At first, after your rival’s thighs wrapped around your neck, you clawed at them.
Deeply.
Cruelly.
Intent on forcing her to let you go.
But she held on. She endured. And now your clawing fingers have flattened. Just as your once inflicting hands have grown weak.
Still you pull. Still you pry. As the sex of your rival lingers less than a centimeter below your chin.
And though you hate her, and she you. As you wither between her ankle-locked and squeezing legs, you have no choice but to share your slow, humiliating descent into asphyxiation-brought oblivion with her.
She watching with a smile as you succumb. Your face red. Eyes dimming. And head, against your will, drooping forward. Your lips and hers, fabric separated though they will be, coming soon together in a blissful match-ending kiss.
A position we all fear