Thirty-Five Years
Brings Déjà vu to Reality
By H.G. Hunt
Chapter 11
No signal was required. The recovery interlude ended by
mutual consent and the ladies moved towards the center of
the cove, atop the blankets that Carrie had smoothed a bit
during the intermission. “Knees?” Lisa nodded towards the
ground and with a confirming nod from Jean down they went to
their knees, once again separated by only an inch of hot
July air. A brief stare-down ensued. This time, with a bit
of recent ‘history’ between them the stare down was a notch
lower in bravado and a notch higher in the “I know why
you’re here” look. The silent communication between them was
imperceptible to the others. The spectators couldn’t read
the women’s minds, but Lisa and Jean certainly had a handle
on that. It seemed that their brains were now almost
directly connected across the space, with only subtle facial
expressions and moist daring eyes to illuminate their
reciprocal feelings. It was as if they were saying to each
other, “I know how much you want me. I want you just as
much. I am really glad this day has arrived. I ache to touch
you sexually. I can see the lust in your eyes. I want to
beat you very badly. I will give my all. May the best woman
win?” All that ethereal communication wasn’t part of any
spoken language, but the feelings they shared were just as
genuine as if they had taken ten minutes to turn it all into
words.
Jean rocked forward on her knees and Lisa leaned in so their
breasts, still red and nipples still hard, conformed to each
other. This time the slapping was gone and the grinding
began. Lisa’s nipples snuggled up against Jean’s
side-by-side. Jean pressed forward, feeling both of Lisa’s
marauding nipples poke into her tit-flesh as her firm
nipples gouged out their own crater in Lisa’s protruding
tits. Forward she went until Lisa’s equal pressure created a
resistance too powerful to overcome. Lisa took so much pride
in her firm boobs that she felt elated at the crushing power
they showed as Jean’s tits splayed outwards and upwards to
the sides, while Lisa’s heavenly orbs still looked like the
tips of sidewinder missiles (to her somewhat biased eyes).
Lisa reached behind Jean, one arm over the shoulder and one
under. Jean reciprocated in unison and the tit-squeeze and
tit-grind battle began. Fortunately there was plenty of
perspiration to lubricate the juncture of their
lust-inducing orbs. Jean felt Lisa’s tits boring into her
own and even though Lisa’s flesh squished outwards and
upwards, it clearly held its shape better than her own. But
once again, Jean didn’t let the visuals persuade her to
fight with less motivation or desire. She pushed hard, real
hard. She squeezed Lisa close. She felt Lisa’s breath on her
shoulder and she knew her own hot breath was tickling Lisa’s
shoulder too. Lisa squeezed and pushed her tits deeply at an
angle into Jean, gauging the impact as their boobs dueled
between them. The grinding got more energetic, less
controlled, less planned, and more sensational. The
sensitive skin, still pink from the slapping, felt the
delicious sensation of sexy tit-on-tit touch merge with the
not-so-fun measure of irritation.
Back and forth they went. Up and down they ground into each
other. Their knees had inched forward almost to the point of
touching. The mammary protuberances kept their tummies and
groins from touching, but they were close, very close.
Brent, excited as could be by the erotic temptation in front
of him, kept snapping pictures, getting nice close-ups of
the women’s bulging tits, taut arms, perspiration soaked
faces, shapely asses, and he managed to lie low to the
ground and get a side view of their pelvises, just two
inches apart, the hairy growth protruding outward from one
pubic mound towards the other, and only a mere fraction of
an inch separating Lisa’s dark fur from Jean’s lighter mat.
He just about creamed his shorts. He was the only person
left who wasn’t now naked and actively engaged in some sort
of self-pleasuring. Robert and Bill were both stroking their
hard rods, engrossed in the sexual dynamic playing out right
in front of them just a few feet away. Brent’s reaction to
the scene was so exciting because it brought back memories
of an old Penthouse pictorial from way back that showed a
couple of women, both blondes, standing in apparent
confrontation with each other, naked, and their lovely
bushes thrust forward, barely kept apart by an inch of air.
That photo had so engrossed him that it helped form the
foundation of his long-standing lust for sexual and other
competitions between women. Sharing it with Jean brought
great joy and sexual pleasure to Brent, and since Jean had
her own ancient recollections of a college event, their
mutual understanding and interest in this avenue of sexual
exploration enhanced many dozens (or was it hundreds) of
their lovemaking interludes. Now with the sight before him
so reminiscent of his encounter with that Penthouse
magazine, he just about blew his gasket. Just about. Not
quite.
The women continued their pushing, grinding, bumping,
titfight for at least half an hour. The spectators were
enjoying the show, sometimes oohing and aaahing, sometimes
shouting out (not loudly – it wasn’t needed) words of
encouragement to the women. Sometimes the encouragement was
directed to Lisa, sometimes Jean, and sometimes both. The
women were reinforced by the encouragement and the onslaught
continued. Jean pressed and pushed her tits into Lisa’s over
and over, aching to force Lisa to disconnect. Lisa would
have none of that. She and Jean had spat a few words of
disdain and anger at each other and it continued now, well
into the second half-hour. “Whatcha think of THAT?” Lisa
sputtered as she gave Jean a strong thump. “Not much to
think about, bitch!” Jean slammed forward in retaliation,
even as her breasts continued to show less resilience than
Lisa’s pair of rocket tips. “Give up slut. Your soft titties
are no match for mine.” “Go fuck yourself. My tits are way
better than yours.” Back and forth the nasty banter went.
The two sexy women looked as if they were glued together
above the waist, never separated in 35-40 minutes.
Maybe it was the lapping of the waves upon the shore. Maybe
it was the rise and fall of the breeze in the trees back to
the east behind the dunes. Maybe it was a natural rhythm of
the heavens or earth. Whatever it was, the attending clan
slowly grew sensitive to a cyclic ebb and flow of the
physical and auditory patterns evident in the conflict
before them. While the action wasn’t rancorous or violent,
should one have happened upon the combatants mid-stream, you
would knew that vast amounts of energy were being spent by
the two women. As they watched Jean give off a radiance of
domination, her voice louder and more commanding, her body
surging forward into the space Lisa should have called her
own, but then as a sine wave rises and falls according to
its own periodicity, Lisa would gain all that Jean had and
return the favor, pressing forward, bending her backwards
towards the sand. Lisa’s commanding voice would take over,
the power and compelling words bound to cause Jean to
submit; so one would think, if only it weren’t for that
cycle. Back and forth it went for another five, ten,
fifteen, and then twenty minutes of intimate chest battles,
which it now was apparent were only stand-ins for the more
important duel; that of will. Whose fortitude would reign
supreme? Whose mind would not bend to the will of the other?
Whose fortitude would persevere through the muscular pain
that was now surging through so many regions of their
bodies?
The torture to Lisa’s tits was becoming excruciating. Her
hip, thigh, arm, and shoulder muscles burned with the
exertion. As positive as she’d remained for what had become
an hour-long breast battle, the pain was taking its toll. It
wasn’t a single pain, but the cumulative effects of each
tiny strain, adding up to an overwhelming sum. Jean, sensing
her own flaming pains surging through all her large-muscle
groups, responded with every fibrous strand of muscle she
could draw upon as she felt Lisa surge forward in the usual
cycle. Jean willed herself forward, her tits grinding deeper
and deeper into Lisa’s powerful orbs. But will is one thing,
and even though Jean had plenty, Lisa kept pressing Jean
backwards, backwards, backwards, and farther backwards. The
cycle was broken! Down went Jean onto her back. Lisa was on
top! “There you go bitch!” Lisa whispered softly into Jean’s
ear, only loud enough for her to hear. Jean let out a sigh
and relaxed her hug, finally after those minutes had turned
into an hour, the burning in her muscles, and Lisa’s
powerful tits had done their damage. Jean had quit the
titfight. But she hadn’t quit “the fight.” She whispered
back, “That’s only one round, bitch.”
TO BE CONTINUED