My attempted uppercut is forestalled by a slashing whomping from your left tit, driving my own left breast down, and my moaning goes high pitched. I get hit from the left, then the right, as you stare in my face, and breath your success at me. I try to avert my look, but I have to brace for your tit whipping onslaught.
I can feel my proud breasts sagging and flopping, and the sounds of your blows are more and more sodden. I yelp and writhe, trying to swing back as I slowly inch away. I look down, then at you, then down again, as if this is some painful other worldly event. No, no no, this can’t be, my mind flashes that I am losing, and whatever I do seems more feeble.
I won’t admit that you have beaten me, I hear you gasping, you have to run out of steam if I endure just a little more. My shoulders crouch together and I slouch, reducing the amount of flesh open to your swings, and I am relieved to feel your red breasts hitting the sides of my upper arms before swatting into the ends of my boobs. Yes, let her hit my arms, that must have felt good, as I hear a much harder slap when your boob hits that resistance.
After a couple of blows hitting my arms, you stop waltzing me back with your swinging globes and swish your much higher titties in front of me, taunting and challenging and offering ‘a final chance to give up’. “What the fuck does that mean, slut?” as I stick my tits out as best I can in defiance.
