Preamble

This is another story where the premise was given to me,  though the requester and I worked pretty closely to make the motivations come off as real. It’s another piece in the more catfight-y direction, but there are certainly moments of sensuality. And frankly, I think they’re pretty darn tasty. 

If you looked up the word gifted in the dictionary, there is a half-chance you would find his picture there, young Aditya. Such a smart little boy. Such a good little boy — one who learned to walk at five months, speak at eight, and to earn a mastery of the alphabet before the dawn of his second birthday. In fact, since the day of his birth onward, he had been more — better — a wunderkind, if there ever was one. 

That unchecked success continued into his first years at a world-renowned New York private school for the gifted. The brilliant child receiving as high of marks as were possible, in every class he sat in. 

Beyond just the technical, his teachers loved him, without exception. And in each of those teachers’ minds, Aditya’s path to success — both in his education and thereafter, seemed certain. Inevitable. 

But then came the divorce — one that changed everything. 

It is so often a destructive thing: divorce. But for Aditya’s mother, Riya, it was doubly so. For the only income in the family’s home, came from Aditya’s father. A father who was more monster than man. He being not only controlling and cruel but a drunkard — one with a penchant for infidelity. He making sure to find the bottom of whatever bottle sat next to the arm of his bourbon-stained La- Z-Boy, as he cursed and chided his family for even the smallest of inconveniences and irritations. 

Like those stains, which aged by the day, so too did Riya’s desire to leave him, as undeserving and potential-endangering as he was. That growing desire fueled by his loudening shouts and worsening threats — sharpening insults and increasingly brazen cheating — each getting worse and worse, without end or ebbing.

She should leave him, her friends told her. Just take Aditya and move, others begged. But such advice, well-meant and wise though it may have been, left Riya with so many questions to answer. 

Where would she move to? How would she afford to feed not only herself but her child? Where would it leave little Aditya’s education? Each of those questions, and without fail, even their answers, the thirty-something mother found terrifying. 

Yet still — in the end, despite so many avenues for failure and suffered-through-moments of frailty, brave Riya had no choice but to leave. Not just her husband. Not only his home. But the city of New York, the state of it, and everything she and her son had ever known behind. They two, with not but their car and their clothing, moving far, far away, to a place called Granbury in Texas. 

It was not her first choice, or her second, or in fact, even her choice at all; for it was the only place she was able to find a job. At least one that would pay for her moving expenses, and then enough to find a one bedroom apartment for herself and Aditya to live in. 

It was small town compared to New York City — in fact, it was a small town, compared to most. One where everyone had an accent, and some even wore cowboy hats. Worse yet, in what seemed to Riya almost as a comical cherry on top, some there even rode horses. “HORSES!” She texted her girlfriends back in New York, wanting to share with them the hilarious quirks of her new home. 

Those quirks, along with the people who lived there, made it feel to Riya as if she and Aditya had traveled back in time — or stepped onto a western movie set. Still though, for both she and her bright, beautiful boy, it was a fresh start. A chance for she — for them, to build a new, safe, and stable life, without an alcoholic, abusive husband torturing them day in, and day out. 

To Riya’s surprise, before too long, the distracting backwardness of the place seemed to just fade into the background, and it all just became normal. The dirt roads. The trucks. The lack of taxis. The ten-gallon hats. The horses. Each and all of it becoming nothing more than the quaint backdrop to their new world.

Into that world, Riya began to sink, quickly getting accustomed to her new role as not only head of household but a working mother. Better yet, and much to her own joy, Aditya, even removed from his father and friends, seemed happy too — at least at first. 

Until the day his teacher retired mid-year. The story was, as Riya heard it, that the elderly instructor had suffered some sort of heart attack or something to that effect, and had been replaced. That replacement, somehow, and in some way, seemed to put Aditya off. His mood upon coming home from school quickly changing from glowing and excited, to depressed and quiet. Riya, only in her early 30’s, remembered well, the tension that a new teacher could instill in students. And so she waited to address whatever the issue may have been — hoping it would resolve itself. But that decision to wait and see was shown to be a mistake when Aditya brought his first report card from this new teacher. 

“F,” it said on it, in bright red, stamped ink. “F,” as if Aditya were even capable of such a failing. 

“What is this…?” Riya asked as she held the card out for her shame-faced son to see.

“Momma, I don’t know. She hates me. It’s Ms. Saunders, she just….” The boy choked out, before finding himself overwhelmed by emotion.

“Show me your homework,” Riya demanded, trying to find the sweet spot between being supportive and trusting, and constructive and stern. 

“Yes, momma.” He said obediently, before running off to his room. It took only a moment for him to return with his homework from the last year. All of it neatly organized and filed. Stabled and labeled. The very sight of such precise and neatly kept documents spoke to how unlike Aditya a bad grade was. It just wasn’t in him to give a class anything less than everything he had. And everything he had, was usually nothing short of perfection. An “A+” in academic vernacular. 

Still, however, Riya examined and poured over his assignments. Comparing answer to question, and then correct questions to grades. Before she was even three assignments deep, she had found a definite pattern. Regardless of the answers provided, or how meticulous Aditya was in answering even the hardest of challenges, the score was the same from this new teacher: “F.” 

It is a common practice for parents go over their child’s homework with them, but with all that had been going on, and with Aditya’s history of scholastic excellence, Riya had abandoned the practice. Letting him, the wunderkind of the family, draft and submit his own work, without parental guidance. But that allowance and trust had been taken advantage of, not by her sweet little Aditya, but by his teacher — this Ms. Saunders. 

The discovery filled Riya with such rage and confusion that in an instant she knew what she had to do. She needed to meet this teacher — this woman, face-to-face, and find out why her son had been given “F’s” when his work clearly deserved “A’s.” With that in mind, she called over to her neighbor’s home and asked their teenage daughter if she would come and watch Aditya. 

Within only moments, the young girl arrived, and after giving her a short list of instructions to follow, Riya left. Storming out to her car in precisely what she had worn to work, a pair of black heels, and an emerald green dress. In that outfit, and with her hair draped softly across her shoulders, the thick-thighed Indian woman slipped into her car and drove — gripping her steering wheel tightly as she traversed the small town, barely able to contain her boiling anger. 

When she arrived, the green grass field in front of the school was empty, and the sky overhead had already begun to darken in an early sunset. In the distance, Riya could see a guard talking to a departing teacher, his keys already in the press-lever of the front door of the school. 

“Excuse me!” Riya shouted, as she briskly and carefully ran up the sidewalk to the school and the soon-to-close door, an assortment of her son’s homework and report card in hand. “Wait! Don’t lock it!” She begged as she neared. 

“Ma’am…?” The heavyset, African American guard asked, confused at the sudden appearance and shouting of Riya, who had only just reached the distance to hear him. “Sorry. I’m Aditya’s mother; is Ms. Saunders still here!?” 

“Aditya? Ah, he’s one of my favorite students. A bright future waitin’ for that boy; not that I’m much’a judge of that. But, Ms. Saunders…? Hmmm, yessum; I think she’s still here. In fact, she’s the last one.” The man’s voice was comforting and soft, and within only a few words had convinced Riya that whatever else might be going on here, this kindly only guard had no role in it. 

“Wonderful, I really need to speak with her.” With her quickened heartbeat and stressed breathing coming to a slow, Riya smiled at the news and the guard who gave it to her. 

“Well, I’m still going to lock up, but you can go on in. When you leave, just make sure the door shuts behind you. It’ll open from the inside without a key.” The guard allowed and explained as he lowered his gaze from Riya to the door lock, stepping just far enough to the side for the Indian mother to step past him. 

“Thank you!” Riya half-shouted, as she scurried down the hall, the sounds of her heels clicking and clacking against the checked floor, each such sound echoing off the walls and lockers that lined her surroundings.

As she passed into the distance behind him, and with nothing more added than a friendly smile, the gray-haired guard stepped out the door. Then without giving another thought to what Riya may have wanted with Ms. Saunders, he left, pressing the heavy metal door of the school shut behind him.

At about the same moment he made it to his car, Riya stormed into Ms. Saunders’ classroom, finding the platinum blonde instructor, with her black, thick-rimmed glasses, sitting behind her desk. She seeming, after a quick, glaring examination, to be a woman of the same age as Riya. One who wore well, a black and red-striped dress that pulled tight to her healthy figure. 

“Ms. Saunders….” The name was thrown down like a gauntlet by Riya, who marched over to the instructor’s desk. The former’s mind already filled with fury, and her heart with malice — she needing no more evidence to be sure that this woman was actively trying to hurt her son’s future. 

“You’re that little raghead boy’s momma, aren’t you?” As comfortable as wearing a blanket in winter, the blonde threw out the slur raghead, not caring one bit how the child’s mother might take it. 

After a weighty gasp, Riya replied to the woman’s outrageous comment. “What did you just say…? How dare you!?”

“How dare I!?” The teacher replied as she stood up behind her desk, letting Riya see her full-figure.  One that was remarkably similar to Aditya’s mother; each woman having an emphatic Coke bottle figure, one with a thicker lower half than most, or almost any. “How dare you, missy!? You come to this country to take a job from some hard-working American, all, while you’re country, is stealing the rest of those jobs? Then, to make it worse, you’re breeding! Bringing your little spawnling to take another one!? No way! Not if I can help it.” 

As if she had been hit by a sledgehammer of madness, Riya paused, trying to make sense of what was just said to her. “So….” Riya, began with her eyes closed, she trying to remain calm enough to speak. “… that must be why you’re giving my son F’s, even when he gets all the answers right! You’re some kind of racist!”  

The words spoken by Riya, which most would take as an unbearable accusation, brought a smirk to Ms. Saunders’ face. An expression she wore proudly is as she stepped out from behind her desk and towards Riya. “No, it’s because I’m a patriot. And a lover of America. And YOU and your cow-worshiping son, are just scum. Dark-skinned. Eight-armed, she-devil-loving scum. And there is NO WAY, that Ay-dat-yoo, or whatever his name is, is getting anything other than an F in my classroom. Not while I’m teaching here; not on your life, missy.” 

“Ok, so…. You’re an idiot. Because: A, his name is Aditya!. B, he and I were both born in Brooklyn. And C … I can’t believe I AM HAVING THIS CONVERSATION WITH YOU! GOD!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM!?” She tried, Riya did, to make it through this conversation without letting herself completely abandon the temper she had already planned to lose. Not wanting to give this obviously bigoted piece of trash a reason to continue being a bigot, but as the moment of confrontation continued, Riya found that goal impossible. She instead stepping forward, and up to the woman, each the same height with their matching black heels on. 

“Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence! This is a god-fearing classroom, and you will respect that, even if you are a heathen.” At every word, Riya found it harder and harder to keep her composure. Feeling her blood boil hotter and fists clench tighter with every word spoken by the woman standing before her. 

“Look….. You’re free to a hold a grudge against the people in India, for existing in the world economy. But you CANNOT take out that anger on my son, by jeopardizing his future with false bad grades, just because his ancestors were born somewhere else, do you understand me….?” As Riya made her stance clear, her onyx eyes narrowed, and she took another step forward, wanting to impress upon this woman how serious she was. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this your classroom, Shiva? One where we teach little boys how to run gas stations, hate steak, and grow chest hair…? No, it isn’t. This is Katie Saunders’ classroom, and in it: I make the rules. So feel free to take your little dot head child out of my classroom, my school, my TOWN, and go back to whatever hellhole you crawled out of. Do you….” Katie said with intentional drama, taking one, final step forward, closing the distance between she and Riya, before finishing. “…understand ME … bitch.…?” The words were spoken at such a short distance that Riya could feel Katie’s breath on her face, and smell the woman’s peach-scented lip gloss. 

In that closeness, and at the blisteringly rude question, Riya’s head turned, her eyes closed, and her teeth grit — not to restrain, but to endure what had just been said to her. As the words passed from lip to ear and then dissipated between the two women, whose chests lingered only a centimeter apart, Riya made her decision. A decision which caused her right hand to fire up, and then splash across Katie’s face in a hard slap. One that knocked the glasses clear off her face, and across the room. 

Upon the landing of those spectacles, they shattered, but before such had even occurred, Katie and Riya were already distracted. Busy. They being locked together, body to body, with fingers buried deep in each others hair. Each stumbling slowly, their wonderfully thick thighs and calves flexing like steel, each trying to keep balance in their heels. 

“You’re gonna regret testing me, you Hindu cunt!” Katie promised, as her and Riya’s chins pressed together at their tips, each woman pulling the others head back so far with their grasps of hair, that they each had to strain, just to avoid falling backward and apart. 

“Don’t FUCKING call me that, you white trash BITCH!”  Riya shouted back, as she and her son’s teacher struggled to overpower one another. Each almost snarling between taunts, as they continued to pull violently at their enemy’s hair, Riya’s black and Katie’s a light, platinum blonde.

“I’ll call you … whatever I.… OWE!” Katie cried out mid-response, as Riya yanked harshly at her hair. 

“Like that, bi–FUCK!” Riya let loose the same cry, as Katie tugged back hard in retaliation. 

“Let go of my fucking, hair! UNNNGGGHH” Katie demanded, even while she continued to pull Riya’s black hair without mercy. But then again, as the blonde teacher’s words continued, the Indian mother again pulled as hard as she could, causing Katie to groan out loudly in pain,and cease her sentence. 

“No! You let go of min–AaaAAAHahahh! BITCH!” Once more, even as words were being spoken, one of the two enemies screamed, this time, however, it came not from a sudden yank of hair. No, instead it was a surprise stomp, as Katie lifted her powerful right leg and then drove it down, heel-first into the heel-exposed toes on Riya’s left foot. 

In only the passage of a single grain of sand or two in an hourglass, Riya released her grip on Katie’s hair, and bent over, reaching for her wounded toes. And though mother released, the teacher held tight, using that grip and Riya’s quickly descending head to her advantage, by slamming the same, hard into an alabaster-hued right knee. 

Hard and dizzying though the blow was, Riya did not collapse, if only because Katie, still with grips on hair, kept her from falling. Not out of any sense of altruism, but instead to walk the olive-skinned parent, in a stumbling, wobbly-legged drag, over to her desk.  Onto that hard surface, Riya was thrown, with her chest and face landing there atop it, her ass stuck out in a full bend. At that heavy impact, pencils and pens — papers and stamps, were sent flying off the table in random directions. 

“You look just like that little fucking dot-head floozy that took my husband….”Katie explained in a hateful growl, in response to no call or question. A comment made as she grabbed the bottom of Riya’s strapless green dress. “She was just another Hindi bitch like you. One I didn’t get the chance to hurt….”Like a low, shamed whisper behind a dust-covered screen in a Catholic church booth, Ms. Saunders continued to speak unprompted — confessing to her real reasons and motivations, without even knowing it herself. 

As such confessions were made, but before penance could be asked or demanded, Riya, only just coming to, began to listen and hear Katie’s voice. Consequently, and even with she being in her still bewildered state, the Indian mother started to put the pieces together. As she did, she also focused on something more pressing, removing herself from her enemy’s four-legged workspace. But just as she did, Katie struck and began to pull and retreat backward. Taking with her Riya’s dress, which slid down the same’s thick, rage-warmed body, until, after traversing her powerful, muscle-etched legs, it came free. 

In shock and outrage, and finally having rid herself of the little chirping birds that flew in a circle around her head, they having been summoned by the devastation of Katie’s knee, the olive-skinned mother fired back up from the desk and tried to face her enemy. But somewhere between raise and round, Katie returned, and with two hands sent with force to the back of Riya’s shoulders, Aditya’s mother found herself pushed back down to Ms. Saunders’ desk. 

Not willing to accept being dominated or controlled by her son’s racist instructor a moment longer, Riya fought to stand back up. Upon making that stand, and the front of her thighs still pressed to the desk, the outraged mother felt the front of Katie’s still dress-covered body press against her back, and the hands of the same reach around her and rip down her lacy white bra. 

Katie’s plan had been to grab and twist — pinch and rake at Riya’s beautiful breasts, but just as her firm, white hands returned to lay claim to her new targets, a shrill scream rang out. This one, coming from Katie’s previously sneering lips, as Riya decided to take a page out of her enemy’s book and use her left heel to stomp down on the attacking instructor’s equally heel-exposed toes. 

At the attack, and due to the effect of it, Ms. Saunders stumbled backward, she too bending over to check her poor, wounded toes. As she did, and after Riya kicked her own heels off, and away from her, the same stormed forward and grabbed at the bent over Ms. Saunders. The hands of the former landing and taking two firm handfuls of the middle of Katie’s black dress. Then, with those grasps, Riya pulled hard, wanting to not only even the score but to then leave the dress pulled over the teacher’s head, to blind her as the fight continued. But Katie, blinded by rage already, did not do as expected, and mid-pull charged forward. As she did, she drove her dress-covered right shoulder and head into Riya’s soft stomach and pushed her until the lower back of the same crashed into Ms. Saunders’ desk. 

The desk being too short and unaffixed to the floor, however, caused Riya to fall backward, and without intention, fully pull Katie’s dress over her head. It coming loose and off, just as Riya’s back splashed down upon the top of the desk. With her hands full of the now bodiless garment, and with no more grip on her bigoted enemy, the latter began to climb up, looking to mount her desk-pressed foe. Riya, for her part, scrambled backward, not wanting to find herself pinned or trapped beneath this horrible, hateful woman. Not being on a floor, or a surface area to allow as much, however, Riya quickly found herself falling back and off the desk. 

A fate avoided by only two things. The first being that Riya’s shoulders and upper back landed and then braced against the seat of Ms. Saunders’ rolling, black, office chair. And second, that Ms. Saunders, just as her own heels fell off and down to the classroom floor, completed her mount and pressed her body down atop Riya’s. 

One might think, that with Riya’s awkward and perilous position, dangling off the desk, Katie might keep herself more securely atop the table, and do whatever damage she planned while straddling Riya’s hips. But instead, she followed and chased her enemy, even into the danger she found herself in. The white instructor scrambling up Riya’s olive-hued frame, and then leaning not only over but off of the desk, until her upper body too was balanced solely on the wheeled chair in which the instructor usually sat. From such a position, she reached between her and her enemy, and with a single hand pulled down her own black bra, before lowering her perfectly formed alabaster breasts atop Riya’s pretty face. 

“Mmm, sweet as honeysuckle; aren’t they, bitch?” Katie taunted as she pressed her breasts down atop her enemy. Reveling in the feeling of her dominance thus far, and the thought of taking her time hurting and humiliating the woman beneath her. 

In response, to not only the taunt but the reality of having her face being buried between her enemy’s breasts, Riya slapped and squirmed. The desperate mother doing all she could to fight back, even though together the two might collapse with even the slightest of movements. But even with her own reduced efforts and the way she and her enemy’s necks bent awkwardly to remain atop the precariously rolling chair, it was not enough. As a consequence, the chair began to roll back under their combined and misaligned weight, until Riya’s back and thighs started to slide off of the desk. 

It could hurt. It WOULD hurt. With the two women ending up in any number of positions — with any number of injuries, leaving the worse off of the two at the others mercy, or lack thereof. And so because of that, Riya tried, flexed, and planked as hard as she could to keep herself from falling, trying to dig her bare heels into the desk to keep she and her smothering enemy from collapsing. 

But when Riya’s efforts failed, and the chair on which they together balanced moved too far out and away, the two warring women fell. Not only off the desk but off the chair. With Katie falling through Riya’s legs and landing ass first on the cold tile floor. Riya, to her own relief, landed basically on Katie’s lap, with her legs resting around her enemy’s abdomen loose. At least for a moment, for the one subsequent, Riya’s legs closed, seized, and locked at the ankles around her still recovering enemy. An enemy who cried out loudly in agony, at the sudden and crushing hold of the Indian mother’s powerful legs. 

“Huh!”? Bitch!? What were you saying about honeysuckle!?” After asking the question, Riya sent a hard, rib-bending pulse through her legs, putting even more pressure on Katie who could do nothing more than moan out in pain. 

“OoOOOWwWwWweeEEEE–AAWWWWWW!!!” Katie squirmed, and wilted, struggling even trying to breathe as Riya poured on the pressure. A pressure which came as both women’s bras, Katie’s black, and Riya’s white, came to a gentle rests around their waists. 

“That’s right — suffer, you racist cunt!” As Riya taunted, every fiber of muscle in her lower half flexed, she wanting to torture this woman who not minutes before had taken glee and affixing her breasts to face in a bare-chested smother. 

“Geeetttt, oOoOOffff, mEEeeEeeeEEEe….” Katie groaned out, as Riya remained bound to her — tightened like a vice and pressing like a piston. Wanting this moment, this hold, this state of their war to last. And last it did, as without response or sound around them, apart from the platinum blonde’s groans, Riya maintained. With she and her enemy’s eyes meeting, in brief flashes of unspoken communication. 

I hate you. 

I have you. 

I will get free. 

No you won’t.

In flashes, their hate-filled eyes spoke for them, all as Riya poured it on. The Indian mother settling into her dominance and Katie’s lap, as she brushed her coffee-brown hair out from in front of her face. She not wanting to lose sight of her victim as she tortured her. But just as she moved those strands, the groaning teacher between her legs began to lean, or almost collapse backward, and into the leg well of her desk, blinded by the pain in her ribs and the burning in her lungs.

“Let me go….” Came a soft, almost pathetic whimper from the previously dominant instructor, words which came as she drifted back into the blackness of the well. 

“Never, bitch….” Riya responded matter-of-factly as if she would keep Katie between her legs from that moment on. As if the students in her class would come in on Monday and find the two, just like this. Half-naked, with one wrapped around the other, squeezing. To secure that fate, or something like it, Riya leaned in, following Katie, pressing their breasts together, as the brunette went to wrap her arms around the blonde, wanting to bring her back to an upright and seated position of suffering.

Just as Riya moved in, however, Katie reached up, grabbed the back of her sturdy wooden keyboard tray, one affixed to her desk by a sliding metal track, and then slammed it forward hard, right into Riya’s forehead. The blow, as harsh, and unrepentant as it was, sent the Indian mother falling backward, and groaning in unexpected pain. 

Unable to focus on keeping her legs bound tightly to Katie’s ribs and abdomen, Riya quickly tried to put distance between herself and her son’s teacher. Scrambling backward, even as her head throbbed from the Ms. Saunders’ decisive, keyboard tray blow. 

Katie, finally free, and hungry for revenge, clambered after Riya, even though she was still winded from having her lungs forcefully compressed, and suffering from a pain so deep in her ribs, she could taste the pain. “Where do you … think you’re going, bitch…?” Katie pushed out, as she reached her still reeling enemy, who in response to the closeness of the speaking voice, turned over onto her stomach to protect her face. 

Such a turn, Katie took in stride, as she, without missing a beat, dropped down onto Riya, and straddled the small of her back. Still trying to gather herself, the floured Indian mother began to strike out with both arms to her sides wildly, each such desperate attack missing entirely. As those defensive attacks found not but air, Katie reached forward, wrapped her forearms around Riya’s cheeks, locked her fingers just past the olive-skinned woman’s chin, and then locked tight. That sudden seizure played anchor, as the ascendant instructor leaned back, and with a wicked smile on her face, bent Riya’s neck at the most painful of angles, forcing her head up off the floor, and then back.

“It’s just like I’m at the rodeo…. Riding myself a little brown cow of my own….” In a voice and a tone, betraying a sudden surge of confidence, Katie almost purred her taunt. Every word of it coming with an increase in both the torque and angle at which the white teacher pulled Riya’s straining and bending neck. 

The sound of Katie’s voice alone — the way it dripped with certainty and enjoyment, would be enough to drive Riya into fighting to escape. But, neither she nor Katie were svelt or petite; each having instead thick frames, wide hips, and mouth-wateringly solid thighs. And so even as Riya began to try and push herself off the floor, hoping to topple her attacker, or at least unsettle her position enough to the lessen the pain she applied, the brunette found nothing. No lift. No topple. No lessening. Only pain, as Katie leaned further back — pulling Riya so far off the checkered classroom floor, that her breasts not only lifted up but then off of it. 

Upon that happening — that lifting, Katie sacrificed a hand, moving her left around Riya, and grabbing her bare breast on that same side. But it was not just a grab. Not just a taking — a sign of some kind of ownership. No, for quickly did Katie dig her nails in deep and gouge with them. Causing Riya to scream out in pain. 

“UGH — that’s right! Scream for me, you raghead slut!” Katie almost moaned, as Riya writhed beneath her, prying desperately at the platinum blonde’s remaining chin-bound hand. The former beginning to gently rock forward, and then back, without intention, grinding herself on her victim. The thick, hate-filled teacher feeling something more than hate — more than anger. Something more carnal and animalistic. The excitement of domination and forced subjugation.

Feelings lost on Riya, at least at that moment, who could spend her thoughts on nothing other than enduring the pain in her neck, back, and breast. And yet, somewhere in that enduring, and in her suffering, the pained brunette had to find a way to escape. Even as her mounted enemy gouged at her breast, pried at her neck, and … and … what was she doing!? Finally, it dawned on Riya. Katie was not only hurting her. Torturing her. But basically, humping her too! Bitch! The brunette mother raged internally, as she began to feel not just Katie dragging her still covered sex back and forth, but also the resulting and growing wetness, pooling beneath her tormentor. 

Maybe it was Riya’s unfathomable rage at that realization, or perhaps Katie’s distraction, but not moments later, did Riya finally find the strength. Not just to lift, but to turn, tipping the blonde up and off of her to the side. The escape came with no pain or power, and Katie was still hungry for control. She finding something more sexually satisfying in this moment, and this battle, than she had experienced for these last few lonely months without her husband. 

But that hunger, in every way the word can be meant, was shared by Riya — who too had been left alone, she having left her husband. Leaving her equally as alone — equally as desperate for excitement and enticement. Feelings of longing and desperation which seared, like a brand Katie’s sudden enjoyment of their struggle deep in Riya’s subconscious mind. Did she see it as a challenge? An offer? A dare? Yes. Yes. Yes….

“Bitch!” Katie cursed in frustration, as she lept once more into the fray, reaching out for Riya, who reached right back. Each grabbing for each other, catching each other, and then together, locking tight to each other on their knees. Their white and black bras coming unclasped and falling to the ground beneath them as they suddenly pressed together. Breasts meeting, and to the surprise of each, rock hard nipples stabbing to each other like the daggers they each wished they were fighting with. 

“This fucking turns you on, don’t it, bitch!” Katie accused brazenly, as she and her rival fought once again to overpower the other — each again finding only parity and stalemate. 

“You’re the one getting turned on, racist cunt! See!” As Riya’s lips formed the word “see,” she reached both hands between she and her enemy and then grabbed for nipples. Not her own, but Katie’s perfectly pink ones, which sat beautifully framed by Kennedy half-dollar-sized areola of the same hue. And with them, Riya then began to twist, even in their state of erection and obvious arousal. 

Even as she screamed out in pain, Katie returned the favor, by grabbing Riya’s darker, chocolate-cherry nipples — which mirrored Katie’s in size and surrounding, if not in color. And after having taken them for her own, she too began to twist, just as hard and just as far. Sending each woman into equal and opposite fits of yelping. Sounds which continued for a moment, but then faded into barely audible whimpers, as each of the two women tried to take the pain of the others onslaught.

Whose breasts were better? Stronger? Whose nipples could take more abuse? Whose will and hatred was forged from a hotter ignot…?

Wanting the answers to those questions to be their name and not else, each refused to let go or relent. The two warring women instead trying to outlast, out-twist, and in the process, force the other give in first. 

But instead of forcing the other — breaking the other, there in the center of the classroom, they together began to wilt, and melt in each others grasp. Each having to lean into and against each other, just to keep from collapsing from the pain. Their foreheads coming to rest together, as each glared hatefully — their eyes welling with tears that they refused to shed for the other.

On that perilous edge of their whimper-sounding tongues and grimace-bent lips, lingered so many words, insults, curses, and dares. Utterances threatening to be made along with pleas for release and relenting, though neither would ever admit it. But just as each neared giving the other the submission they so badly wanted, at least in this singular contest, Katie instead pursed her lips. 

Seeing those lips move, and feeling the hot air that escaped them, pushed Riya into believing that her enemy intended to kiss her. The thought was disgusting! Or was it? Horrific and mortifying! Or neither and nothing of the sort. Unsure, conflicted, and still writhing in pain with her rival, Riya knew not what to do, should her rival lock their lips together. But just as that threat seemed so real — so present, the blonde spit. The saliva hitting and splashing about the brunette’s nose, causing her to not only forget about her twisting of the blonde’s nipples but to close her eyes in both shock and disgust. 

With her enemy’s eyes closed, Katie saw an opportunity, one that would leave her no time to worry about how badly her breasts hurt, or how strong the pull was to care for them was. And though it took everything in her, that opportunity she took, by lunging at Riya and tackling her to the classroom floor.  

Riya, getting over her outrage at Katie’s spit, opened her eyes as she was tackled backward, and tried, as best she could, to force them to land together on either their sides or with her on top. But somehow and someway, Katie held strong and landed atop Riya. 

A slap. Swiping or dug in claws. A smother. The floor-bound mother expected all of those attacks, not at once, but together in some terrible combination. Instead, however, as soon as their intertwined bodies landed together on the floor, Katie instead reached down, and awkwardly began to tug. Not at nipple or hair, but at Riya’s white panties, the blonde teacher doing whatever she could to get them off of her grounded enemy. Muttering as her efforts began. “Why don’t we check to see how turned on you really are, slut.”

Part of Riya was confused, but ALL of her wanted to hurt the bitch atop her. And so she thought. Planned. Quickly, of course. Trying to decide how to best use this moment of Katie’s sudden and unexpected obsession with her panties, to turn the tables. And though it was her mind that worked, it was her eyes that found the answer. An answer Katie also discovered, as just as she had finally pulled Riya’s panties down to her thighs, and then with a rising left leg and kicking foot, took them off of her, the blonde felt something tighten around her neck. 

Eyes went wide. Hands shot up, and fingers grasped! But before any of it was useful or even thought of, Riya had already secured her enemy’s bra around the neck of the same. 

“Mmmm, feel that, bitch?” Riya asked mockingly, as Katie in an instant seemed to give in, and roll off to the side. The former followed, holding tightly to her grip on the two twisted and opposite ends of the bra. Using it not only as a choke, but as a leash, letting and, in fact, guiding Katie down to her back, as Riya raised up to her knees. 

From there, as Riya looked down confidently as Katie, who squirmed in front of her terrified, prying desperately at the cinched bra around her throat, the conquering Indian mother shot back a reply to what Katie had said just moments before. “You’re the one who’s turned on, bitch! I’ll show you!”As Riya’s words drifted from smirking lips to blonde-hair-covered ears, the olive-skinned mother reached down and grabbed Katie’s moist, black panties. The mother of Aditya thereafter taking pleasure in tugging them down Katie’s thick thighs, powerful calves, and curling toes. In so doing, Riya had removed the last bit of clothing either women wore. A piece of clothing, small as it may have been, that was then shoved forcefully into Katie’s gasping mouth — wet-center-first. 

“Can you taste the excitement, cunt? Hmmm…? Is it yummy…?” It was now Riya’s voice that had changed. It too becoming softer, deeper, and more akin to sultry than loathing. Each of the two women losing themselves to this battle with one another. Neither caring where it might lead them. Neither worrying about what limits they might pass on their way there. No, their struggle would be mother against teacher — woman against woman — body against body. Until one of them could go no longer. 

Far from those distant truths, however, or perhaps, at their core, did Katie find her own panties stuffed into her mouth. She, being forced by the Indian enemy kneeling above her, to taste her own battle-drawn juices which coated her lips and brushed against her tongue. But the taste. The thought. The outright humiliation of it, passed mostly without notice, as Katie had but one thing on her mind: Riya’s choke upon her.

Right, and then left, Katie rolled after spitting out her own panties. The blonde in each direction trying to escape a choke which was draining her of not only breath but energy and consciousness. In such attempts, the sputtering and gasping teacher tried to pull free of the choking confines of her own, lacy black bra. But on each such effort, Riya held tight — held steady. Even as Katie gave one last attempt with all, she had, rolling hard to her right and then rising to her knees to try and pull away. So strong was the attempt by the blonde, that the brunette found herself tugged forward by the bra straps she held in each hand. 

Just as Riya was yanked forward, however, Katie found herself pulled in opposite. With the two women meeting in the middle, as the Indian mother’s breasts and body slammed into the porcelain white teacher’s back. There, on the classroom floor, when the two kneeling women met body-to-body once again, Katie began to wilt, collapsing in front of Riya, who pulled tighter and tighter at the bra, strangling her enemy without mercy.

There, in that closeness, with Riya in absolute and full control, leaning the weight of her naked body on Katie, cinching up on her strangle to keep them both from falling to the ground, the dominant mother whispered. “Got you, bitch….” 

The soft, hissing words were heard by Katie, who after all of her fight to escape, found herself collapsing from the choke. Her body giving in. Her consciousness leaving her body. At that moment, the fight seemed to be Riya’s, as Ms. Saunders began to slump forward and down. Her sapphire eyes blinking rapidly, and her lips parting and lungs sucking for air that did not come. In that moment of presumed victory, Riya again whispered, looking to taunt Katie one last time before she faded into defeated oblivion. “Beaten by an Indian woman again, cunt…. I can see why your husband…. AAAaaaAaRRrRrrRGGHhHhHHh!!!!” 

In a blink, words of dominance and control turned to horror, as sharp blue fingernails dug deep into Riya’s bushy, black-haired pussy. Not just into the outskirts, or the exterior of her labia, but further, harder, and as deep as they could possibly go. 

At that moment, so much of Riya wanted to just cling to her choke. To hold onto the two ends of her enemy’s squeezing bra, and finish this — FINISH HER! But as Katie’s claws stabbed past and through the moist, raven-haired exterior of her Indian enemy’s sex, Riya could do not but shriek, so intensely in fact, that it came without a sound. In that agony, Riya released her choking grasp and began to keel over, leaning into Katie now, in opposite of only a moment before.

But Katie, still blind and broken from the after-effects of asphyxiation, could not resist collapsing at the sudden application of weight. She, in her suddenly resurgent glory, collapsing to all fours save for a single hand, as her rival collapsed atop her back, and then rolled off into a heap on the floor. But as all of this transpired, one woman falling to her knees and the other to her back to the side, Katie never let her newly applied claw falter. Keeping it well-place, and deeply-dug, her digits even further inside, even as Riya’s hands moved to wrist and began to pull, desperately. 

Needing to taunt this woman who had moments before mocked her so cruelly, Katie began, but her bruised and reddened throat gave her nothing but a croak, and a wheeze, as she did so. “I caaa….” She offered with a deep, hoarse cough. “…caaaaaannn…” She tried again, before her still burning lungs seized on her, and demanded she abandon the attempt. But with that abandonment, and stolen voice, Katie found rage. One that had moved from smolder, to flare, to inferno, and now past. Pushing her to hate this woman, this perceived invader, and personified reminder of her husband’s betrayal, even more than before. 

Those emotions, as if gasoline and gunpowder made into one, pushed Katie to raise up to her knees again, and with her free right hand, grab at Riya’s now sweaty brown hair. That grip she then used to pull the olive-skinned woman’s upper body off of the floor, leaving her in a sit. A sit which would have lasted only a second, before giving into collapse, had the blonde teacher not lifted her powerful right leg and propped it behind Riya with a bent knee. With her misery-struck enemy stable, Katie then moved in, both with her fingers, digging them as far as they would go and then inches further, but also with her own face, which she moved closer to Riya’s. 

Those faces. Their faces. At that moment, were a tale of two stories. One of pain and agony, and the other of malice and joy. 

No, god! No! Please! Let me go! Uggghhhhnnnn!! Riya wanted to say — wanted to cry — wanted to BEG, as she whimpered and moaned at her enemy’s touch. But as her mouth stood open quivering, and tears began to flood from her onyx-hued eyes, she could give nothing. Offer nothing. Her words, like Katie’s taken from her, not by absent breath but by present pain. A pain which tore at her very center. Her womanhood. The first sensation of any kind, in that most sacred of areas, produced by anyone other than herself, in so very long. 

And though Riya, as she leaned heavily against Katie’s bent leg, buried and impaled at the furthest reaches of the two woman’s spectrum of war, the blonde, even as she recovered, found herself at the other. On her mind: one thought. Vengeance! The word ran on a loop in her mind, as she leaned in closer, the lips of her opening mouth pressing to Riya’s tear-and-mascara-stained cheek, as she began not to bite — not to chomp — but almost nibble. Her tongue extending to take and taste the tears that flowed. Their salty essence like manna from heaven, after the humiliating oblivion the clawing blonde had just drug herself back from. 

This had all come to pass because of Riya’s son, his grades, and Ms. Saunders’ unfair treatment of him. And though that was the spark and the kindle, at that moment, neither woman, even his mother, could even remember his name. For their battle had become something else. Something more akin to a purging. Not of one emotion, but all of them combined. A sharing and satisfaction — an inflicting and incinerating of every fear, every hate, every worry, and every longing that the two lonely women had allowed to build within themselves since they were parted from the men they had each believed to be their soulmates. 

Despite that unison of unknown and unspoken purpose, the two women could not have been more at odds, at that moment. And could not have hated each other more. Riya using every ounce of strength and groan-heightened focus to survive and endure, as Katie’s fingers pushed deep into her shamefully wet sex, before latching on, digging in, and then dragging out. A suffering that drove Katie wild, as her taunting nibbles on her enemy’s cheek became harder and nastier. Her teeth catching and jaw clenching, just as Riya’s hands moved from the blonde’s wrist to her bare breasts, hoping that perhaps offensive squeezing and pinching might do, what defensive prying had not. 

In a way, the change in tactics worked to end the nail-first assault. As only seconds after Riya’s fingers tightened around Katie’s alabaster breasts, did the latter suddenly shift. Suddenly lift and then round. Releasing her devastating claw hold, so that she could then stand in part, and then a moment later, lower herself atop her enemy’s lap. The teacher’s naked ass coming to a rest between Riya’s legs, as the powerful thighs of the former began to wrap around the Indian mother’s abdomen. 

A second or two after, without warning or word, those same coiling legs straightened like wrought iron bars and tightened like a vice, locking together at the ankles behind Riya’s back. At the feeling, the brunette’s hands dropped from the blonde’s breasts, and she screamed out at the torment. The sound of that shriek coming as a soundtrack, as the agonized mother leaned back in her enemy’s grasp, and reached for the thighs of the same. With those hands applied, Riya pushed desperately — pitifully, as her ribs began to bend and her insides felt as if they might explode. 

With both hands free, and her wind returned, Katie launched a hard, stinging slap, which landed with an echoing clap against Riya’s tear-stained cheek, before taunting. “You got what, now…? Huh…? Bitch!?” Before Riya could even respond or even process the call back to her previous comment — one that felt like it was hours ago, a second slap landed hard. Then a third, and a fourth. Each heavier than the last. 

As every breath was at that moment squeezed from her body, Riya felt as if the slaps might continue on, one after another, until she could no longer count them, or remember when they began. But just as that pain started to feel like the new permanent state of her ongoing hell, those same hands which had slapped, grabbed. They two seizing on Riya’s naked breasts, just as her own had on Katie’s moments before. Somehow, counter-intuitively, the pain of that new attack seemed lessened — ebbed almost, when added atop all others. The crushing squeeze of Katie’s mile-wide thighs. The lingering ravaging of her possibly bleeding inner-sex. Her forehead from the keyboard tray being slammed into it when the two together fell from the teacher’s desk. Even Riya’s toes still hurt, despite the length of this exhausting battle. Lost, and spiraling in that haze of anguish, the Indian mother could still hear her enemy’s taunts. 

“Cry for me, you curry-munching cunt! CRY!!” And though, at that moment, she did cry. And though she had already been crying for minutes on end. Something about the demand — the insult struck at Riya’s very soul. It, like a dagger, piercing the last recesses of unwounded space that remained. Then, like a tiny cinder finding some new, undiminished accelerant, her fire to fight back was not just rekindled but whirled and whipped into such fire and heat that the squeezing blonde teacher found herself completely overwhelmed in an instant. One, in which the Indian mother, driven by rage and hatred, brought her head forward with such force, that when the tip of her brown hairline slammed into Katie’s forehead, the latter collapsed backward, nearly blacking out as she fell. 

In that battle to remain conscious, Katie could focus not on maintaining her painful leg scissor or keeping her hands on Riya’s beautiful brown breasts. An inability matched and equaled in her enemy, who expended her everything in that brutal, and unexpected headbutt. One which left even she dazed and confused — broken and battered, and in shape to do not but collapse next to her foe. Each on their back. Their chests heaving as they searched for air and energy, both together and for the first time in so long … apart.

It was then, as each of the two thick-thighed and nude women laid next to each other — each ruined — each decimated — each resting, though not by choice. 

In that fatigue-forced ceasefire, seconds turned to minutes, as they side-by-side, gasped and groaned, their upper lips as parched as the Sahara, and their lower lips as wet as the sea. Neither able to move or even look to each other, their entire minds focused on nothing but just continuing to breathe and maintain their will in a war this bereft of mercy or restraint.

But as one moment drifted into the next, Riya’s right hand and Katie’s left drifted. With that drift, came a touch. A soft, accidental brush, but it was enough. Enough for them to search and then find, lacing the fingers on those hands together, as each used their newly discovered grip on the other to pull themselves up. As they raised, they together moaned out in exhaustion, their bodies ravaged by pain and passion, as well as the fatigue of their fight. Due to precisely that, they wobbled as they reached their knees, leaning against each other just to keep from collapsing. Their sore breasts meeting and pressing, with still hard nipples stabbing into each others wounded, and hue-opposed areolas. 

Too tired to pull apart and re-engage, each of the two women clung to their grasp on the others hand. They together keeping their fingers laced, as with their unbound hands they began to slap at each others bodies, even as their chins came to a rest on each others shoulders. 

“Fff-uck you …. you racist … bitch….” Riya sputtered out through quick, seizing breaths. Sounds which came as each delivered, slow, hard slaps to each others thigh and ass. 

“Ddd-ot-head … cunt…. OoooOo….”  Katie replied with no force or fire, her words ending in a pained moan, as Riya’s palm landed in a particularly stinging slap. 

“Owe….” Came a similar betrayal of pain, as the blonde unleashed a similarly effective strike. But as each felt the sting of the others slaps, being unleashed without defense, their free hands set out until they found. Each taking the others hand into their own, and lacing their fingers together, like those on their opposite.

For a moment, as they tightened their grip, they just remained. Not striking or cursing — not biting or baiting. Each hoping that after this next breath, their energy would return. But one breath after another came, and the two warring women remained as they were. Tired. Broken. Wounded. And though one might think that it would be then that sense would hit them. That modesty and maturity would seize back control from the madness they had locked themselves in. But instead, as their damp, bushy pubic hairs tangled and tugged. And as their bruised and battered breasts pressed and pressured their opposing pair out to their sides, Riya pushed with her left hand. 

In an instant, Katie pushed back with her right, and then before either knew it, they found themselves driving into each other. Testing each other. To see what either had left. To find what strength was left in their ravaged bodies. The two women, at that moment, beginning to lean harder, and with their floor-bound knees, scoot back farther. Bringing to bear not just the force created by their hands and arms, but as much of their thick-framed weight as they could muster. 

Despite that constant and increasing pressure, and the toll it began to take on each of them, each of the two seemed to be reviving. Recovering. The moments of more subtle and less fast-paced action letting both catch their, at this point, fifth wind. 

Relying on that newly found fire, the two women together began to stand, even while their hands remained clasped and arms continued pushing. Each of the two enemies lifting one leg and then the other, with their soles pressing, and calves flexing, with seemingly matched intent on bringing their test of strength up from their knees, so that it might be waged on their feet. 

But three-quarters of the way up, and just as Katie was at her most vulnerable, Riya shot up her left knee, as hard as she possibly could, slamming the cap of the firing limb into the blonde’s clit. The blow was crushing and sent the blonde crashing back down to the floor — not to her knees, but her ass, and then with a low, wounded groan, her back. 

With her opponent — her enemy, floored and flailing, her hands reaching down to protect her poor, wounded clit from any further damage, Riya pounced. In as much a pounce as her weary body could muster, she dropping to her knees after a stumble, her thighs coming down on either side of the blonde’s effort-flushed cheeks.

With Katie’s face mounted, there next to her own desk, Riya thought about it, for the briefest of seconds. Sitting on her face. Just, putting out the racist bitch’s already dim flame in a slow, grinding, lounge of a sit. And though the thought was tempting, and tasty, as the thought lingered on her mind, and perhaps soon at the tip of Katie’s tongue, the mother thought better of it. Knowing that her best asset — her most potent weapon, just like Katie’s, was her thighs. And that applying those — wrapping those once again, around the woman who squirmed beneath her, would give her the best chance of victory if such a thing could even be earned after all this. 

Whether it could or couldn’t, after all this pain, and all this destruction of each other, Riya clenched, flexing her brutally strong thighs against Katie’s cheeks. And when she knew she had her enemy secured, the nude, olive-skinned mother rolled — onto a thigh, and then her back, pulling her child’s tormentor with her as she turned. 

Katie, in a brief flash of resistance, tried to escape, pressing her palms to the floor as they moved. But as soon as she has raised herself even an inch, Riya’s legs flexed hard and locked together at the calves behind Katie’s head. At that moment, it sounded like it came in one, gathering, symphony of sound. Soft, pathetic whimpers, the sound of bones creaking within the blonde’s neck and skull, and then … the most beautiful sound Riya had ever heard. The sound of Katie begging for release, or at least that’s what she assumed it to be. Not a word of it intelligible, as each was spoken directly into the triumphant mother’s black-bush-covered sex. 

Unintelligible or not, Riya continued to squeeze, tighter and tighter. She, the presumed victor, relenting just long enough to spread her own thighs, and allow Katie’s nose and mouth to slip deeper into her waiting and wanting sex. With her there. With her enemy ideally placed to serve, Riya demanded just that. The taboo nature of wanting someone she hated more than words could convey to please her forgotten, ignored, or instead, used as fuel for her own uncontrolled and growing passions. 

“Fucking, lick me, cunt! Eat me out, right here on the floor of your FUCKING classroom!” Riya demanded with a glee-tinged ferocity. She finally had her. The racist bitch who had dared fight her. Who had dared mess with her child. A bitch who at that moment was trapped, buried, face-first in Riya’s burning sex. 

If it were just that — just where she had her — just a well-applied headscissor, Riya would be cautious. Careful. Nervous that at any moment the tables might turn. But in every way that one might be, Katie, trapped there between muscle-etched thighs, appeared broken. Her body soft and without resistance. Her hands, with fingers spread, resting softly on Riya’s pain-inflicting thighs. Her lips and mouth not shouting or cursing anymore, but instead, if what the dominant mother felt could be believed, timidly beginning to do as was ordered — to lick. To please…. 

Into that intoxicating dominance, one inflicted upon a woman who had not moments before been at the very height of control in this struggle, Riya sank. But even as she did, she let up not a single bit. Still squeezing. Still torturing. Still owning the bitch between her thighs. And though she didn’t relent in force, she did so in focus. Not noticing as one of Katie’s hands left her thighs. Too entranced by the sensation of her enemy’s tongue lashing against her clit to worry where that hand went. Too lost in the feeling of her rival whimpering into the sex she earlier tore at, to wonder what that hand might be doing. 

But then it came. 

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Like a lightning bolt of pain that made Riya’s eyes go wide, and her whole body spasm with the same. 

“BITCH!!” Came a shouted insult from Katie, as her face pulled out from between Riya’s thighs, which with rapidity came unclenched. 

<<SNAP>> A subtle but telling sound followed, as the pencil that the blonde teacher had stabbed deep into Riya’s right thigh broke upon exit, it having been driven cruelly into the Indian mother’s flesh and muscle. 

At that moment, with both speed and desperation, Riya tried to sit up, to get to her fresh pencil-caused wound. Wanting. NEEDING to check to see what damage had been done. But as she raised up, Katie dove forward and down upon, thereafter pinning Riya to the classroom floor. Not with shins or hands, but with her naked white ass, which landed on equally unclothed brown breasts. 

“FUCK YOU! GET OFF ME!” Riya cried as she tried to press Katie off of her, she being more focused on her leg and the wound it had suffered, than fighting back or resisting Katie’s fresh offensive. An offensive which began, with one heavy, deliberate slap … and then another, just as before. 

Unlike before, however, as palms landed and the sound of flesh hitting flesh rang out and echoed off the walls, they did not stop. Not after three or five — ten or twenty. Each of the strikes coming as their deliverer’s own reserves began to truly run out. Her every labored breath coming deep and hard, with none giving her the oxygen she needed. And from that lack, at a time of such need, the blonde began to wobble atop her foe. A foe who did not speak or strike back. One that just laid there, as hand after hand rained down upon her. 

“Give….” Katie demanded as Riya’s body became still beneath her. Asking for her enemy’s submission, even as her own vision blurred from exhaustion. 

“Beg me….” The blonde added as she looked down for the first time in the last ten slaps. There finding Riya’s tear-stained face. Her bloodied lips trying to form words, but without success or sound. She being too far gone — too battered — too broken. 

And though she would have loved at that moment to hear it — to bathe in the sound of her enemy’s tearful submission, she wanted one thing more. A thing she took, as she pushed through her own crippling exhaustion, and drug herself forward to take her rightful seat on Riya’s battered face.

“Wake….” Katie stuttered after a single word, before finding the barest whips of focus and wind. “Wake up, bitch — we’re not done here….”

If she, Riya, as she laid there below her enemy, could link words to meaning, or meaning to response, she would agree. She would understand. That she was done, in every way the word could mean but one…. 

“Give it to me!” The triumphantly mounted blonde insisted in a tone which revealed her partly returning vigor. But even that tone. Even in that demand, and Katie’s right to it, Riya found her mind too wracked and wrecked by pain and fatigue to act. And so it fell to the teacher who sat upon the defeated Indian mother’s face to find it for her — to drag it out of her.

But before one can drag, they must latch on — they must snare, and Katie did, by arching back upon her victim.  The race-focused and dominant blonde, rocking back on her healthy ass; an ass which sat atop Riya’s bruised breasts, and breathless chest. On that fulcrum, and its below, the battle’s victor leaned as far as she needed, to then reach back, down, and with a tight grip, grab ahold of her enemy’s sex.  A sex she at that moment claimed ownership of — a sex she intended to use to force the compliance she wanted. 

“Come on….” Katie said in a frustrated pant, just as her fingers began to drive in. Not claw-first or in a gouging manner, but instead rigid and pleasure-seeking. 

“Come on…. Wake up….” The blonde prodded, almost as if the words were a mantra that must be spoken while casting that particular spell. 

A spell of humiliation. 

A spell of hatred. 

A spell of forced-pleasure. 

A spell of awakening. 

“I know you want it, you dot-headed slut. Moan for me….” In the darkness, she felt fingers driving within her. And in the after-earned haze of scarcely dimming consciousness, she felt Katie’s fingertips find her clit. Stirred in only the shallowest of ways, Riya opened her eyes. There, in her gray-scale sight, she found her enemy’s unkempt droplet-strewn blonde bush, framed by powerful thighs closed in about her face.  Above that, a small round of tummy — one dwarfed by the pearl-hued breasts that hung above it. 

After Riya’s sight, two more sensations returned: smell and taste. The first, being of nothing other than her enemy’s clit.  An organ of pleasure and control that rested — no, pressed against the defeated Indian mother’s nose and nostrils. And the second, being the expectant juices of her conqueror. The very essence of the racist woman who had fought her — struggled against her — insulted her in the foulest of ways.

Though those thoughts alone were enough to impress upon Riya a sense of gut-wrenching humiliation, she felt something else coming with it. Worsening it, while at the same time dimming it, if for only a moment. 

The most acute being pleasure. A sensation that ripped through her body like the sharpest of daggers taken to the softest of sheets, causing her to moan out low and deep, as instructed. The sound muffled almost completely by the watering sex into which it was delivered. Then along with it and shamefully, desire. A desire for Katie to go faster — drive deeper — and though it was contrary to almost everything she would think she would want, for her enemy to finger her to orgasm. Not just an orgasm, but the hardest, most terrible, and intensely nasty orgasm she had ever experienced in her life.

Just the thought of such an unwanted and unimaginable desire made Riya squirm — made her whimper pathetically into Katie’s sex, as the former tried to get free. But with each feeble attempt and every strengthless sounding of resistance, the blonde above only gave more. Took more. Using her fingers to do to Riya everything she would want done to her. All those things the blonde had imagined Riya doing, in those moments during their fight where the thick-thighed instructor let her mind wander astray from hate. 

“Lick me! Do it! I won! Please….” Every word spoken by Katie, even as she sat atop her bested rival’s face, sounded less and less confident, and instead more and more like pleas. She wanted it. Needed it. To feel her enemy’s mouth and tongue rewarding her for her hard-fought victory.  And just as that welling desperation brimmed on madness and in a way, it’s own form of submission, Riya gave in. The pain of all that had been done to her and the pleasure of Katie fingering her without abandon, earning her submission — both ultimate and complete. 

That moment. That instant. That unity of time and temerity — hate and want, felt like a hammer, or more accurately a lightning bolt. One that cracked upon the sky and hit both Katie and Riya, as they, together naked on that classroom floor, pleased each other. One with her mouth out of submission and subjugation, and the other with her fingers out of dominance and control. 

“Mah god…. Mah goddddddd….” Katie said without breath or sound, as she felt it stirring deep within her. Not caring, at that moment, about the Lord, his name, or what might be seen in vain. Instead just calling to the universe, telling them it was coming. An orgasm. One wild and uncontrolled — devastating and incredible. One that hit not just she, but they. The orgasm seeming to sound in one, and like a shockwave spread out into both of them simultaneously. A release of mounted and malicious sexual frustration that had built for months — begged for months to be let out and loosed from its chains. 

Free of such bindings, the mutually destructive and satisfying orgasm tore them both apart. Such a seemingly linked state coming in both animalistic screams of ecstasy and intensely violent shaking. A shaking that ended in seized and spasming muscles and toes that though at first curled, came to an iron-wrought straighten. 

An eternity, that moment seemed to last. A lifetime and more, it seemed to be that they two enemies — they two rivals were bound. Tied. Dependent on each other for the pleasure they needed to satisfy them. But then it ended, somewhere in the final silence. As without the ability to do anything else, Katie collapsed forward and off of the defeated woman below her. The exhausted victor using her last ounce of strength to grab at Riya’s disheveled black hair, and with it, wipe the coalesced secretions of them both from her kitten. 

Able to do no more. 

Give no more. 

TAKE no more. 

The two women slipped into the darkness together.  Their thirsts quenched. The questions of dominance and control that flared between them having been answered. 

It would be too simple to say that when Riya woke nude — woke broken and alone, covered in thrown sheets of Aditya’s homework, she just left. For she wept first. Then cursed; hating not only the racist teacher that had bested her but also herself for all that had transpired. But as the seven stages set in, and she picked up her clothing, she found laying upon her dress, transfer papers to a new class. A new school. One across town. 

Knowing she had no choice or alternative, Riya signed the paper and left it on Ms. Saunders’ desk. It would be hard to switch schools again. Leave his friends again. But better that, than leave him in the hands of her enemy. 

The hands of an emboldened Ms. Saunders.

The End

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