[LilMishyRocks]

Bikini Beatdown!  RedderIsBetter vs MishRocks
(sequel to Beach Blanket Brawl!)

MishRocks: A month had passed, and I felt like  had of my life also did.  It had been a little over 4 weeks, at the beginning of the summer, that I had gotten in the scuffle with the red-headed slut at the beach.  Oh, who am I kidding?  It wasn’t a scuffle——she destroyed me almost from the first moment of the fight to the last humiliating one.  Ending with my face pressing into her pussy, I had never felt more embarrassed and owned than during that debacle.  The only thing—-truly the only thing—-that could have made it worse was for it to have been in public.  Thankfully, my loss was private, but by now, it was pretty common knowledge.  I had returned to the main beach, battered, tousled, barely covered by my torn and stretched bikini.  I told Noah what had happened, and although he tried to hide it, I could tell—-part of him wanted to comfort me, but part of him was pissed that he had missed it.  And that was the start of the end.  Whenever we were together, he’d ask me about bits and pieces of the fight.  “So, when she was on your back and hitting you, what was she wearing?  Were you just in your bottoms when she pinned you against the wall?” and shit like that.  Details of the fight got him aroused, and it seemed that it was more the details involving her wailing on me that did it.  A week later, he stopped calling daily, and by the end of the second week, the calls stopped altogether.  There were rumors that he had been seen with HER the following week.


“Fuck him, and doubly fuck her” was all  I could focus on.  My girls tried to buoy my spirits, talking about fixing me up with someone even hotter than Noah, but right now I couldn't have cared less.  All that mattered, all that I thought about, was seeing that ginger bitch again and beating every ounce of her spirit down, abusing her body, and then doing to her what she had done to me.  Since the fight, I had worked out a little more than usual, knowing that one of the reasons for her victory was the size and strength difference between us.  I couldn’t grow taller, but I could get stronger—-at least I hoped so.

But a month had now come and gone.  She hadn’t been seen at the beach again, and I was spending more time with the girls.  It was now late-July, and it was the time each summer that the kids our age would hang out at the beach Thursdays after the crowds left, coolers brought by the dozen, and party around a bonfire.  Tonight was the first of the season, and even at 8:30 PM, it was still 85 degrees—-the roar of the fire making it feel even warmer.  Everyone was still in their suits and bikinis, me included, and the crowd was small—-maybe 30 of us total—-guys and girls.  I reached into the cooler, my fingers sticking to the ice for a moment, and grabbed a can, ready to feel a little less shitty tonight and maybe wipe away the ugly image of you from my mind for good. 

Misty: There’s no such thing as a real lull around here, but the evenings are the times when the out of towners slough off to the tourist trap restaurants and the other attractions.  I’ve been just as content to stay by the public pool most days, and slink out to the beach during the later afternoons.  There’s even this terrible rumor that Noah and I have been seen canoodling in the ocean, skinny dipping, now who could have started that?!  😉  In any case, he’s a sweetheart, he’s gorgeous, built--hmmmm not like an Abrams tank, but more like a Willy’s jeep; strong, lean, and fast.  And he’s dynamite in the sack.  All that being said, the boy’s not the brightest crayon in the box, though I’m sure he still does complex math problems with them.  He’s fun.  He’s a summer fling.  But tonight, he’s off with some of his friends (I have to let him off the leash every so often, so that he doesn’t whimper too much)  and I’ll be going down to one of the nightly parties being thrown on our exclusive stretch of oceanfront property.  I’m wearing a dazzling metallic red triangle top, which really sizzles against my cool pale skin; much to my chagrin, I haven’t improved much of my base tan, so, fair skin for life for this gal.  Oh well, it’s just another thing that makes me stand out.  The hip hugging bikini bottoms don’t hurt either, sculpting around my ass just perfectly.  I’ve got a cute pair of wedge heels on, and a black sarong tied around my waist.  The Audrey Hepburn sunglasses are merely for show at this hour though, as the sun has long since ceased to bombard us with harmful rays, and now it’s just a nice, warm orb hanging out there on the horizon, sinking lower by the minute, like an orange slice on a grey marble counter top

MishRocks: I crack open the top of the can—not very lady-like, I know—Noah used to do it for me, but, well, when In Rome… anyway, the icy can doesn’t even get to my lips when I hear murmurs washing through the small crowd.  Immediately, my egocentric mind is convinced that there is a Noah sighting.  Oh, how awkward!  But I have played out in my mind a hundred times how such an encounter might go—well, really one of two ways.  Casual ignoring of him altogether, as if his mere existence were but a random thing; or aloof one-upsmanship—flaunting my newly-found single freedom, and taunting him for hooking up with trailer trash.  And if the trailer trash were actually with him?  Oh, what thick gravy that would be (or awesome sauce, I guess, as my younger brother likes to say).    “Don’t even look, Mishy” says Marissa, trying to keep my body facing her, and I love her for it, but please—I’m a big girl, and as I slowly start to turn…. mtc

MishRocks: Oh,———fuck.  THIS was unexpected.  The troll—the whore with more, that buxom harlot, sans Noah, crashing the party—again!  We really need to hire some security people for this beach to keep the riff-raff—and sluts—out of here.  But I say nothing—simply watching you approach in your gaudy glasses and knock-off bikini (TJ Maxx having a fire sale, skank?).  My 5’2”, 100 lb body freezes for a moment—soaking in the heat from the growing bonfire, feeling the warm sand under my toes, squinting a bit from the fiery-orange sunset (someone thought enough to play Elton John’s Don’t let the sun go down on me just as the sun started to melt into the ocean).  My body is tanned and toned, my extra work in the gym helping to very mildly define some muscles in my arms and legs that frankly—I hadn’t known existed.  I have no pre-determined plan for this encounter, so I just watch, and wait.  yt

Misty: I’m greeted with more smiles and waves than the first fateful beach community black party extravaganza that I came to a few months back.  I’ve even made some good friends.  Charlotte is a doll.  Becki....is a bit of slut, but a fantastic bullshitter, can get into any club inside a minute flat. Ralph is the gay friend EVERY girl should have, and frankly, has a much better fashion sense than I do.  I make small talk with a handful of other acquaintances, all of whom have been very nice to an outsider.  One of them hooks her head over in the direction of the abandoned alcove, and there, with a tiny lil raincloud over her head, is Mary.  Mindy?  Mi---MICHELLE!  That’s it, the little adorable brunette I’d kicked the shit out of.  She stayed in town?  Good for her!  I ask Roman to send over a drink or two, nodding in your direction.  Am I stirring the pot?  Sure.  Can I afford to?  You bet.  Aww, you’re in your blue little bikini, almost looks the same shade as Eeyore!  Well, it fits your personality.  I wave congenially, and go back to talking to my friends.  “Well, maybe i shouldn’t have said hi, but, hell, it’s a party!  Surely she’s over what happened between the two of us!” I assure Becki

MishRocks: Two drinks arrive, and Roman stammers, but as I look over his shoulder and see your smirking face, I know 1) they’re from you, and 2) you’re an ass.  Well, I knew THAT a month ago, but this just confirms it.  “Let it go, Mish…” counsels Cara, but I shoulder her aside, ignoring the drinks, and patter over to your little group—Marissa and Cara in tow.  You knew I’d come—you knew it would be impossible for me to ignore your goading behavior.  Glad I don’t disappoint.  I take a quick head-to-toe glance at you in that disco-ball outfit you’re wearing, silently hating your perfect body—the curves, that chest to die for, your smug but cute face.  I hate it all.  Not caring that you were talking to some other white trash gutter denizens, I say, to no one in particular, “The help isn’t supposed to arrive until AFTER we leave.” yt

Misty: I barely glance your way.  The superiority complex schtick is wearing pretty thin, but, hey, that’s what passes for personality with you, so I just go with it.  “You know the secret to talking down to someone?  They actually need to be below you to begin with.  And from where I left you last time, no one is beneath you.  So, since my ~generous~ offer at extending an olive branch is being dismissed, I suggest you instead go drag yourself to that Spartan training schedule you call a Summer vacation, and shut.  The actual fuck.  Right up.”  And at this I turn to face you, for the first time actually investing my full attention on your inferior frame.  “Don’t make me grind your sorry ass into the sand again, not here in front of everyone.”

MishRocks: “Oooh—somebody’s welfare-collecting buttons got pushed”, I joke, eliciting small titters from the girls.  You face me, your larger body looking not quite as imposing as it did before—maybe because of the crowd this time, which, I notice, is slowly doing the amoeba thing—forming a rippling circle around us.  Even the girls have stepped back a few steps as our eyes lock.  “Your luck ran out weeks ago, skank.  The only place my ass’ll be is sitting on your ugly face if you don’t get out of here.”  I take a step towards you, my 32B’s firm and pert, centimeters away from your chest.  

Misty: Luck.  What the snobs think of everyone else’s success, and never their own.  As always you seem to think of all of the earth as your birthright.  Apparently my lesson didn’t stick.  So I’ll make sure this one does.  “Actually, how about you get out of here.  Noah’s out with his friends tonight; if you crawl back like a good little Stepford bitch, I bet he might even let you suck him off; he said you were generally good at that.  But doing it the night your mom and dad recited their wedding vows?!  That one is low, even for you, bitch!” I say with a smirk.  Generally, airing private info like that tends to take the starch out of a bitch’s ass.  Generally.  And with that I press my 36DDs against your "I can't believe they're not titties", reminding you of one of the many reasons why your boyfriend was in my bed three days after you got your ass kicked by me

MishRocks: Some ‘oooh’s’ float from the crowd at your last salvo, but I maintain my smirk, even when you press your DD’s into me—an explosion of physical sensations, combining the arousal you forced upon me at the end of our fight, patting my kitty and then fingering me, as I lay trapped under you, and white-hot rage at your public dwarfing of my chest.  But I bury the feelings, listening to your hate, and then adding, “Not what I heard, skank.  I heard that Noah was in the walk-in tonight, trying to get rid of the genital warts you gave him.”  Some snorts and laughs from the crowd—I could do this all  night, i think, and I raise my hand, intent on brushing some stray hairs out of my eyes, when I feel a hand press against my bare back, and a shove—pushing me into you, my breasts temporarily flattened into yours, but more importantly, my hand jolts forward and strikes you in the face.  


Misty: “Of course you’d say that you cu--“ and that’s when you lunge at me and make the dumbest decision of your life.  Your hand strikes my face, doing little more than serving as the catalyst for the violent explosion of emotion.  “You nasty pig faced twat!”  Returning that slap with a backhanded variation of my own; this isn’t merely going to be an ass beating, I resolve silently.  This is going to be a referendum on your entire personal history.  This is going to be a fucking cautionary tale.  The goddamned Grimm brothers should be around so that years from now, entitled little shits who should have stayed inside their daddy’s busted condoms will know better than to mess women better than them.

MishRocks: My hand strikes your face—not by my will, but hell—I’m not really bothered by it.  We both kind of knew the night was heading in this direction anyway.  Some more ‘ooh’s’ and gasps at the impact, although honestly, it was more of my hand being pushed into your face than anything that could have cause pain.  But it was the first salvo, as the crowd saw it, and as you felt it, and your response is immediate—the back of your hand cracks into my cheek, rocking my head to the side—the crack sounding almost the same as the pops heard from the burning wood.  This elicits more than just ‘ooohs’—a couple of cheers spill from some male throats, and a lone “kick her ass, Misty!” can be heard above the general din.  Fully charged by your slap, I let my adrenaline run free, and before the arc of your assault is even done, I am on you, my left hand’s fingers curling over the cup of your bikini top, pulling you into me as my right knee roars up, intent on slamming into the creamy skin protecting your abs.  yt

Misty: There’s something wrong with me.  I’ve known it for it for a while.  I genuinely LIKE hurting other people.  Not everyone mind you, I’m not a sociopath.  But when I detest someone, as your very nature engenders, I derive no small amount of pleasure from causing them physical duress.  That’s why the backhand across your face is so wonderful for me.  Maybe it’s like a first kiss with someone I’d really like, who knows.  Irony?  You’re kind of my type, sans the stuck up princess vibe you seem intent on putting off.  But that being said, you’re no wilting lily, and as I smack your smug face, you roar to life, like a diesel locomotive, grasping my top (which would be grounds for an ass-beating in any case) and driving that knee into my tummy before I even know what’s hit me.  My toned ass cheeks clench, and I double over for a moment, gasping for air, and grasping a handful of sand.  Fine.  Sure.  Whatever.  We’re gonna get sideways?  Let’s get sideways.  I fling the course silica up toward your face, hoping to clog your eyes with the hateful grains.

MishRocks: My knee roars into your gut, to the delight of the onlookers, who now seem to be cheering each blow we make, regardless of who makes it.  Those boys—getting off on seeing two hot girls, welllll, one hot girl and you, you skank——fighting.  So primitive, so deliciously primitive.  You double over, and I see your hands swing low—lower than one would think given this hit.  Your fingers curl into the warm grains, and I remember the last fight—how incapacitated I was when you did the same thing then—blinding me and essentially giving you the fight.  At least that’s how it’ll read in my memoirs…  I won’t let that happen again, and as your hand fills and your wrist turns, I try and bring up my other knee, hoping to formally introduce my left kneecap to your ever-present smirk—or jaw—I’m not married to either.  

Misty: Your knee comes up, jarring my cheek around, and knocking my hand off its course, and sending me to my (immaculate) ass in the sand.  My eyes roll around a bit, hands behind me to support me as I take a minute or two to remind myself of my bearings, and what is at stake.  Not in my wildest nightmares have you ever hit like that before!!

MishRocks: Briefly considering a career with the Rockettes, I feel a thrill as my knee tags your cheek, rocking your head to the side and then back, and your nubile body follows, right on to your tight ass.  Applause from some in the crowd—maybe a little David-Goliath thing going on—but probably more that my initial grabbing of your cup stretches that gauche top, and now that you fall on your ass, your left breast is half-out and jiggling quite nicely for the masses, thank you.  Confidence cruises through my veins, but I know how dangerous you are—how no matter what I threw at you last time, I could not stop you.  So I don’t get cocky, but press on quickly with my advantage.  As you hit, you’re clearly dazed, at least momentarily, and I swoop down, grabbing your left ankle with my right hand and pull you toward me just a bit—and standing in front of you with one of your legs in my hand, my feet framing your hips, I try and STOMP you—hoping the bare sole of my right foot can blast again into those tight abs of yours.

Misty: You stomp down on my tummy with ruthless precision, driving that heel deal into my abdominal wall, which is feeling more like an abdominal fence by the minute.  I jack-knife up, my back rising off the sand as I wheeze and groan from the vicious blow.  But you made a fatal mistake in grasping just my left ankle.  My right heel shoots out, aiming for the middle of your knee, hoping to buckle that fragile bundle of nerves and ligaments.

MishRocks: My foot POUNDS into your gut, and the OOOFH! that spits from your mouth is palpable, causing a quick shroud of silence from the onlookers.  Your torso snaps up at the impact, and then drops back as you wheeze and gasp for air.  But the cunning slut that you are, your free leg jolts up and tags my knee, your soft sole slamming into the kneecap, and my left leg explodes in pain.  I can’t stand, and I know I’m going down.  I can fall forward onto you or to either side.  Trying to inflict the maximum amount of pain, I topple to the right, favoring my injured left knee, and as I drop, I bring your trapped leg with me, planting it, outstretched in the sand, and then allowing my good, uninjured right knee to drill into your exposed inner thigh, pinned to the sand with my hand

Misty: You fall like a proverbial sack of hammers, right onto me.  You, being of course a soul-less vicious cxnt, stretch my toned thigh to the side and drive your knee into it, delivering a veritable 4th of July (huh?!  Topical reference!! huh?!?!) series of explosions deep in my tissues.  The trauma won’t be fully realized for another three days, but suffice it to say, neither of us will be winning any footraces anytime soon.  Screaming, yelping, and cursing you with all the aplomb of a west virginia truck driver (sorry to bring your dad into this) I jerk back on your hair in my left hand, and drive a murderous right forearm shiver toward your jaw, hoping to rattle what little brains I left in that gourd-head of yours last time around.

MishRocks: My kneecap does its job—drilling into the silky flesh of your inner thigh, hammering into that muscle.  Your body jolts at the impact, and I am amazed that at this point, I have not one care of how much or significantly I may be hurting you.  Your screaming and swearing illustrates to the crowd the exact type of bumpkinesque upbringing you’ve had, which makes me smirk.  But true to form, you are down but never out.  You spring up again, grabbing my hair and pulling me to you, and before I can respond, your forearm slams into face, knocking my head backwards, pasting my teeth into my lip.  I know at least one lip is cut as I drop down to my back, releasing your leg and landing on your other one.  Licking the blood dripping from my mouth, I try and loop my arms around your left leg from the back, and press my bare feet into your right leg, right above the knee, one foot pressing into the exact spot where my knee drilled you.  Acting almost like a fulcrum, I press my feet into your right leg pushing it away from your body, and with my back push your left leg in the opposite direction, creating what I hope is the most unique grapevine hold ever concocted.  

Misty: You begin what has to be some type of Saracen torture ritual, brutally attempting to remove my thighs from my pelvic girdle, whilst giving the onlookers a generous view of my plump, velveteen pussy lips pressed tightly against my bikini bottoms.  My head is thrown back as I scream bloody murder, trying in vain to slap your feet away from my right thigh to no avail.  But your arms are draped backward around my left thigh, leaving your face unguarded.  I bring a club-fisted strike down toward your jaw, trying to brute-force remove you from my body.  At this point the crowd is behaving like a Roman bath-house, all crowded around, anxious for raunch and blood.  

MishRocks: As I spread your legs wide, a thousand possible taunts come to mind, but I know none will be appreciated, or even heard, above your screams.  Even the crowd starts to groan as your legs get further apart.  My body is covered in sweat—from the heat and exertion of kicking your ass, but I know I am looking damned good right now—chestnut hair tousled a bit, cheeks flush, muscles flexed, and a bigger, hotter slut being brutalized by me and having a pelvic Open House for the crowd.  Feeling smugly confident, I forget about your core strength—just for the moment—and it costs me.  Summoning whatever muscle fibers you have in your torso, you sit up quickly, legs spread at what I estimate is like 130 degrees, and your fist flies out and down, slamming into my mouth as I lay almost supine on your thigh.  My arms looped in back, I have no defense, and you clock me good, re-opening the split lip and generally sending me into a daze.  I turn my head inward to avoid another punch, and decide to abandon the hold, slipping my arms from your leg, one hand cradling my sore jaw.  Keeping my feet planted in your other thigh, I twist my hips and try to return the favor, but with both hands clasped, I try and double fist you, straight down into your gut before rolling off you altogether.  

Misty: The fleshy splash of your clasped fists smacking into my already blighted core is absolutely sickening; at least to me.  My eyes roll back in my skull and I clutch my tummy with my right hand, rolling to my right and away from you.  Crawling a few paces in a deliberate, painfully slow pace, I finally gasp enough breath to finally groan properly, something the lack of air has kept me from doing up until now.  My lank red mane hangs over my face, and more’s the better, as it keeps people from seeing my face, contorted in agony, nearly blue from lack of air.  “Kill, gonna kill that—mad dog bitch” I manage to mutter as I attempt to secure some distance from the 97th degree murder-bot that seems to be wearing your skin.

MishRocks: As my fists SLAM into your midsection, I can actually feel those tight muscles starting to soften, the very fibers being torn by the actions of my hands.  I bite the inside of my mouth to hide the smile, which only accentuates the pain of my bleeding lip.  Nonetheless, you groan in agony and as I roll off you, you roll away, clutching your stomach, crawling on one hand and two knees away slowly.  My head still reeling from your forearm attack, I’m a little wobbly getting to my feet, but I cannot, under any circumstances, allow you to catch your breath or a break.  On my feet I take a few steps and hurl myself at you, dropping my chest onto your back and trying to wrap my arms around yours in some type of ghetto-style full-nelson.  

Misty: Your minuscule chest plops down against my grainy, sand covered back, knocking me face down into the sand as well.  Oh hate is such a mild term for times like these.  I’m barely able to turn my head enough to breath in with your Tinkerbell ass on top of me.  It’s really enough to make a body want to scream.  Your full nelson is in tight, and I’m left with relatively few options.  I curl my hands into fists, extending my thumbs out to the sides a bit, and drilling them back behind me, to where your ribs are stretched from the withering hold.  It’s a long shot, but it’s about the only one I’ve got for now.

MishRocks: As I land on you and loop my arms around yours, you fall forward, your face digging into the warm sand.  I try and secure the hold, noting that there is not too much resistance from you.  Chants of “Kick her ass, Mishy” are hurled from the fair-weather crowd, and even a lone “Strip the redhead!” from some inebriated frat boy-type.  You start to struggle as I secure my position on you, my nipples so hard now as you squirm under me, my breasts pressed into your back, seeing your biceps flexed but useless to you right now.  At least, I thought they were.  Twisting your wrists, you jab me in the sides with your thumbs, some how finding the tender spot between my ribs.  “Fuck!”  I squirm on top of you, trying to dislodge your fingers, my tight little ass moving side to side, rubbing my crotch against your ass as I try and avoid your fingers.  Unable to do so, I try and bring my knees and feet forward, so that instead of laying on you I am sitting on you, my ass now on your lower back, arms still trapped, and I rear my torso up quickly, watching your hands drop as your back bends unnaturally backwards.

Misty: There’s a definite moment when it finally catches up to me that today?  It’s not my day.  I think it’s when you start turning my CNS into a question mark, my arms limp in your hold as you crank my upper back well past the manufacturer’s recommended torsion point.  The real treat is for the people standing directly in front of me, because my breasts are smushed together (sand caked as they may be), hanging down just perfectly, and my face is twisted in (what some sick, demented soul might describe as) a gloriously hopeless mask of horror and pain. My eyes are surveying the backs of my sockets, my mouth is wide open in a scream that just won’t come- -my body isn’t mine anymore.  And now, I begin grudgingly, but insistently waving my hands, trying for a tapping motion, shaking my head no; unconditional surrender.

MishRocks: With a primal grunt, I lurch my torso up, dragging yours with me, until I am almost sitting up straight on your lower back, your own spine curved in a way God never intended.  Lowering my head, my cheeks brushes yours, my lips caress your earlobe, and I whisper—my hot breath teasing you, “What happened to that tough girl, huh?”  I pull back a little more, the crowd groaning.  “Not so strong now, huh slut?”  My tongue darts out of my chapped and split lips and teases your lobe just for a second, until Marissa warns me, “she’s tapping Mish, let her go!”  

Misty: My body is empty, unable to put up even a show of resistance.  I’m barely able to pass a raspy, dry groan as you lick my earlobe, teasing me.  It’s not even for me, that’s the worst part; its for the crowd.  You’re letting them see that you can do whatever the hell you want to in this moment.  And that I can’t stop you.  “Mish, seriously, you made your point, let her go” Marissa pleads again.  My face is taking on a green pallor, and a cold sweat breaks out over my body as I’m nearing unconsciousness.

MishRocks: I release your arms and watch you drop to the sand, face-first.  Sliding upon your sweaty back, I position my tight ass on your spine, noting how nice the ridges of your vertebrae feel as I rub up and down a bit.  Working quickly, I remove your bikini top, and without care, toss it to the crowd—some boy will certainly make it very sticky later this evening.  Spinning on your back, feeling your body writhe a bit and a low moan escape your lips, I sit facing your feet, and curl my fingers under your bottoms.  Slowly lowering myself on your body, I slide them down, over your hips, my chest now pressing into your ass—my hard nipples poking through my top into your cheeks, and I extend myself fully, laying prone on top of your beaten body, sliding your bottoms down to your ankles.  Wishing I were a few inches taller, I laugh, and then sit up quickly, leaving them looped around your ankles—your perfect white ass in full view of the crowd.  Remaining seated on your lower back, I bring my right hand to my face, and slowly lick my palm.  Then, without warning, I crack my wet hand onto your ass cheek, watching it jiggle and then redden with my palm print.

Misty: Irene Adler said it best; “Know when you’re beat” Well, Irene never said anything about it being easy to take, and boy howdy, it’s not.  My head turns to the side, gasping my first breath of uninterrupted oxygen.  My top is removed unceremoniously, as you grind your ripe lush mound against my back bone.  I can’t allow myself the privilege of enjoying this, because, let’s be honest, this is your show at this point.  And i’ll be damned if you’re not putting on a fucking fine one at that.  I draw my hands in, and burying my face in them; I don’t want anyone seeing me.  I want to shut this all ouuuuwwwwwwwwww, oooohhhhh what are you DOING?!  I feel you lay flat on my body, and I have to stifle a groan as your nipples press into my ass, which you seductively denude.  The inner struggle in me tries to decide if I hate this or not.  Then you sit up, and, predictably, smack my white, creamy ass, the round cheeks dancing and bouncing admirably, leaving an angry red hand print in the skin.

MishRocks: Slowly licking my left palm, I do the same to your other cheek, the CRACK of my moist hand against your creamy flesh making some of the onlookers cringe.  Stretching my smaller body out atop yours, My fingertips alight on the backs of your ankles.  I place my nails tenderly on your flesh, right above the balls of your feet, and then slowly drag my hands up your legs, slowly and gently the nails rake up the backs of your calves, your thighs, tiny red trails left in their wake.  As my hands approach your magnificent but now reddened ass, I pause, watching the gooseflesh rise along your legs.  My hands stop, cupping your ass cheeks for a moment—the crowd hushed.  

MishRocks: I look up at the assembled, the faces of my friends, those of yours, and I press my hands into those perfect cheeks and push myself up to my feet.  Placing one foot on your lower back, I do a little flex, allowing those with iPhones to memorialize the occasion with the brunette hotty astride the defeated nude redhead.  Satisfied that the press has fulfilled its role, I step off you and and swoop down, picking off your bottoms, and casually toss them into the bonfire as I walk away.

~The End~

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[Natalia War Kitten]

Such an amazing fight and such pair of gorgeous fighters... I'm so jealous.

[BaneThePunisher]

And the follow up is the equal to the original.

I'm looking forward to a part 3.

[TaekwonGirl]

Cool! I got a cameo!

btw I always spell your pet name "Mishie".