“Breast is Best”
By: Rival's Rapture

It had felt like years or a lifetime since she had last left her house, Neha using both descriptors interchangeably in her online journal.

A journal in which she told the tale of a once-fit and gym-devoted woman who met the man of her dreams, fell in love, found herself pregnant, and then … abandoned. Left with a yet-to-be-born baby, but otherwise alone by Mr. Perfect. Her body quickly widening, as a hunger for pickles and ice cream began to ravage her soul, unfulfilled. Well, unfulfilled only until she began to have her groceries delivered by the newly built Whole Foods in her dense Miami neighborhood.

Yes, normally, the US-born Indian woman could have gone out herself and filled her cart and card with whatever it was she wanted. Her job as a popular stay-at-home blogger keeping her well-paid, if not well-sexed. Her fans, numerous as they were, caring more about her words than her looks.

But whenever Neha tried to dress herself or apply her makeup, she found her mascara running, her mirror abandoned, and the keys on her keyboard wet with tears as she wrote of her struggle.

For though the soon to be mother had a way with words, she too had always prided herself on having a pretty face, a stellar body, and particularly delectable breasts.

A profile she saw as having wilted, a body she saw as having ballooned, and a bosom which at least in her eyes, seemed to have gotten saggy and fat -- tricks of the mind, but still, they wounded.

That conflict, one of self-image vs. reality -- of before vs. after, is one all women face when they are with child. But no two cases have ever been as acutely similar as the tales of Neha and her gym rival, Holly.

A rivalry more in perception than action -- shared hatred more than force. One that began years ago, when one day, their eyes just so happened to land on each other. Each of them sweaty and pressing into their weight machine as hard as they could, for as long as they could stand.

And though they had each beforehand been failing and ready to give in, they held. Finding something in just the sight of the other that pushed them to resist their weakness, and fight their desire to be less than they desired.

Such inspiration, if jealousy could be called such a thing, led them to search for one another whenever they went back to their place of body-toning and figure-building. Knowing that by seeing the other, they could work out harder, longer, and build themselves until they had surpassed she who held their gaze.

At first, it was only proximity they required, but before long, they grew to share the same routines, the same machines, and even workout clothes, so that their every curve could be more easily graded and compared.

That’s when it began. The two women’s mutual addiction to letting their idle eyes look to each other as they exercised. The pair studying, grading, and contrasting their bodies against one another. Every inch of exposed skin examined, and every curve measured and analyzed with the most judgmental of intentions. Deft though each became at such tests and reviews, eventually their little game became known.

Known and then resented. Understood and then responded to. Each flaunting their bodies for the other. Teasing and tormenting. Challenging and daring without words, until even those became necessary. A mutual compulsion which pulled each to mutter at their every passing and hiss at their every encounter.

Encounters which began as accidental, but soon became anything but. Each of the two using whatever excuse they could to meet between sets. Not to chit-chat or commiserate, but to insult and accost. Those hidden meetings quickly becoming the spark they each required to get through not just their workouts, but their days. A spark they began to covet. Meetings they began to need.

Despite that shared and desperate hunger to clash where others could not see or hear, neither Holly nor Neha ever dared touch.

Instead they only threatened to, coming so very close in their standoffs that they could feel the other’s hot, moist breath and hear the pounding of the other’s heart. The hair on their arms tingling as they glared and cursed, though their flesh always remained apart.

As if each was terrified of the consequences of such contact, or perhaps that once it was made, they could not live without it. Without the pain that would have come next. Without the sound of the other whimpering and crying for their mercy.

Despite the importance of those moments to both Neha and Holly, one day, each vanished. The former for reasons you know, and the latter, for reasons much the same. A man she loved, a test with two lines, then a baby girl. Her man, despite the love, leaving too. He not willing to be a father, nor suffer the indignity of his girl getting fat for the same cause.

So similar were their tales, in fact, that neither spent a day at the gym without the other. Each finding their sudden need to retreat seizing them on the same day. Each retracting into their own homes-- their own lives.

A luxury available to each by virtue of their jobs. Holly being a “social media coordinator”, a job which gave her the same ability to work from home as Neha with her blogging.

Grand though working from the comfort of their own residences may seem, each found their humiliating abandonment and complete isolation depressing in the most crippling of ways. The pair finding their lives, at that moment, to be bereft of all joy and happiness, save for one shining ray of light: the other’s suffering.

Each hearing the other’s woe not through friends or family, but through their public Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter accounts. Each stalking, as it is called, the other’s life as it fell apart. Each celebrating the other’s every passive aggressive post about being dumped, complaints of poorly-fitting dresses, and their denial-rich justifications for staying home.

Neither caring or even realizing how much the other’s pain mirrored their own. Yes, their own man had left, but surely the other deserved it.

True, their own body had grown and bloated, but the other must truly have looked like a troll.

Why else would she have restrained from posting pictures for nearly a year? No doubt for reasons that differed from their own.

It was those assessments and unspoken aspersions that helped them through those dark times. Their disdain and disregard for each other’s pain that carried them through the worst time in their own, previously wonderful lives.

A time, like all others, which eventually ended. Each working out day and night in their own personal exercise rooms -- a dart-held picture of the other on their wall being their motivation to reclaim the body that had once been their’s.

As those bodies returned to their former glory, so too did their confidence. And with that confidence, came a stilling of hands and staying of mascara that allowed each to finally, leave their homes and return to the world.

And though “the world” sounds grand, like they had each left their respective houses and marched to Washington, or boarded a plane to see the pyramids, they instead just went to Whole Foods themselves.

Not together, hand-in-hand, but separately. Each leaving their house, babygirl-in-tow, with no idea that the other was making the same trip, at the same time. The two emotionally-defensive women oblivious to the threat they faced -- the threat of once again seeing their rival. At a moment when they could not be less prepared to resist the pull such meetings had on them.

Looming though that threat was, most of their venture to the store went without incident. The adverse pair choosing for themselves whatever meals would convey the maximum amount of nutrients to themselves, and then via breast milk to their child -- while still allowing them to maintain their newly re-earned figure.

Neha, having finished her search for such food, made her way over to the small, but still-present baby aisle of the Whole Foods store. It was during that traversal that she caught it, out of the corner of her eye.

Two men.

Young men.

Attractive men with beards that made her shiver with the long-forgotten thrill of the hunt. But it was not how they looked, but that they looked which made Neha smile.

Each watching her -- ogling her like the same would watch a red-hot, juicy steak. And though some women might have rolled their eyes, or protest such uninvited sexualization, Neha reveled in it. Slowing her walk, and exaggerating the swivel of her hips as she pushed her cart to drive them wild.

It was true that she had her baby with her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun. She was still a woman and being alone for the last year, she was feeling not just restless, but plagued by a thirst she could not quench on her own.

Unbeknownst to her, however, those same eyes that studied her, she had stolen from someone else. Someone who stood seething, as those eyes left her body and moved to Neha’s. A someone who was not new to fighting for attention with Neha. For that someone was Holly -- a woman who wasted not a second before marching after her passing rival. The onyx-haired mother giving a hard shove to the handle of her cart, all as her baby cood happily beneath her swinging breasts and scowling face.

With Holly in chase, but without knowledge of the same, Neha stopped in the empty baby aisle, and began her search. She needed not diapers or wipes, but instead a cream, something for her nipples which at times ached, after a full day of feedings. Find it though she did, as she reached for and took it, a voice called out from behind her. One that sounded as if it came from a snake and not a human -- it being more a gravely hiss than words.

“Why am I not surprised you’d feed your baby formula? I guess with breasts like yours, you’d have no other choice.” The words seemed almost comically cruel, and yet they were no different than the words Holly and Neha had spoken to each other before. Neither holding back.

Not once.

Not ever.

Their every conversation acidic. Their every contact cutting.

Standard though the tone was for they two, still, the insult made Neha close her eyes and sigh, before responding to her rival as she turned. “I would never…. Though I’m sure you’d feed that trash to your wretched spawnling....” The Indian mother paused as a smirk formed on her face. “But, I’m glad you finally decided to crawl out of your hole, Holly. How brave of you with all that baby weight still hanging…. You’re an inspiration to fat women everywhere.” As if the words weren’t harsh enough, Neha made them even worse by reaching out and pinching -- yes, PINCHING a small lip of skin that still protruded past Holly’s skin-tight leggings.

“Ooooohhhh….”Holly exclaimed in a long, drawn-out exhale, one she released as she pushed her cart forward, leaving it parallel with her rival’s. “Fat, huh? I guess that’s how you justify my breasts being so much bigger than yours now.” The white woman began as she leaned in close and said in a hush. “In fact, if yours weren’t filled with 2% milk, I bet you they’d only be half as big as mine.”

As Holly leaned in, Neha’s heart raced. As the lips of her rival parted, and a tiny gust of anger-warmed air was pushed out, a shiver went up the Indian mother’s spine. She hearing every word of insult spoken, with her eyes closed and body shaking with both excitement and rage. But even as those emotions swirled within her, Neha still grabbed for her rival, and with a soft tug of shirt, kept her from pulling away. A grab Holly matched, as she took the same, light, finger-grip of Neha’s top.

It was then, that with the pair’s bodies gently pressing together for the first time, that the Hindu blogger whispered back, her cheek coming to press against her rival’s as she did so. “You don’t want to compare breasts … or milk with me, cuntttt.” Neha let the last word -- the C-word drift, as she and her rival clung not only to each other but the moment. The first moment in so long that made them feel anything other than disgusted and depressed.

Each of them could feel it. The absolute electricity that at that moment existed between them. A spark and a flame they had always had.

And though other women might flee from such a sensation of contrary wills and requited rivalry, Holly and Neha, more than they could have known in their long absence from one another, missed it. So much, in fact, that the first thing presented as a challenge, they accepted. They internalized to their very core. Their respective motherhood. Their ability to feed their baby. Their breasts, and the milk contained within them.

To anyone other than they two, it would be madness. But as they whispered their venom back and forth, it became the only true logic left in their ravaged lives. The only truths they cared to know: which of them was the better mother, and whose breasts were better able to feed their own newborn girl.

A desire to know -- to prove that coursed through their bodies like a toxin they could not resist. The two newly made mothers pausing and lingering in that semi-embrace, almost shivering, as they pinched softly at the long sleeved shirt of the other. Neither moving or pulling away, until finally, when their pressed cheeks felt so hot they might scald, Holly pulled back. The eyes of the pair quickly fusing into a white-hot glare, one they kept to, even as Neha’s challenge of comparing their respective prowess as mothers, remained unanswered.

A challenge that represented not just that question, but every other they had ever asked of each other.

Who was better?

Stronger?

Sexier?

More fit?

Each boiled down to its essence, leaving only the question of their worth as mothers. Why? Because it was the question asked when they were weakest. The query posed when neither had the strength to resist the urges the other brought about in them.

And so despite all of their reasons not to agree to such a contest and even the senselessness of the question.

Regardless of the fact that they were mothers responsible for a life other than their own -- one who should be above the petty jealousies of the flesh. Still Holly responded.

“Bitch….” The black-haired mother growled, as she reached for what she had felt brushing against her arm, as they lingered together. She grabbing the item from Neha’s hand, even as the same struggled to keep it, though too slow.

“You’re going to challenge my breasts and nipples with yours, and you’re using this shit...?” As the white mother spoke, her eyes narrowed, as her victorious hand lifted the item in front of Neha’s face.

At the lifting, shame took Neha, who grabbed for the item. Wanting it back desperately. Not because there were not more to be taken off the shelf and purchased, but because she wanted to rip it away from Holly. To take it from her by force. To fight her for it, right there in the middle of the store -- in the midst of that lonely aisle.

For her own part, Holly was more than willing to fight. To resist Neha’s attempt and finally -- FINALLY engage her rival in something other than words. Her sexy, post-baby body shaking with excitement at the very thought of feeling the touch of Neha’s body against her own once again.

Ready and willing though each of the two women were for their struggle over nipple cream to go further, suddenly they both froze. Their attention seized by the cries of their two babies, who had quietly mumbled and babbled in parallel, cart-mounted removable car seats. The sound stealing the two women’s attention from one another, back to their sweet, beautiful newborn girls. A reassigned focus they only broke, when Holly said over her shoulder. “I’m dropping her off in 30 minutes, why don’t we….”

Before the white mother had even finished speaking, Neha replied -- the address of her enemy being one she knew well from Facebook pictures shared and IG comments made. “I’ll be at your door, bitch. Open it….” As short and snide as the words were, the Indian mother didn’t even shift her gaze from her gorgeous baby girl to her hateful rival.

“You’ll regret ever leaving your house, you Hindu-bitch.” Holly responded in a hushed voice meant only for Neha, before starting off down the aisle. And though she had chided her rival for using it, the leaving mother still tossed the nipple cream into her cart -- knowing that on most nights, she too needed its soothing relief.

The next hour seemed to pass so slowly in some ways, and yet so quickly in others. For as each dropped their babies off at the house of a loved one for pre-planned visits, they thought about it.

The contact they had felt, ever so briefly. Their surprise meeting and the excitement they felt during every second of it. And then, the explosion that was to come when finally they were alone together.

Since their men had left them, they had not had another, nor even the chance at finding one. The two women working out of their homes, focusing only on themselves, their bodies, and their babies.

But finally, after a chance meeting in an aisle of their favorite store, each felt free. Not because they succeeded in leaving their house, but instead because, for the first time in so long, they wanted something -- each other.

Yes, they hated one another with a passion.

Yes, when they were together their only drive was to belittle and wound the other.

But the confrontation each had just left, was the most exciting moment either had experienced other than childbirth in so very, very long. A fact that made them replay it again and again in their minds.

Every word.

Every breath.

Every lean and every touch.

All of it they wanted again, and as quick as they could have it.

But what did it even mean? Comparing breasts and milk? Is that even what Holly had invited Neha to do when she arrived? Neither knew. Neither cared what the intention was, or the plan. They just wanted more. More of … whatever that moment had been. More of of making their long-burning conflict real -- regardless of form and formality.

But that dichotomy of expectation and desire, did little to stop each from preparing for each other.

The confusing way that each felt compelled to torment the other, not stopping them from slipping into form-fitting bodycon dresses; Neha’s green and Holly’s red.

Their willingness to risk whatever consequences laid ahead of them, not halting their reapplication of makeup, each hoping to outdo the other with their choice shades and lines of contour.

The strange way their hate and excitement mixed together and intoxicated, failing to hinder Neha as she entered her vehicle and drove.

Nor finally, did the dampness of her Cosabella panties, keep Holly from pacing in the entryway of her townhome. The onyx-haired mother waiting for Neha’s arrival like a child for Christmas morning.

A yearning she suffered from, until finally, the knock came at her door. When it did, when that coveted sound echoed through her wood-rich lower floor, Holly moved. And though slow she had planned on taking it. Cool and uninterested though she had intended on acting. Within what seemed like only a second or two, her will had broken -- her own excitement leading her to yank the door open.

The Caucasian mother, in her weakness and need for confrontation, thereafter reaching through the doorway and grabbing Neha by her shoulders. A grasp Holly then used to pull and then push her expected guest into the wall between coats on her rack. The door shutting under its own weight, as the flurry of movement gave way to the stillness of Neha’s sudden placement.

One might assume that Neha would be intimidated or shocked by such a quick and emphatic pull and pressing, but instead, she just sneered as Holly’s hands retracted.

Each of the two rivals, one in red and one in green, lingering only centimeters apart, their eyes fused in a glare. Their cards played. Their need clear. There being not a reason in the world to hide their hateful urges any longer.

“You’re leaking….” Neha commented cruelly through gritted teeth, as she shifted her eyes down in a guiding glance downward. She pointing out that Holly’s nipples had already begun to drip milk, in the excitement of the moment.

For a moment, brief though it was, Holly felt shame. Feeling as if her leakage was some sign of difference between the two, but then she saw it, even as her rival’s eyes moved. She was not the only one leaking. The same telltale spots being visible on her enemy’s dress-covered breasts.

“You are too….” Holly, responded, as she turned away from Neha. Not waiting, but instead moving with speed to to the nearby staircase. She having already taken the first two steps, before turning back to her still stationary guest.

“Are you c….” Holly began, confidently, but before she had even finished asking, Neha responded.

“I’m coming, bitch.” With no more words spoken, the Indian mother followed as her white rival leading her past an all-pink nursery room, and deeper into her home. A trip which came to conclusion when hallway ended and master bedroom began. One decorated with art by the same artist that adorned Neha’s walls, though pieces in a different hue and design. Decorations that surrounded a large bed with a wood and wicker bed frame. The comforter atop it black, and double-filled for comfort.

The room was immaculate, and large enough to house whatever it was the two planned on doing to each other. The carpet of the stairs and hall having given way to ruddy-brown-wood flooring.

A surface on which the walking pair’s matching black heels announced their advance in loud, echoing clicks. Sounds which made them both feel powerful, sexy, and ready to engage in a war like only women can have.

At least until, after an intentionally delayed and dramatic pause, Holly turned back to face her rival from the furthest corner of her room. But as she spun, the black-haired beauty found Neha’s bodycon not only removed but thrown.

Not to the floor or the bed, but into Holly’s face. A sudden stripping and tossing that angered she who received it, so much that in a rage she barked. “BITCH!”

“Shut up, and take yours off,” Neha demanded, as she stood glaring in her black panties and bra. The overly excited mother not having even a moment’s patience with Holly’s little show as dominant hostess.

A hostess that wanted to reply, to seize back the control she felt had been taken from her, but instead, she reached down, grabbed the bottom of her dress, and pulled up. The white panties and bra wearing social-media manager peeling it from her body before tossing it at Neha.

Heated and quick as all of the last few moments had been, suddenly, with dresses removed, the two rivals paused. Each studying the other’s new body. Comparing, if only in theory, what they saw of the other. And though their eyes did scan hips and thighs -- asses and figure, it was the other’s breasts they began to focus on.

The pairs of each having swelled since their last day at the gym together. An increase in size and potency that threatened their once deadlocked contest of bodies. A menace that pushed each of the two to on instinct alone, lift the straps of their bra and squeeze their breasts together with angled elbows. Each wanting to make their own set look bigger. Fuller. And filled to the point of bursting with milk for their own infant daughter.

And though they flaunted their own bosom, within only a few moments, they found themselves consumed with jealousy. With anger. With a nearly irresistible desire to wound the breasts of their rival.

Each, after kicking off their heels, stepping closer to one another as they began to circle. Their hate-filled eyes not locked together in some fused glare, but on each other’s breasts and body. Neither speaking. Neither communicating with the other, until finally, Holly broke.

“Show them to me….” The onyx said, her voice quivering with a desire that she could not control.

For her own part, Neha wanted to both refuse and comply, at the same time. Her own thoughts and intentions seeming to blur and blend as her pulse raced and heart pounded. Then, to her mind, came all the words she wanted to say.

The insults.

The wounding jabs about everything and everything her rival held dear. But before she could utter even a single such comment, she found herself already reaching. Already unclasping. Already baring her tits for Holly.

Holly who had to close eyes, after only a glimpse, to stop her own heart from exploding. Not because she was intimidated, but because she could not breathe. She wanted to hurt them. To gouge them. To claw at them. But instead, at least at that moment, she had to wait. Wait and remove her own black bra, letting it softly drop to the floor between their now near-naked bodies.

How weak her white enemy was, for having to close her eyes. How easy a prey she would be, if she could not even look, Neha thought to herself. Until that same need gripped her. Until, she too had to let lower her lids, just to survive and endure a moment unlike any she had ever experienced before.

“Panties….” Neha finally spoke as her eyes again opened, her voice no more firm than Holly’s -- it taking everything in her not to lunge.

The word, trembling though it was when delivered, hit Holly like a blow from a sledgehammer. More delay? More to remove? Why!? She thought in a despair she shared not. Pained though it did, both she and her rival, together they reached down and began to remove their final pieces of clothing for each other.

At the very moment, their panties dropped to ankle, one would assume, after all that waiting and wanting, they would have attacked. Lept for each other. Claws first. Hatefully spewing their words of derision like venom.

But instead, they found themselves frozen. Afraid of beginning. Of unleashing all that they felt for the other. And so they searched. For something to comment on. For anything to delay the need for their feud to finally become real.

And yet, even there -- even when all of their clothing had been removed, they again found only similarity. Their bushes, the guardians of their womanhoods, being of the same hue and the same length. Obvious though that was, neither let it stay their tongues.

“Even your bush looks weak.” The comment was childish. Cruel. And ridiculous on its face, and yet still, Holly made it. And with it spoken, they each found it. The fire that had always driven them. Their moment of timidity fading, as they once again began to speak.

“Yours looks weak, bitch!” Suddenly, as Neha responded, the two rivals once again neared. Each reaching out to each other. Not to push or slap, but to inflict small pinches, aimed for the other’s pubic hair.

In what looked like a dance, the pair pulled back from each other’s reach again and again, until finally, their fingers caught. Not on air or skin, but fine, black hairs. Hairs each pulled on, causing their rival not to pull away, but to step forward. Their nude bodies finally came together in a clap.

A meeting of flesh made not in part, but fully, a contact that stole their breath and left them holding. Not only each other but the small tufts of pubic hair each had claimed on the other’s mound.

“Weak…. Fucking…. Bush….” Holly began before she felt it. The dripping. Not from her rival’s breasts, or her own, but from them both. Each pair beginning to leak as they pressed together. The pressure and excitement of the moment loosing their flows for each other.

Something about that feeling. That moment. Of their perfectly aligned, and rock-hard nipples dripping together softened them. Each letting out the smallest little whimpers at the sensation of it.

And though for a moment, that softness threatened to take them, to quell their war and make it something else, Neha suddenly rebelled. Doing so by yanking at the tuft of pubic hair she held hard, so hard that it pulled from Holly’s mound. A sudden retraction and reduction in bush that caused the white mother to scream out in a flash of pain.

“OwwWWwWeeeee, biIiIiIititttccchhh!!!” It was then that it all began, as Holly retaliated, by tugging her own little finger-held clump of hair. An action that caused Neha to let go of her own, painful howl.

“FuuUuuUccckk, CUUUUUNT!!” Words the blogger uttered, as each of the two rivals retracted their hands, and then buried them in the hair atop the other’s head. Then, as their fingers laced, and then tightened, they each began to yank the other, and as a consequence, themselves, back and forth. Violently. Painfully. From side to side, as each sought to punish the other, for everything she was -- everything she had ever done or said.

Attempts at punishment which came along with a steady drip of breastmilk from their stabbing nipples, and compressed breasts. Drips which coalesced and then traveled down their writhing bodies, and down their flexing thighs or into their quickly tangling pubic hair.

“White slut!” Neha yelled, driven mad by the conflict.

“Indian whore!” Holly retorted, she willing to say anything at that moment to hurt her rival.

As the two women tugged on each other’s hair, their nude bodies struggling for control, they stumbled together. Their foreheads flattened and pushing for control. Their aching breasts smashed and slamming forward whenever either of the two planted their feet. A collision mirrored by their lips which brushed together with every insult and caught and then peeled from each other with challenge.

And though the moment, in many ways, was everything they had ever wanted, it suddenly came to an end. As the back of Neha’s calves ran into a small, backless seat in front of Holly’s makeup table. A collision which sent Neha into a fall onto, and then back over the wicker seating. She, with her grips on hair, pulling Holly not just with her, but on top of her. The white mother landing in a perfect straddle of Neha’s midsection. One she was able to deftly twist into a tight, borrowing leg scissor before they together landed on the hard wood floor with a slam. Holly shifting to the side of her rival as she straightened her legs, looking to apply as much pressure as she could.

A leg scissor which immediately drew a cry of pain from Neha’s lips. A cry that brought a wicked smile to Holly’s face. “Yes! SUFFER, cunt….” Words of utter jubilation that came from those same smiling lips, just as their owner began to pour her every ounce of muscle and effort into that scissor.

“OOOOOuuuugggHGHGHGGGGH!!! FUUUuuUUUUUUuUCUcCcCCCCKKK!” The Indian mother moaned as she pressed her palms to Holly’s thick, flexing thighs. The two women looking like a T, as they laid at intersection -- Neha’s legs still propped up on the wicker stool she had fallen over.

“Bitch! BITCH!” The Indian mother muttered and then shouted, she being absolutely enraged that it was she who had found herself caught deep between her rival’s thighs.

“Mmmmmnnnm, SCREAM FOR M-oowwwweeee!” As Holly spoke, she once again flexed her legs with all her might. The tan-skinned brunette wanting to hear her longtime enemy’s voice pitch up and let loose in anguish. But just as her taunting demand neared its conclusion, she felt it. Neha’s hands, at the end of a long, desperate reach, latching on and squeezing breasts.

Such an attack would have hurt regardless, but with the sensitivity of her baby-chaffed nipples and the pressure of each of her breasts being filled to the point of bursting with milk, it was agony. An agony that led Holly to, on instinct alone, abandon her body scissor, and as she rolled to her back, reach for Neha’s wrists.

“Fuck… No…. GOD!” The brunette exclaimed as she squirmed in pain, her legs kicking, even as her rival rolled out from between them. A taken freedom that the black-haired mother used to crawl atop her enemy in a straddle. The Indian woman’s hands never releasing the swollen tits of she that laid beneath.

“Huh!? You like that, BITCH?!” In a sudden celebration of rebounding momentum, Neha asked, her face still contorted with hatred.

“AAaaAAAAaHhHHhhhhh!” But to the question came no answer other than a scream, one Holly freed as she laid beneath her rival with eyes tightly closed.

“LOOK WHO'S SCREAMING NOW, HOLLY!!!!!” A call back. A curse, in the form of a suggestion. And it would have wounded, had the grounded coordinator been able to think about anything other than the pain she felt.

A pain that she could not end by pulling or prying. And so, with no other options at her disposal or in her mind, Holly reached up and grabbed Neha’s own, hanging, milk-stiffened tits.

A counter, desperate and late though it was, that made she who suffered it skip from one cry to another in rapid, broken succession. “AAaaahhhhh, nooo-shiii-aaahhh!!!”

A lamentation that Neha offered as she, at the pain and without plan, collapsed. Falling from her straddle of Holly, off and to the side of her.

Fall though she did, neither woman released their squeezing grasps on each other’s breasts. Each clinging to the grip as they laid there, side-by-side, on Holly’s master bedroom floor.

“Let. Go. Of. Me!!” Holly demanded through gritted teeth.

“YOU let go!” Neha responded with no more composure, and in every bit as much pain.

Suffer though they did, neither relented.

Neither let go.

Each of the two maternity-obsessed women digging their claws in, as deep as they would go. Not to scratch or gouge, but to squeeze and compress.

A mutual tactic of destruction that brought to each a sudden sensation. Warmth and wetness in the palms of their hands.

A coming that was slow at first. A mere drip, followed by a few more. But with every passing second and every hateful squeeze, the flow of milk each extracted from the other continued and grew.

A substance of sustinance that they stole from one another, along with moans of pain and groans of despair.

“Stop!” Neha demanded.

“Fuck you! You stop!” Holly cried.

And though each asked and argued for their mutual suffering to end, neither listened or obeyed. Each committing more and more to their battle of breasts and milking.

So much so that as they tortured, they gripped tighter and tighter, their legs extending, intertwining, and then hooking at the back of their knees.

With such anchors, the two warring women pulled themselves closer. Nearer, though only with their bottom-halves.

Bottom-halves which in a mutual and sudden need to intertwine themselves further pulled, bringing both Neha and Holly the rest of the way. Their bushy mounds meeting once again in a muted collision of tight tangles and sweat-moistened hair.

“Bitch….” Holly muttered in a gasp.

“Fuck….” Neha replied with no more air.

Short though their reactions were to the quick and intimate impact of their fur-covered mounds, far more was communicated. For with those few syllables came an abrupt pause.

Not from their legs, which continued to coil and clutch. Nor their hips, which began in opposing and off-kilter rhythms to forcefully and maliciously drag. No, instead it was their hands and fingers which ebbed their assault.

Not in whole or in half, but instead in a reduction from violent squeezes to a slow, steady milking. One which saw their fingers move from the base off the other’s breasts, to their tip, only to move back up to make the same journey again. And then again. All as a puddle of warm milk began to form below them. A puddle over which each glared at each other.

“I’m going to take every last drop of your milk before we’re through here, cunt.” Once more Holly’s tone turned into a confident hiss.

“You’re the one who’s gonna be drained, bitch.” Like her favorite hoodie and a pair of thick wool socks, Neha too sank into the voice she reserved just for Holly.

Venomous and spiteful -- endlessly self-assured and vehemently hateful.

“You won’t have the guts to leave your house for another year, after I break you.” Holly almost whispered. As though they laid there together, pulling closer and closer in a puddle of their own mixing milks, they still spoke. Still challenged. Still promised each other the fate that awaited them.

“I’d say the same, bu-but you’re gonna be heading back to the store to buy milk for your little spawnling. I’m not leeee-aaaving you with a single drop.” Focused though Neha was, she could still feel it. The dragging. The grinding. Of matching black pubic hair meeting, catching, tugging, and then pulling loose as the pair of rivals continued to drive their mounds together and then apart.

“Don’t talk abooouuttt my daaaaauuuuggghhhtteer.” Holly demanded, as her rage at the comment trying to surface in a welling sea of sweat and desire.

“Dooooonnn’ttt….” Neha went to reply -- to fire back, but as she did, a sudden wave of pleasure and pain washed through she and her rival. Each pulling a tangled clump of each other’s pubic hair free and loose, as they together surged, pressing their foreheads together, their eyes closed and mouths opened in a mutual gasp.

A gasp they lingered on, as again and again they brought their quickly wetting pubic mounds together.

Neither repentant or ashamed of what they were feeling or what they were doing.

Neither willing or even wanting to resist the urges and desires that had gripped them both for so long.

Their feud. Their obsession with each other. Their need to compete and compare with their bodies and lives exciting them, despite its darkness. And in that truth, as their sweat-matted pubic hairs caught, trussed, and then in silent snaps pulled free, they writhed together.

Undulating, with wrapped lower-halves. Their once asymmetrical thrusting coming to a synch, as a lust-driven, deprivation-intensified state of madness overwhelmed them.

They were rivals. They were enemies. They were women locked in a loathing they coveted, and yet still … at that moment … all they could think about was the next thrust. The next hip-centered joust.

A state that worsened as their eyes opened and their returning glares locked. Each cursing breathlessly at the other in pleasure-brought stutters.

“Stuuu-upid, whiiiite sluuut.” Neha hissed as her fingers slipped from Holly’s breasts, and after a lifting of arms, laced into the hair of the same.

“Faaa-at, Indiannnnn coooow.” Holly muttered hatefully with lips only centimeters away from Neha’s.

“NOoOOOo wonder your maAaAan left yOoOOoouuUUU. You don’t knooOoOowww hOw to fuUuUuck….” Cruel though it reads, Neha’s words came out almost in a coo. Her firing hips picking up speed with every word spoken.

“LoOoOOk whooOOooOoo’s taaaa-AAaAaalking, sluUuUut.” Holly gave it back. Said it back. Returning the verbal volley, though she too failed feigning the requisite tone. The brunette being no less lost in her quickly escalating fuck-fight with her chief rival.

And with every word they spoke and comment they shared in loathsome whispers, they leaned closer. Their eyelashes brushing, and intermixing, as their lips began to brush once more. Barely. Softly.

A nearness that called to them. Begged them. Kiss her. Please!!! But with every ounce of composure and will they had left they resisted. They fought. Not each other, but to keep their longing lips and craving tongues from engaging.

Even as each could feel a tsunami of pleasure building within them.
A storm that grew with every spent second and offered thrust. A tempest that sent shivers through their bodies and sparks up their spine, until the very moment it exploded in a wild, vicious orgasm that consumed each of the two rivals like a fire.

One lit at exactly the same moment. One that made them stiffen and quake, as their lips met. Not in a kiss, but as their mouths opened. Each letting loose broken breaths, skipping whimpers, and agonizingly soulful moans. Not into the room, but into each other’s mouths as they squirmed together in a white puddle of their own making. Their bodies speckled and streaked with expelled milk and dripped sweat.

Minutes passed in untold number, and in them neither woman moved or even spoke. The pair of warring mothers just remaining, with hands buried deep in each other’s hair as they peeled forehead from forehead and lip away from lip.

Their legs still intertwined, and bushes still hopelessly tangled.

Their hips still slowly driving forward and in -- forward and in. Matted and milk-splattered pubic hair padding every interval, as each used the other as a tool for their own after-release satisfaction.

That is until finally their orgasms and the stilling-memories of the same had passed.

Leaving just the silence.

Just the eyes of their rival staring deeply into their own

“Don’t think that this chang--” Holly began in warning, before her stay-at-home enemy interrupted.

“Fuck you….” Neha spit back in words and then with saliva -- her lips pursing thereafter to shoot a collection of the substance in Holly’s face.

“BITCH!” Holly reacted in a rage, one she tried to manifest by making her soft hold on Neha’s hair hard and yanking. But before she could seize and keep, the would-be Indian victim set herself to roll back and away from her enemy.

A decision that in a blinding flash of pain, forcibly ripped their essence-glued and entangled pubic mats apart. An unexpected ripping that caused each woman to scream -- one rolling away and the other remaining, though in a state of pain-sparked shock.

“Get up!” Neha demanded, as she made her way back to her feet.

“Fine by me, cunt!” Holly said as she followed. She too rolling out of the puddle both had drawn from each other’s breasts and then fucked in. Not briefly. Not quickly. But for as long as they needed to purge the demons that had for so long plagued them.

“I knew you wanted me….” Came an accusal from the Neha, as Holly made it back to her feet.

“Shut up! You’re the one who started humping me.” Retorted the glaring, and half-wet onyx.

“Yeah, you’re the one who came….” As the Indian mother spoke, she began to circle her rival once more.

“Fuck you…. We both did.” It should have sounded odd to Holly as she said it. Not just odd, but abhorrent discussing that both she and the woman she hated had driven each other to orgasm. But in her state of complete inhibition and unchecked desire, she said it without a second thought.

“You came first.” With no less reserve, and mired in the same soul-wrenching dichotomy of hate and lust -- desire and deprivation, Neha dug for whatever advantage she could push Holly to believe she had.

“LYING BITCH!! YOU DID!” Just the suggestion -- just the spoken thought that their mutual moment of weakness had been a contest won by her rival, sent Holly storming forward as she resisted in words.

“Mmm hmm, don’t even pretend!” With a confidence feigned just to make Holly mad, Neha continued as she too marched forward.

“I milked your flabby Indian tits!” Holly, beset by the searing heat of her enemy’s brazen claims of advantage, fired back in the first way she could think of.

“I still have plenty milk left, cunt.” Only inches away from the woman across from her, Neha defended the state of her own motherly merits.

And from an even shorter distance, Holly replied. “You won’t after I’m through with you!!!” Words spoken as each of the two milk-splattered matrons grabbed once more for each other’s hair.

“Grrr, we’ll seeEEEEEeEEe about that!” Spinning and stumbling though they were, still did the black-haired beauty reply to her rival.

“Eerrrr, UGH!” And though Holly planned to reply, if only to stop her enemy from having the last word, she decided instead to turn her words into action. The jealousy-beset coordinator doing so by pulling away from their tightening body-to-body clinch, and then returning to it. Not with tits pressing against tits, but with a knee slamming forward and into Neha’s stomach. A blow that bent Neha over at the waist as her hands fell from Holly’s hair.

“Huh!?” A question of dominance asked in a single, grunted syllable. One that came from Holly, as she too let her hands drop from hair and down to Neha’s back. A placement she used to grab and then yank forward -- the brunette pulling her rival into another, hard-driving and cruelly-delivered knee and upper-thigh. One not to the stomach as before, but instead right into and across the black-haired mother’s cream-coated breasts.

“Ungh!” Cried out Neha, as she felt a spray of milk exit her already wounded and now-worsened chest.

“You won’t have ‘plenty left’ for long, you curry-loving cunt!” Holly’s words, hateful as they were, seemed almost soft compared to another, brutal knee she hurled up and into Neha’s leaking tits. A knee that upon landing once more found itself coated with a violence-bought spray of Neha-flavored protein.

At the impact and the loosing of liquids, once more the black-haired blogger groaned. A groan that lingered as Holly began to drag her. Pulling her from one side of the master bedroom to the other. A journey that only ended when finally they had reached Holly’s dark-wood dresser.

“No more milk for your brat-to-be, Neha.” Though she spoke to her rival, Holly’s eyes were averted. As were her hands, which moved from the Indian mother’s body to the dresser’s top drawer. A drawer that Holly pulled open, as she stood on Neha’s right -- each facing the opening chiffonier.

Despite the walking and placing -- opening and positioning, Neha still wobbled, she trying to regain the air and stability Holly’s knee lifts had taken out of her. A state that lingered as the latter pressed the former forward, hanging her darks-skinned tits over and into the dresser drawer’s outward-facing lip.

She could do it. She could slam the drawer closed, but first Holly wanted to gloat. And so she leaned over and in, pressing her lips to Neha’s right ear before whispering in a hateful hiss. “Ready…?”

“No!” Neha replied in a loud and defiant tone. A strength-affected voice that came just as Holly felt a firm grab of her still-damp pubic hair.

“UuuuuuuuUUuUU….” Not a scream, a whimper, or a groan, but instead something else. A vibrating, volume-shifting, announcement of worry. One that Holly offered, knowing that at any moment, Neha might do worse.

“Plea….” Holly began, readying her plea of ‘please’, as her hands moved from drawer to the wrist of her enemy. Not wanting to feel the pain that her rival threatened to inflict.

“Fine.” Neha replied, unexpectedly. Shockingly. She sounding an acceptance of Holly’s prayers for mercy. And though for a second the response filled the lighter-skinned Floridian with relief, in a flash and with Neha’s next comment, such relief disappeared.

“We’ll do it your way.” Is what the Indian mother said as she reached over with her free left hand, grabbed Holly’s hair, and then drug her forward. Not just her head, but her chest. A chest which, just as Neha’s had before, slipped over and then hung on the forward-facing front of the dresser-door. A door which an instant later slammed closed, or at least as far as it could, with a pair of swollen breasts bracing it open.

“AAAaaAaarRRrRrRhGggggGGGGGGGgggGGgGHHHhhhhH!” Holly cried out like a dying banshee, as her breasts compressed within the three-quarter shut drawer.

In agony though she was, not a single moment after it did Holly move her hands -- one to the dresser’s frame and the other to the dresser drawer. A movement intended to allow for a freeing of her breasts from the newly milk-doused hell they were caught in.

But as she moved, so did Neha. Who, after releasing her rival’s pubic hair, slid behind the body of the same. The mocha-hued mother pressing her breasts and body against the back of Holly, to ensure she could not yet free her trapped tits.

“Mmmm, I can almost hear your breasts emptying.” Not in a hiss, but a hushed, sensual whisper, Neha mocked her dresser-stuck prey.

“But you can feel mine, can’t you…? So full and swollen with milk….” With every word spoken, Neha dragged her breasts across Holly’s back. Each nipple leaving a small trail of white as they traveled.

“BiiIIIiiIIittttccCchHHh, I sweeeeaaaaar, I’l-I’llll destroy you when I geeEeEEEEeeEt free….” Her voice quaking, and body doing to better, Holly threatened.

And when she did, her rival went to respond. “That’s the plan, cunt. Body-to-body until one of us is drrrrryyyyyyy-aaAaRrrrRgggHHhHhH!” From acceptance and threat to a sudden pained scream, Neha stumbled backward after Holly with all the force she could find, slammed her head back and into Holly’s forehead.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Finally without her rival pressing against her, and as she exclaimed in both pain and desperately-found relief, Holly Pulled the dresser door open. Her poor, half-milked breasts aching worse than they ever had before.

“Come here!” The chest-fallen onyx screamed, as she turned back to face her rival with raised fists.

“Ohhh, what…?” Neha, asked in part, as she shook her head from side-to-side, trying to recover from Holly’s headbutt. “You want to box? Fighting like a woman was too hard for you, I guess….”

“SHUT UP!” Yelled the brunette as she charged and threw a wild, aimless haymaker at Neha. Imperfect though the punch was, the mocking woman who it was thrown at only barely dodged it. Neither of the two having any experience throwing fists.

Barely though it was, Neha still avoided the strike. And when she did, she threw one of her own. A quick, oddly angled strike into Holly’s exposed kidneys.

“Unnghh!” The Caucasion mamma groaned as she spun back around, and then through the pain punched again. That attempt landing hard against her rival’s left breast.

“Aaarrrgghhh! OWE!” Came Neha’s complaint, as she grabbed for her struck breast.

“More coming, cun--NNnnmmmppphhh….” Mid-taunt and mid-punch, Holly found Neha’s fist bury deep in her tummy. A blow that knocked whatever breath she had in her lungs out and into the warm, sweat-scented air of the master bedroom they warred in.

With every punch came a sudden spray and then slow, air-carried drift of liquids. Not just of that same sweat that stained the air, but the milk each had forced out of the other’s body.

“This is how you wanted to fight, huuu-uuunnnnggghhh.” Each being addicted to the feeling of mocking and talking to their rival as they fought, Neha too tried to speak as they circled, strafed, and struck. But she too found her words interrupted by a tummy-seaking fist. One that landed hard, causing Neha to wobble as she took sloppy steps backward.

Back though she went, Holly gave chase. Each of the two desperate, loathing-filled women firing punches at each other without regard to defense. Their fists landing hard on stomachs and breasts -- cheeks and lips.

Again and again.

Without regard to what their fists were doing to each other or what the cost of each strike might be.

That is until it seized them hard. Like the sudden effect of a rattlesnake bite. Exhaustion. Confusion. Aches and pains, wherever the other’s fists had landed.

Pain that came with bruises and blood -- discoloration and extreme sensitivity to any follow-up blow.

And yet still, despite all of those costs, they each continued to punch at each other. Even as their movements slowed and punches came without speed.

The pair just standing. Just striking out with quaking arms and red-knuckled fists. Neither speaking. Neither taunting. Their only thoughts spent on continuing to batter one another.

Until, after a series of half-fought-off stumbles and a seemingly shared groan, they each collapsed into each other. Their milk-covered breasts slamming together with a wet clap and even wetter spray. One that coated their bruised and bloody cheeks, just as they sealed together. The broken and blistered nemeses bringing their heads down for a rest on each other’s shoulder as they together fought the fatigue that had taken them.

“Get…. Off…. Me….. Bitch…..” Holly muttered as together they stumbled.

“You…. you, get off meeeEEeeEe, slUuuUut….” Neha replied, from swollen lips that rested not an eyelash’s length from her enemy’s ear.

Both having demanded only to be denied, the two women, even in their clinch began to drive, slow and yet forceful punches into each other’s sides.

“I thought … you didn’t want … to box … bitch…?” Broken and beleaguered, Holly mused in an exhausted mutter.

“I’ll fight you … anyway you ... want to fight … cuUuUUnnntttt.” Neha replied in a weakened but resolute deriding.

Standing though they appeared to be, in truth each simply laid. Not against a wall or on the floor, but against one another. The force of the other’s collapsing body against their own being the only thing that kept either of them upright.

Spent and bruised though they were, the mothers tried to right themselves. Tried to pull their heads back from the other’s shoulder so they could look into each other’s eyes as they challenged and dared each other.

Invitations for more that slipped through lips that at their corners began to meet. A meeting that threatened them both with another awakening of the lusts that had overwhelmed them so completely when they fought on Holly’s floor.

Still, through that threat, they pushed literally and figuratively. The pair shoving each other away, before they raised their blood-and-milk-splattered fists once more.

Ready though they pretended to be, neither could stand straight or even step forward without nearly collapsing. And yet in that state they began to throw weak, ineffectual punches at, or perhaps the better word is near each other.

But as they say about clocks and monkeys with typewriters, eventually they each landed punches. Not apart or in turns, but simultaneously, with their fists smashing into each other’s noses hard. Blows that caused each to collapse once more into each other’s arms and against each other in a cream-clap splash.

Together they felt it. The pain of smashed noses, that each believed to be broken. Though somehow the force applied stopped just short of that face-altering injury. Unbroken though their noses were, blood still trickled from them, as once more they laid cheek-to-cheek.

“I…. Hate…. You….” Neha muttered weakly.

“Not…. As much…. As I hate you….” The brunette replied, though through dizziness and trembling.

Even their loathing was a competition. And though it was, the two competitors could do naught but lean into each other. Their bodies frail and desperate to collapse. Their arms moving to and then around each other’s waists for extra support, as their foreheads came together once more.

A support that let them focus once again on the one thing that mattered, each other’s breasts and the milk within them.

“Not so swollen now, are they…?” Holly hissed as their breast to breast contact made it clear -- in their battle of fists, she had won. Not ultimately by breaking Neha, or by points, by landing more punches. But instead by focusing her strikes on the Indian mother’s breasts. Which, as they sat pressed into and against Holly’s, felt no more full. Their score of drainage having been equaled out.

“Shut up….” Neha replied with a sneer as the pair glared deeply into each other’s eyes.

“Make me….” Dared Holly.

A dare the black-haired matron accepted as she grabbed a tight grip of her rival’s hair, and then with it, bent the same back at the neck. A bend Holly too inflicted, by wrapping her hands in Neha’s hair and pulling down. Leaving the two women standing body-to-body, and chin-tip-to-chin-tip.

“Ready…?” Holly asked once more, knowing that their brief moment of rest was coming to an end.

“Are you…?” Responded Neha, though she waited for no response. She instead using the grip on her enemy’s charcoal-black hair to pull, and with the force of the tug, send her careening backward one step and then another.

Once apart again, and as each tried to gather their strength and balance, the Indian mother spoke. “Like women again…?”

To the question Neha expected an answer in words, but instead got one in a nod. Not up and down, but instead side to side, as Holly shook off the request as she stepped forward. Stepped forward and then threw her left leg out and into her rival’s shins with a thud.

“Owe! You bitch!” Neha shouted in anger and pain. “What are we going to do next, arm wrestle?”

Despite the dig, Holly continued to kick. Shooting her legs out in sloppy, untrained kicks, which landed, but did little but irritate Neha.

“Fucking fine!” The shin-bit Indian woman exclaimed before she too began to throw kicks. No higher. No harder. But with each thrown, the two continued to exhaust themselves. Driving their bodies deeper and deeper into the clutches of an already hungry and body-ravaging fatigue.

And as that fierce and relentless weakening took to them, they began to stumble once more. Apart, as they circled each other -- throwing whatever kicks they could muster. And then, after a sudden trip by Holly, together hard. Their colliding bodies crashing through the still open door to the bedroom and then into the hallway. Their hands lacing once more into the locks of their rival.

Grips they took as they fought for control and leverage. A battle they waged even as they careened from the master bedroom, into the hallway, and then across into Holly’s daughter’s bright pink nursery.

But even when they had reached that room of brandished and brazen femininity, they still fought. Still wrestled with each other. Neither kicking or punching, instead only struggling with their naked and battered bodies to overtake and overpower their enemy.

A war that escalated and intensified, even in their exhaustion, until finally, in a simultaneous throw and collapse they fell to the hard-planked floor in a heap of tangled and naked bodies. Their legs intertwined and thighs crossed as they together pulled one another into a mirrored, and yet barely-kept seated position.

One in which both dangled off of each other in the hottest of messes. Groaning and whimpering, both in exhaustion and pain. Hanging off the other, each with a single hand gripping the others shoulder. Their upper bodies leaning back as far as they might, without such a grasp being released.

And though there, they lingered for a moment or two, breathing and moaning softly from the pain that still lingered, eventually Holly spoke.

“This…. This isn’t … over, bitch….. Till one of us is dry, remember….” Reminded Holly, who began to pull herself back up and towards her darker-skinned enemy.

“Till one of us…. Is…. Dry….” Neha mumbled back in words. But unlike her rival, words that came with no action. No sitting back up from her weak hang or pulling herself forward from her pathetic dangle. No, for she was too tired. Too spent at that moment to move, let alone fight.

It was a window Holly took, by continuing her lean. Not only to the point when she was sitting straight up, but then past that and further. She, in fact, leaning all the way down until she could seal her lips around the nipple of Neha’s left breast.

Then, with them so applied, she began to suck.

“Oooohhh, god…. Nooooo” Shivering, despite the heat of the house and their war, did the Indian mother respond. Her flow of milk starting in an instant, as Holly abandoned the hope of continuing to pain on her rival through blows and battering.

“Get…. Get off me….” With those words came a push, a weak one at Holly’s shoulders. The dark-skinned blogger seeking to free herself from her enemy’s sudden and spiteful siphoning.

But it was too late, and they were too deep. Their stores of energy having been spent. And their ability to battle in more taxing ways having been lost in the wildfire of their violent sojourns into fisticuffs and kicking.

Leaving them one option. One ending towards which to rush. The draining of their rival’s still milk-filled tits.

Mutual though that goal was, as in a sweaty mess they sat at an angle, only Holly could chase it. As Neha, in her weariness, began to falter and drift into allowance.

Her hands moving back and to the hardwood floor as she struggled to keep even a semblance of sitting. All as the woman she had pitted her body against leaned down and in, to continue sucking at her nipple. Not with a bite to inflict, but to coax and then empty.

At first, the taste of Neha’s milk, and the thought of imbibing it gave Holly pause. But as her rival’s milk began to flow, not only quickly but in a veritable torrent, the aspirating mother committed herself.

She would take it.

She would drink it.

Every last drop of Neha’s remaining cream, if need be.

A venture Holly took to, as the woman who she drained began to beg. “No, we can’t…. Please, I need….” From one plea to another, the Indian mother jumped. She knowing full-well that she had wanted this when she was strong. That she would do the same to Holly, if it were she who had the energy and position.

And yet as Neha implored softly — weakly, Holly began to push. Not forcefully or harshly, but gently — as she eased the defenseless blogger to her back on the floor.

At the suggestion of touch, Neha began to lean back and then collapse down. And when she did, Holly advanced -- crawling forward and on top. She never letting her lips pull away from nipple, or the flow that came from as much end.

She was winning.

She could sense it.

She could feel it.

She could taste it.

But that truth was not her’s alone to understand. For Neha too felt her own defeat’s approach. Despite that knowledge, however, she was too weak to push Holly away and too exhausted to re-engage her the same in some kind of violent affair.

And so, the grounded mother of darker hue simply remained. Beneath Holly, as the same suckled at her quickly emptying right teat.

Neha had wanted victory. Dominance. And to feel the indescribable excitement of owning the woman who she had pitted her body, soul, and even life against.

And yet as Holly hovered above her, pulling the milk from her breast like her sweet baby girl had done so many nights before, the fading Floridian did not feel frustration or regret. Sadness or anger.

Instead Neha felt turned on. Her fatigue-broken body and combat-shattered mind finding a pleasure and an excitement in giving up control to her enemy. She had fought so bravely and ruthlessly, and yet now — at the end of all of it, she could do naught but lay. Naught but whimper and moan pathetically as Holly stole the life-giving milk from her breasts.

Feelings of debility-born submissiveness that pushed the back-laid mother to reach out and up, and to then to cup each of Holly’s breasts with one of her hands. Hands which did not then squeeze or scratch, but instead massaged.

Sensually.

Tenderly.

As one might do to their lover.

And Holly was willing to take it. As a sign of submission and allowance. Once again, Neha was lost in lust and desire, just as they both had been when their fur-obscured clits met again and again on Holly’s bedroom floor.

Yes, at the sensation and manipulation, milk began to drip from Holly’s breasts. But the pitter-patter droplets landing on Neha’s tummy, inner thighs, and pubic hair came slowly. And so the all-fours and finish-focused vixen above continued her good work.

Neha’s right breast expelling its last few drops of milk, before Holly, without a word spoken, lifted her head and moved to her next target: her rival’s left tit.

At the switching, the half-bested matron of a threatened-to-be-starved baby girl moaned out loudly, both from the pain of her tit running dry and the intoxicating and expectation-defying pleasure of submitting to an enemy so completely.

A dichotomy of mixture that Neha still spoke through, though her voice quaked and mind skipped in the effort. “Holly-Holly, pleEeeaaAase…stoooOoop. M-my daughter, sheeeEeeeEe….”

The sound of her nemesis moaning and begging was music to Holly’s ears. A music that played as she remained lifted just above Neha, her two hands flattened with splayed fingers atop the nursery’s darkwood floor.

And though Holly’s palms were anchored, she wanted to use them. Wanted to run them, up and down the body of her seemingly defeated enemy. To feel her. To take her. To ravish her.

Yes, Holly hated the woman beneath her entirely, and yet there was something about that moment that began to affect her, just as it had already affected Neha.

Their’s was a heated, malicious, and nasty feud. And yet Holly was drinking the milk of her rival. Imbibing her motherly gift. As if Neha was her mother, and she her baby girl.

Neha still begged. Still pleaded for her to stop. But Holly could see when her eyes opened and feel it in the massaging hands and softly squirming body of the woman who had for so long transfixed her.

Neha was giving in to her gentle, exhaustion-drenched dominance. But even more enthralling than that unspoken submission, was the fact that her rival seemed to be enjoying it.

The chance to be weak.

The chance to be vulnerable and in that vulnerability controlled.

To most, the draining mother’s thoughts and desires would make no sense, but to her — they were crystalline.

Crystalline and compelling, to not only drink. To not only take and in that way subjugate. But to scoot her lower-half forward, and once more go bush-to-bush with Neha.

Each of the two warring mothers moaning with a quiver, as their blood, sweat, and milk-wet carpets met once more. Not in violence or lost control, but in acceptance and agreement.

An agreement that though the end was near. With Neha flat on her back as her enemy milked her last filled tit; pulling from it all the milk left therein. There was more to their struggle. More to their feud.

Not love or friendship -- kinship or sisterhood, for they still hated one another to the very depths of their souls. But in those depths lurked more than loathing and grievance.

No, for there was also swirling passion and hate-earned lust -- an endless thirst and a boundless hunger.

Their jealousy, after its churning and boiling, having turned into a desperate need to experience and consume.

Their competition, so wildly out of control, that they had no choice but to salve each other’s wounding pruriency, even as they chased each other’s destruction.

Shifts in the hue of their rapturess flames that led them each to connect womanhoods once more and then writhe. Without comment or accusation -- protest or hesitation. It being the price of their combat. The cost of their contest.

A contest Holly saw as one-sided as she thrust and verging done as she shuddered. The confident onyx taking her time as she suckled and fucked -- counting her lead in the emptying of breasts as insurmountable. And her role as imminent victor as unassailable.

But as she above continued on in such surety, letting her mind drift deeper into she and her rival’s mutual meetings of heavily furred mounds, she missed it. The deepening. The intensifying. The increasing force of Neha’s massaging hands.

Hands which at first moved gently and without threat, having begun to slide up and then stroke down. Once and then again. Without inflicted pain, but still with steady intention. They having moved from an instinctual and passion-born caress to a true milking. Like a farmer and her cow.

A cow whose teats dripped at first and then soon after began to flow. The substance gained, or perhaps more accurately stolen, collecting in a pool on the Indian mother’s tummy and the floor below her.

A pool Holly knew not of, when she lifted lips from a nipple that still offered its cream freely, and began in a breathlessly cruel mutter. “I’m going to….uuunnnggghhh….” She stuttered and then moaned, as their bouncing kittens met to greater effect. Not more quickly, but in river-deep drags and focus-shattering bindings of one rival’s clit with its counterpart.

A hardening of contact and extending of collision that the social media coordinator fought through to finish her thought, malicious as it was. “I’mmmm gonna take every last droppp of your milk, NehaAaA. Your baby girl is going to starve, because I’m the better mooooottthhheeerrrr-0h-gawd. Oh shiiiiIiiit. Whhaaatt…? Nooo….”

From the height of overconfidence to the low terror that sets in when victory begins to slip away, Holly’s heartless comment descended. A rapid and harrowing crash that came when finally on-all-fours matron could feel it. Through the pleasure of their tribbing. Through the excitement of their battle. Her breasts were nearly empty. Not one of them, but both of them.

Her plan was to pull away! To Lean back and escape her tricky rival and with deftly milking hands. But before she could, Neha leaned up, over, and then without removing her hands she rolled them both. Holly to her back, with their mover just above her.

A mover who then in a flash of action, moved both hands to the left breast of the newly back-laid beauty, and with them expelled hard. The darker-hued Miami mother pumping every last drop of milk from its Holly’s tit in a sudden and sputtering spray. One that tapered off to a slow drizzle and then an audible puff of protein-scented air. A scent let loose as Holly groaned out in pain and desperation.

“No, Neha! Please!” The onyx begged, though she had been certain she would always remain strong. Her mind in an instant fixating on her poor baby girl and the nourishment she would lack if the fate the Indian above her threatened became real.

But as if it were a nightmare that she could not be woken from, Holly, as she reached to push Neha away, found her wrists caught, and then after a slam, pinned to the hardwood floor.

“I’m sorry…. Look…. Don’t…. We can….” Before the grounded mother’s plaintive words could be spoken or even heard, her rival had already lowered her head and applied her lips to Holly’s nipple.

Neha wanting to end her enemy’s supplies, just as that same enemy had threatened to do to her. In a slow, craven drinking.

“Ohhhhh noOoo, noooOoo, I need….” As if she was lost in a fever dream, Holly whimpered and protested weakly, as she squirmed beneath her pinning rival.

A rival who never stopped fucking her. Bust-to-bush and clit to clit, even as she mirrored the position the two had been in only a moment and a roll before.

“God! Fuck! FuuuUUcckkk!!” The panic of her emptied and now emptying tit fed the orgasm that began to take Holly. She letting her hate and passion -- excitement and despair stir within her like a growing and uncontrollable storm.

Until finally that storm turned to maelstrom and maelstrom typhoon. One that washed over Holly as she suddenly seized. Her eyes closed and toes curling. Her lips parting in a loud and animalistic scream of bliss and agony as the last few drops of milk were pulled from her right breast.

Drops, which like those before it, Neha swallowed as she lifted her head and claimed victory. “You’re dry--” Neha began as she withdrew her sex from Holly’s with a snapping of hairs and displacing of droplets. “Now to make sure you stay that way, cunt….”

The words were haunting, merciless, and wicked in their own right. But they paled in comparison to Neha’s actions. Actions which saw her leaning down once more to reapply her mouth to Holly’s nipple.

Not in another suckle or in a heavy chomp or a piercing bite, but instead in a sustained and cold-hearted chew. One she used to seal off Holly’s nipples. Rendering them inert and unusable. By pump or baby -- device or dependant daughter.

“You bitch! Stop it! No! GOD! GET OFF ME!” Holly raged as she fought with every ounce of energy she had left. But in their mad struggle and after her most recent orgasm, Holly had given away too much. Leaving her too weak to break Neha’s pinning of wrists, or to wriggle free from the same.

And so, Neha continued her silent, methodical, chewing. She using just the right amount of pressure to cause Holly’s nipples to swell shut, with only a few droplets of blood finding their way into the mouth of she who fought to close off.

A making real of threat and promise -- feud and finality that played out as Holly cursed and begged -- struggled to reason and in tears implore. Not only with one breast, both both.

The merciless Indian mother only ending her assault when she knew her bested enemy’s tits were not only empty, but worthless to her baby girl. Not just one but both.

“I hate you….” Holly muttered as she sobbed. Her tear-filled eyes still glaring, as she put every ounce of her loathing into a gaze of true contempt.

But as Holly conveyed that hate, Neha did so with her own. She collecting the blood, milk, and saliva that coated her mouth before spitting it in the broken and yet beautiful bitch that laid beneath her.

As that collection of battle-drawn liquid splattered and dripped down Holly’s tear-stained and battered face, Neha stood.

“Mmmm, I know…. I’d hate me too, if I were as worthless a mother as you are.” The words were cutting, and yet Holly did not respond. Not until, Neha added.

“No milk in your tits, or even in the fridge….” It was those words that drew a reaction from Holly who was too tired and too physically spent to move. Those words that truly struck fear into her heart, even as her rival made her way out of the room.

“YOU BITCH! No! Please! PLEASE!! Neha!!!” Neha could hear Holly’s cries as she walked down the hall to the bedroom to collect her things.

As she dressed herself in front of her broken enemy’s own mirror.

And even still, as she walked down the stairs with her heels on once more. She making her way to the kitchen. A kitchen with a fridge that Neha emptied of Holly’s stored frozen breast milk. She knowing all too well that any mother worth her salt puts their excess expulsions away for a day when they might be needed.

But one by one, Neha collected the frozen bags and tucked them into one of Holly’s fabric-made Whole Foods bags. A bag she then slung over her shoulder before she walked out the front door.

The sound of Holly’s lamentations and tears still echoing behind her.

Sounds Neha would remember with excitement and moans. As every night, after her beautiful daughter had been put down to sleep, the victorious matron would sit in the chair next to her own bed. Her right hand placed between trembling thighs, as she sipped slowly from a cold, perspiring glass she held in her left.

Her defeated enemy’s stolen breastmilk being the perfect aphrodisiac. The taste of it bringing her back to the day and the moment she conquered her rival.

The day she proved that she was not only the better mother, but the better woman.

The End.