion and the weight of water-saturated sand made every movement sluggish. Seraphine’s fingers found the dark curls between Mara’s legs—then dug in, spreading, exposing the tender, swollen flesh beneath. Mara’s hips jerked involuntarily, a choked curse escaping her lips.
Seraphine didn’t hesitate.

Her free hand scooped a handful of wet, coarse sand from the surf line—gritty, shell-flecked, still warm from the sun. She forced it forward in a vicious shove, grinding the abrasive mass directly into Mara’s exposed pussy. The brunette’s entire body convulsed, a raw, animal scream tearing from her throat as thousands of tiny jagged grains scraped and invaded sensitive folds. Sand packed in deep, burning like fire against raw nerves, mixing with the slickness of sweat and seawater into a cruel, grinding paste.

Mara thrashed wildly beneath her, legs kicking up fountains of water, hips bucking in agony. “You bitch—!” The words dissolved into a guttural howl as Seraphine twisted her wrist, forcing more sand inside, packing it brutally with her palm. The blonde’s fingers raked across Mara’s clit in the process—half-pain, half-accidental torment—drawing another sharp, broken cry.

Seraphine leaned down, face inches from Mara’s contorted features, golden hair trailing in the water like blood in the sea. “Feel that?” she whispered, voice trembling with savage satisfaction. “That’s what it’s like to be filthy. To be used up. To be nothing.”

Mara’s eyes blazed through tears of rage and pain. She couldn’t speak—could barely breathe—but her body answered. With a desperate surge, she arched her back, throwing Seraphine off-balance just enough to free one arm. Her hand shot up, clawing for Seraphine’s face, nails gouging bloody furrows down one porcelain cheek.

Seraphine shrieked and retaliated, shoving another handful of sand deeper, grinding her palm in circles now, smearing the abrasive filth across every inch of Mara’s most vulnerable flesh. The brunette’s screams turned hoarse, body shuddering uncontrollably as the burning invasion continued.
They were locked in that grotesque tableau—Seraphine astride, one hand mauling Mara’s violated sex with sand and spite, the other braced on the brunette’s throat again; Mara writhing beneath, one arm free and clawing, the other pinned, legs thrashing uselessly in the surf.

The crew had gone utterly silent. Even Captain Smith had leaned forward on his driftwood throne, eyes narrowed, no longer grinning.