Of Swords and Sex by AnubisX

A sexfight story by Anubisx based on a story by Corrina Sexton

Prologue

In 1870, the winds of imminent war were blowing through Europe. By summer, the armies of the Second French Empire and the North German Confederation would clash in a conflict that would turn the tide of power on the Old Continent. The fight of steel and gunpowder would spread over land and sea, blood watering the fields of Weissenburg and Wörth, of Gravelotte and Sedan until the fall of Paris.

That is what the history books tell us. However, another war reached Paris months before Napoleon III declared war on Bismarck, a war you won’t find in any book. A war told only in whispers, in nights where only a few candles flicker; a war that men can only dream of, a secret war where two women such as there had never been in centuries in Europe fought each other out of pride, hatred and fascination.

This is the story of Dominique Beaumont and Francesca Bellini, Parisian and Florentine, redhead and brunette, the woman and the woman. This is the story that proved that, in the end, among women it’s all about pussy fighting.

Part I
The Fencing Duel

All about women being natural enemies

Chapter 1
An Angry Arousal

1870, outskirts of Paris

The thick, massive oak doors weren’t enough to muzzle the erotic sounds that emanated from the bed chamber and echoed through the hallways of the ancient villa. They were feminine sounds, deep, throaty moans of passion and excitement coming from a woman who was obviously unashamed of what she was doing, a woman who was utterly unconcerned about who might hear her. After all, her maidservants, her butler or her stable master had heard those open, lusty, uninhibited echoes on countless occasions, regardless of whether the lady was in her private quarters alone, with a man…or another woman. Inside the grand, opulently furnished chamber floor-length, gauzy-white drapes billowed and fluttered in front of the vast, open, floor- length windows which dominated the back wall and, in between the lusty groans of female arousal, the sound of the thin, silky material flapping in the warm spring breeze and the birds chirping in the trees just outside reached the woman’s ears like the calm whisper of a sunset preceding a night of passionate screams and moans.

Lying flat on her back in the huge, wooden rectangular bed located just to the right of the windows of the mansion, Dominique Beaumont’s voluptuous, exquisite nude body trembled, her shapely legs bent at the knees and spread wide out in front of her, her slender torso snaking back and forth and back and forth as her hard, plump butt slid across the silky sheets. From time to time her body would abruptly stiffen, the woman’s luscious ass rising high above the bed as her pelvis bucked powerfully up and down, up and down, over and over again, before finally settling back down on the mattress and resuming its side to side motion. Curled locks of flaming red hair brushed sensuously across her cheeks as she lifted her head and peered down between her full, rounded breasts and protruding pink nipples into the space between her legs. Jutting out from the incredibly dense and lavish mat of her bright crimson pubic hair, Dominique could see her thick, brawny, muscular labia and big and densely packed clit filling up with blood and throbbing with excitement right before her very eyes.

With an incredibly erotic combination of strain and lust on her beautiful young face and a deep, guttural groan that communicated equal parts pleasure and physical exertion, Dominique clamped down with all of her might on the freshly peeled cucumber that she held half inside of her and half out, squeezing it between her labia with all of her might. Her swollen pussy lips constricted tightly around the light green cylinder, straining and trembling as they struggled to hold it in place even the gorgeous female slowly slid in and out with her right hand. The cucumber felt cool and slippery as it scraped along the hot, peeled walls of her womanhood and, as she watched her labia molding themselves to its shape, she couldn’t help but think how closely its dimensions approximated those of her lover. A flash of malice lit up her emerald green eyes as all of the muscles of her ass and thighs snapped to attention and bulged outward, as her firm, flat stomach sunk deeply into the valley between her jutting ribcage as she once again squeezed the cucumber as hard as she possibly could, bearing down on it as if she was intending to mash it to a pulp right then and there.

While a soft, delicious breeze stirred the long drapes and kissed Dominique’s sweaty white skin, she reached down with her left hand and placed the tips of her fingers at the very bottom of the opening to her womanhood. Then, slowly, delicately, she brushed them all the way up along the rim of her outstretched labia, moistening her fingertips with her slick, syrupy essence. Gently wedging the slippery tip of her ring finger deeply into the crease between her swollen clitoris and her labia, the woman lightly ran her finger around and around the base of her big love nub, watching with fascination as her labia immediately reacted to the stimulation, involuntarily contracting around the slippery probe again and again, each powerful spasm punctuated by a loud grunt that came half from pleasure and half from anger.

Dominique masturbated the same way that she did everything else in life: with gusto. From the crazed, demonic expression on her beautiful face, she looked as if she were a woman possessed by some spirit of lust. In her bed, she was utterly engrossed in the incredible sensations that she was feeling between her legs, with every muscle, every nerve ending, every bit of her luscious skin, every particle of feminine strength, beauty and energy that she had inside of her magnificent twenty-four-year-old body pouring straight into in the deepest and most intimate regions of her womanhood, energizing her pussy and giving her the power to make it do things that other women never even imagined possible.

That was the Parisian way, after all. Every well-bred French maiden of Dominique’s social status was expected to know how to use her cunt, but there was no one to match the fiery redhead. She can remember the first time she had seen two women of the Imperial Court engaged in playful little nude wrestling match, the courtesans testing the strength of their labia directly against each other by seeing who could immobilize the other’s lips by trapping it between her own, testing the strength of their clits against each other by seeing who’s could squash the other’s and push it all the way back up into its sheath. Even when it was all just in fun and Dominique watched the whole event with utter fascination, it was nothing compared to what she felt when she, for the first time, dared to confront in that way to another girl—Clémence Fougère, the person she most detested at the Court at the time. The fight between the two 19-year-old rookies was awkward, with both pulling each other’s hair and biting each other in front of a dozen noblewomen at the top of the highest tower of the Château de Nemours. But, as soon as the dresses were torn and the young skin uncovered, Dominique found herself instinctively thrusting her naked pussy against Clémence’s, as she had seen other women of the Court do before.

That was when Dominique understood that that form of female confrontation was much more than a simple fight. The thing that stuck in her mind the most, the thing that had more to do with making her the woman that she was than anything else in her young life, was the electrifying feeling that she got when everything became deadly serious as soon as she and that whore called Clémence found themselves settling their unfinished affairs of jealousy and courtly rivalry with their own pussies. Knowing that she was putting the bitch in her place once and for all by matching the strength of her womanhood directly against the other girl’s made Dominique understand what it really meant to be a woman. That day five years ago she also learned how addictive it was to force a rival to come against her will—an addiction that the redhead continued to feed to that day.

Dominique was the best of the best, but she was no exception among the noblewomen of Paris—and, if rumors were to be believed, among the women of the plebs as well. There was always an immense pride in every Parisian lady about her cunt’s ability to give and receive pleasure, a pride that came from a feminine determination that every man should be unable to forget the night he spent with a woman from Paris, and there was no better way to improve one’s own lovemaking skills than to pussy-fight with others. Dominique put her big cunt and even bigger pride to the test against countless French nobles and a couple of pompous prostitutes of the brothels of the north of Paris, and learned how to make her pussy come alive, how to make it get hot and wet and excited so that it would be ready to fight. She learned how to focus her minds straight into her pussy and control her lips, making them move completely on their own so that they could grip the lips of another woman and crush them with their own. She learned how to use the tiny bundle of muscles around the base of her clitoris in order to be able to move it around and jab it outward so that it could push back and mash the clit that was pressing against it, and make it come against hers. Dominique learned all that and more, and the only thing she didn’t learn was what it felt like to lose a because, to that very day, she was still undefeated.

It was no secret, especially to her opponents in the French nobility, that Dominique Beaumont was unique, exceptional. Not only did she possess an inherent sexual prowess, but also had the perfect body to get the most out of it: stiff and full boobs, long and muscular legs, firm and round butt, hard belly muscles, amazingly hairy cunt with meaty lips and a big, inflexible clitoris. There wasn’t a woman at Court—or anywhere else in France for that matter—who could match her, and she soon gained the reputation among all of the men as the most sought after lover in all of Paris, and among all women as the one to avoid if they didn’t want to end up with their pussies drained and beaten.

In the present, as the sun fell over the horizon beyond France in search of the distant lands beyond the ocean, Dominique rested her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes. As the back of her head sunk into the oversized cushions and slowly rocked back and forth, it was no secret that, from the absent, far-away look on her beautiful face, some pictures were dancing in her head—vivid, full color, life-sized pictures that she was using to stoke the fires of her burning passion, to take her to even greater and greater heights of sexual arousal. But the pictures that Dominique was conjuring up were not the usual pictures that she used when she masturbated—not the pictures of a strong, virile, chiseled young buck lying under her naked body and plunging his staff into the deepest parts of her. They were pictures of a woman, a young, beautiful, white-skinned woman with thick, red lips, wicked black eyes and wild, wavy black hair; an Italian woman from Florence with whom she had engaged in the strangest, most intense fencing duel just hours before, and with whom she had arranged to meet again when night fell right there in her own villa. They were pictures of the stunning, tempting Francesca Bellini.

Goosebumps covered her luscious skin, and a cold chill shot straight through her as Dominique replayed the scene from hours before over and over again in her mind: Francesca’s face coming right up to hers, nose to nose, her nostrils flaring, her luscious red lips curled into a vicious sneer, her wild, savage black eyes burning holes right through her, her gorgeous face so full of primitive rage and fury that she looked capable of ripping her open and devouring her insides right there on the spot. Dominique remembered how she had fought sword against sword with Francesca, but also everything that had happened afterwards without the blades—the nasty, dishonorable fight, and the climax that solved nothing. Never had the gorgeous redhead felt so challenged by the mere sight of another woman, and she already knew that she would never feel such intense rivalry for the rest of her life.

With a loud, angry roar, Dominique suddenly rammed the cucumber deeply inside of her and started driving it in and out and in and out along the walls of her pussy with frightening force and violence, faster and harder, moaning louder and louder and louder as she squeezed it over and over and over again with her powerful lips. Her entire body stiffened as she furiously exercised the muscles of her labia, tightening and constricting them, opening and closing them again and again and again, working them and straining them and pushing them to the very limit so that her proud French vaginal lips would be as strong as they could possibly be when they met the labia of a Florentine woman for the very first time. For years and years, Dominique had heard all of the whispers and rumors about how hot and savage the women of Florence were, about all of the secret things that they learned to do with their pussies, about all of the things that they knew how to do to a man’s dick…and to the pussy of another woman with their own. Things that only they knew, things that only they could do.

Now, Dominique was about to find out for herself if all of those whispers and rumors were true. As her body became more and more aroused, her pussy began to heat up and gush scented feminine sap. The Parisian beauty’s bosoms, plump and firm, bruised after what had happened earlier that morning, flushed with color as her long pink nipples stiffened, stretching into the warm air above her. Dominique’s healthy young body was reacting the same way that it always did when she was sexually stimulated, but that time there was something very, very different about it, something dangerous, something lethal. That was an angry arousal, a violent arousal, a sexual arousal of all of those very same things that a woman uses to give pleasure to a man, but which were now becoming aroused for an entirely different reason. They were becoming aroused so that she could use them to do harm to another woman; they were becoming aroused so that she could show that arrogant Florentine bitch what a French woman could do.

Dominique couldn’t wait to destroy Francesca’s pussy with her own.

Chapter 2
Riding the Stallion 

As Francesca Bellini jammed the sharp point of her black leather boot into the stirrup and swung her shapely body over the saddle of the muscular white stallion, her long, flowing black dress concealed the fact that she was not wearing anything underneath. She had been restless and jittery all afternoon about everything that had happened that morning at the Château de Maisons-Laffitte but, above all, about her upcoming rendezvous with Dominique Beaumont—a reencounter the striking woman was impatiently awaiting. She could still feel the butterflies fluttering in her stomach as she steered her horse out of the stables, hoping that a nice long ride in the country would help to calm her nerves.

Galloping down the dirt road towards the clump of trees in the distance, Francesca was amazed at how nervous she was. It wasn’t like she had never fought another woman with her cunt before. Having just turned twenty-four a few weeks ago, she had already been in more pussy fights than she could even remember—and she had won every single one of them. Still, that was going to be an entirely new experience for her, since it was the first time that she had ever been to Paris, and it was going to be the first time that she ever faced a French woman. The brunette was well aware of the reputation that the women of France had, nobles and commoners, a reputation that was even greater among the Parisian females: the prestige for being the best lovers and the best pussy fighters in all of Europe. Although Francesca had always been convinced that it was nothing more than an old wives’ tale, she couldn’t help but wonder if there could really be something that French women knew that other women didn’t, if there was really something their hairy cunts could do that other women’s pussies couldn’t. That vicious thoughts hadn’t left her since the events of hours before, when Dominique had shown how fierce and tough a Parisian beauty can be.

Francesca stopped herself in mid-thought, as she just couldn’t believe how foolish she was being. After all, she had her own reputation to uphold. In Florence there had long been a female tradition of being talented lovers, and there was no greater embarrassment that any young Florentine woman could ever suffer than to hear a man publicly expressing his dissatisfaction because she didn’t know what to do in bed. Of course, that meant that women had to practice, but they didn’t practice with men; they did something even better: they practiced with each other. They learned how to pussy-fight, because the better a girl is at battling with her cunt, the better she will be at making love to a man. It was something that every young woman of Francesca’s social status was expected to learn, and something that they took particular pride in being able to do—better than any other women in Italy, or anywhere else, for that matter.

To the women of Florence, knowing how to fight with their pussies was the single most important part of being a woman, and Francesca’s real sex education had begun five years earlier during clandestine, late night meetings, when all of the curious young girls living at the newly relocated Royal Court in Florence would secretly gather together by candlelight so that they could watch the older women practice their sexual techniques with each other, and on each other, in preparation for their sex nights with men. Francesca spent hours and hours behind closed doors with other females, exploring her own body and exploring each other’s bodies, learning where everything was and what it was for and how to make it work. She learned how to arouse herself, where and how to touch herself in order to turn herself on and make her body do what she wanted it to do. She learned how to stimulate her clit, how to make it get large and full, and super-hard and super-sensitive, so that her pussy would stay excited even through all of the pain. She learned how to exercise the muscles of her vaginal lips, how to make them bigger and stronger by opening and closing them over and over again, by squeezing them around any number of foreign objects, including wooden handles and bottles and all manner of fruits and vegetables. A Florentine girl wasn’t considered to be ready for a man unless she got to the point where she could put a peeled, not-quite-ripe banana inside of her and squash it into mush using the strength of her pussy-lips alone, and Francesca had been able to do that for many, many years.

Even to her own enemies in Florence, Francesca was someone special, someone inimitable. Her innate sexual curiosity was coupled with an amazing natural equipment: big and firm breasts, strong and bulging legs, tight and plump ass, powerful stomach muscles, incredibly hairy cunt with full labia and a rock-hard solid clit. There wasn’t a woman at Court—or anywhere else in Italy for that matter—who could match her, and she soon gained the status among all of the men as the most desired lover in all of Florence, and among all women as the one to avoid if they didn’t want to end up with their pussies consumed and defeated.

As her stallion trotted, Francesca’s set of firm boobs stretched the incredibly tight material of her dress with their weight. She could feel her full, heavy breasts rolling back and forth, feeling them bruised after the dirty duel with Dominique hours earlier. It was then that she realized that she had nothing to fear from her French rival, as she had given as much as she had received that morning in the clash between the two of them. Thinking about what she would do to her nemesis when she saw her again, Francesca noticed the powerful muscles of the horse undulating against the insides of her bare thighs, so she instinctively squeezed them tightly around its flanks. All of the jumbled and chaotic swinging, all the swaying, jolting and jostling that the animal was subjecting her body was sending powerful, pleasant vibrations up into the walls of her pussy, straight up through her stomach and all the way into her thick nipples, the milk cylinders stiffening and pushing the soft fabric of the black dress away from Francesca’s torso.

The Italian beauty disappeared into the woods of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, her powerful pussy tingling and heating up. Out of sight of the men at the stable, she reigned in her stallion and brought it to a halt. Reaching down with her left hand, she gathered the cloth at the front of her dress and pulled it all the way up under her breasts. Right there, wedged between the leather saddle, which was smeared with the thick honey of her arousal, and her big, shapely, bulging thighs, Francesca’s incredibly large triangle of thick, dense, jet-black pubic hair shone wet, and looked all the more prominent as it stood out against the pure white background of the animal. Looking down, the Florentine beauty observed the slightest whisper of a black line of hair running down from her belly-button and merging into her hairy bush. She was really, really proud of her unshaven cunt because, just like a man’s beard, that incredible amount of hair was a manifest sign of strength and supremacy.

Keeping her dress bundled up around her left arm, Francesca reached down with her right hand and pulled the smooth, supple, rounded leather horn of her saddle in towards her and positioned it right at the opening of her heated pussy. Holding it in place with her fingers, she slid her ass forward along the slick, wet saddle. Immediately, a series of loud, sexy groans of pleasure echoed through the forest as Francesca shimmied right on top of the soft leather barrel, pushing it all the way up inside of her. The white stallion became visibly agitated, his nostrils flaring as he reacted to the sights, sounds and smells of scorching female arousal which were suddenly assaulting his senses.

It was Francesca’s secret way of masturbating—a way of masturbating that she was sure no other women could possibly have the vigor to do. As her horse trotted forward, she could feel the leather horn jerking around inside of her, rhythmically plunging and ramming and thrusting in and out, and in and out of her, over and over again, pushing, straining, stretching the walls of her tough cunt in every conceivable direction, even as she clamped her labia down on it with all of her might and struggled to hold herself in place. A weaker woman’s pussy would have been stretched out beyond all recognition after only a minute or two of such abuse, but Francesca’s body was able to move itself in complete harmony with the trot of the stallion. An incredible look of pleasure came over the Italian woman’s beautiful face as she had wrapped her powerful lips tightly around the leather probe, bending it to her authoritative will. As far as she was concerned, there was no better way for a woman to strengthen the muscles of her pussy.

As waves of sexual pleasure shot up through Francesca’s body and into her throbbing nipples, her mind turned towards her French rival again. Her thoughts immediately turned to the events that took place earlier that day, the clashing of swords and something more that was going to bring her and her red-haired nemesis together for their fateful rendezvous between absolutely magnificent women, and Francesca could not help but be carried away by the incredible sensations that were racing inside of her, sensations that made her feel stronger and more confident than ever before. She just knew that the stupid Parisian bitch couldn’t possibly have what it takes to do anything even close to what she was doing at that very moment. Still, there was something about Dominique Beaumont that continued to worry her, something that went much deeper than the fact that she was French, or that she was undeniably beautiful, or that she was just as big and tall as she was, or that she seemed to be just as strong as she was and just as good with a sword to boot. It was something that she had seen in her green eyes, something that she had never seen in any other woman before, something that she just couldn’t get out of her mind. She had gotten right up in Dominique’s face and looked deeply in her eyes searching for that little sign of weakness, or that flash of fear, or that tiny little trace of self-doubt that she had always found buried deep down in the secret heart of every woman that she had ever faced. But all that the appealing dark-haired Italian had seen was incredible pride, utter fearlessness and supreme self-confidence—even in the last seconds of that morning’s fight, when everything was about to be resolved. She had been able to realize firsthand that Dominique was a woman who didn’t know defeat, a woman who didn’t have even the slightest doubt in her mind that, when it was all over, she would be the one who proved to be the better female. A woman as she was herself, after all.

Francesca dug both heels deeply into the hindquarters of her horse, forcing the stallion to lurch violently forward, ramming her leather love-toy all the way up into the deepest part of her and mashing her clitoris against its base. Her entire body shuddered in delight and, at last, the orgasm she had been holding inside her for hours burst out. Roaring like a panther at the top of her lungs under the strong, overwhelming waves of pleasure and hatred that shook through her curvaceous body, the brunette bucked atop the animal, her throbbing cunt opening and closing around the horn of the saddle. As a chain of intense eruptions ravaged her, Francesca thought she heard another female scream resounding through the forest—or perhaps it was just the echo of her own shout.

The devastating carnal explosion subsided a minute later, and only then did the Italian woman manage to stop her nervous stallion. She had never had such an orgasm in her life but, far from taking pride in it, she let the hatred take her and yelled angrily again—and again the forest, or someone, shouted back. Francesca knew what the origin of the orgasm had been, who had triggered the first throbbing in her crotch in a dirty fight that very morning, so now all she could think about was on the most detestable woman in the world and how to make her pay for it all.

When Francesca finally got herself under control, she couldn’t help shaking her head in amusement, and smiling to herself. It was just so typical of her! Out of all of the French women that there were in the world, she had to find that particular one to pick on. She couldn’t have been satisfied with just any old average Parisian woman—no, not her. She had to pick on the one who was the strongest, the one who was the most beautiful, the one that just about every man in Paris would absolutely kill to get their hands on because they all knew that she could give them the best damned sex that they ever had. But Francesca was a woman from Florence and, after everything that she had been through and everything that she had learned, after all the cocky, sexy women she had beaten up pussy to pussy—Italian aristocrats, but also a pair of conceited prostitutes who thought they were up to her high standards—nobody could ever convince her that there was any woman, anywhere in the world, who knew how to use her cunt better than she did.

Francesca couldn’t wait to destroy Dominique’s pussy with her own.

Chapter 3
Sexual Instincts

Hours earlier, Château de Maisons-Laffitte

When Dominique Beaumont entered the vast guard’s room of the palace that mid-morning, instead of the habitual deafening, chaotic clatter of the fencing tournaments organized by the aristocrats, only the sound of two lonely swords echoed through the place, clanging and clanking behind a solid wall of big, burly men who had gathered around to watch. Whatever it was that they were witnessing, all of the nobles were so impressed, so hypnotized that no one had even noticed the breathtaking patch of bright, flaming red that broke through the gorgeous sea of soft light and beige as Dominique quietly walked across the room, her sword in her right hand. Leaning against a wall, the Parisian beauty crossed her arms in front of her and waited, annoyed by the unusual lack of attention. She was unable to think of two men so good at fighting as to arouse such interest.

The group of nobles then split in two to make way for the fencers, and Dominique understood everything. Francesca Bellini was there, fiercely attacking Charles de Ventadour—a losing battle for the skilled and cocky young man. The redhead had been aware of the brunette almost from the moment that the foreign beauty had arrived in Paris. The two stunning women had been introduced to each other at a party at Versailles a little over a month ago and, having moved in the same social circles, they had bumped into each other quite frequently since then. Although they never really had much of an occasion to talk to each other, it was undeniable that they had both made quite a first impression on each other, and they never missed an opportunity to discreetly keep an eye on what the other one was doing whenever they were in the same room together. Already in those first encounters, Dominique had heard that the gorgeous Florentine woman had been personally tutored by the very best fencing instructors in all of the Italian Peninsula, but what she would have never imagined was how good Francesca would be with the sword, her ability to make that long, thin piece of metal dance for her.

As Francesca kept attacking her male opponent with dexterous feints and lunges, as the attractive black-haired female fought like a panther, Dominique’s eyelids drooped down with feigned disinterest, as if that would change what she was seeing. She even said to herself that Francesca needed more practice with the sword if she wanted to be a top-notch swordswoman like she was but, deep inside of her, she knew that she was lying to herself, and she couldn’t help but feel jealous—the redhead could appreciate that Francesca was really exceptional, as excellent with the blade as she was. Seeing her up there, getting all of that attention and looking really sexy on top of that, she felt that it was just a little bit more competition than she was used to.

Everything felt even more annoying when the redhead saw the brunette penetrate Charles’s defenses and taunt him by intentionally missing his balls by very little. Dominique narrowed her green eyes: it wasn’t a secret that she just loved to see the look of surprise in a rival male’s eyes when she came right after him like a wild tigress and whipped it right up between his legs, only to mockingly avoid hitting his crotch at the last second. Somehow, Dominique felt that that was her move, so seeing it on the brunette didn’t please her at all.

As the one-sided battle continued, Dominique found herself getting angrier and angrier. Before that new Florentine sensation, she had been the only woman who had ever earned the privilege of using the guard’s room, whenever she felt like it, to train with the sword, to drill and sharp her skills right alongside the men as a complete equal. And it wasn’t like they were just putting up with her because she was really good looking, either—although that certainly didn’t hurt. Her looks wouldn’t have meant a damned thing if she didn’t know how to use a sword just as good as all of the rest of them. But seeing how the men’s eyes sparkled watching Francesca in battle, she knew that those times of exclusivity were over. She had loved seeing that look in all of the other nobles’ faces as they watched her healthy young body in action, swinging and swaying, lunging and lurching, going head to head with some tall, strong, muscular man. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows how to handle herself, as Dominique knew from experience, only now there were two skilled, seductive women to venerate, and the redhead wasn’t exactly the type who liked to share.

That chain of misfortunes against Dominique was not over, however. Her emerald green eyes perked up when she spotted Jaques Durand’s handsome face in the sea of men. He was far and away the best looking man in the place: big, strong and really handsome—and even more important: he was her lover. A couple of hours earlier she had savagely fucked the man and, although it had been delicious sex, she still had the strange feeling that some scent unrelated to the man still lingered inside her vagina. And there he was, standing all the way up in the front, right in front of the Italian newcomer, following her every move just a little bit more closely than the beautiful redhead would have liked. Dominique could notice her cheeks burning as she watched the flirtatious little interplay that was going on between him and Francesca. Every time she did something that was particularly impressive, she would look over right at him and give him a lovely, proud smile. And he would look straight into her eyes, and smile right back at her. She could see that the raven-haired beauty was attracted to him and was trying to impress him, but she really couldn’t blame her. Every woman around wanted him, and the little bastard was so egotistical that he just couldn’t help leading them on. But, observing the look in his brown eyes, the redhead knew that, right now, he was doing a lot more than just leading her on. After all, that was a look that Dominique knew all too well: Jaques wanted Francesca to fuck him.

Dominique watched the way that Francesca moved, her big, bulging hips thrusting powerfully in and out, her long, narrow waist weaving sensuously back and forth. She saw Jaques’ eyes narrowing and boring into her. She watched her moving like a tigress, so agile and graceful—yet so violent and explosive. She saw his eyes smoldering. She watched her heating up, her pretty face flushed with color, her shirt stained with sweat, her wild, tangled black hair billowing all around her, clinging to her forehead and down the sides of her cheeks. She saw his eyes burning, burning straight into her, burning straight through the clothes she was wearing, burning right into her ivory skin. She watched her beautiful black eyes, so fierce and savage, so full of energy and excitement, sparkling with a passion as fierce as the heart of the most violent volcano. Jaques was fucking her with his eyes, and she was fucking him right back with her body. Francesca Bellini, the Florentine bitch, wasn’t just more competition than Dominique was used to: she was more competition than the redhead can ever remember having in her entire life.

Suddenly, the gorgeous Parisian noble heard her own name echoing off the walls of the vast, open chamber, and it was as if she had suddenly been shaken out of a deep sleep.

“Hey, comrades, Dominique is here!” a man’s voice boomed out at the top of his lungs. “Why don’t you get your ugly asses out of there, and you let her measure herself against our dear foreigner?” Who was speaking was Armand d’Harcourt, the man that Dominique had refused to fuck several times. “I’m sure it’s more fun than seeing Charles humiliated.”

Before those words had finished bouncing around the walls of the palace room, the primitive, carnal male consciousness filled the air, transporting everybody back to the days when they were all wearing loincloths, using their bare hands to rip chunks of meat off of some dead animal that was sitting in a giant fire pit, in the middle of some big, dark cave somewhere. Both female rivals were well aware that nothing could turn a man on more than the idea of watching two beautiful women engaged in physical combat. After all, it was something that went all the way back to his deepest, darkest, most primitive sexual instincts. And now, just thinking about sizzling, hot-blooded Dominique and wild, untamed Francesca going at each other with their swords in hand was enough to make a man want to come right in his pants. None of the aristocrats present could wait to see the Parisian and the Florentine standing face to face before the start of the sexiest fencing duel in the whole of Europe.

In an instant, a whole roomful of wide, excited, hungry male eyes were riveted right on the redheaded beauty. If all of the sudden attention was making Dominique feel uncomfortable, she sure as hell didn’t show it—she just kept leaning there against the wall, as cool as can be, with her arms crossed and that characteristic amused little smile on her face, looking over the crowd of men who had suddenly gathered around her as if they were the biggest bunch of morons that she had ever seen in her entire life—Armand d’Harcourt, the man who had not forgiven her, the greatest of all. Dominique knew exactly what men wanted, as she had seen that look in their eyes before. She had been in one or two nasty, vicious, scratching, slapping, hairpulling, rolling-around-the-floor catfights in her young life, and she just couldn’t believe the hypnotic effect that it had on all of the men who were watching. There was just something about the way that they were looking at her, even as she was ripping the whore to shreds, that really turned her on, that made her feel so incredibly proud, and strong, and sexy, and beautiful as a woman. It was a look of lust, and it was directed right at her, but it was really different from the way that men usually looked at her when they just wanted to fuck her. Seeing all of those aristocratic compatriots getting so incredibly excited, looking at her in that special way just made her want to fight harder and completely dominate the Italian slut, and show all of the men what a hot, sexy woman she really was.

It was all so very, very tempting. Dominique had already felt herself becoming aroused and challenged by the sexy little performance that Francesca had been putting on, and she had been imagining what it would be like to meet her face to face with the sword that hung from her hip. She saw what it was doing to the men, just seeing her up there all by herself, and she knew that seeing the two of them up there together would drive them completely out of their minds. The idea of challenging the woman that every man in the room was just dying to have, of going up there and looking even hotter and sexier than she did so that they would all want her instead was really turning her on. The idea of proving her womanhood by defeating such a strong, passionate, desirable woman right in front of all of those men and then having them all look at her, and her alone, in that very special, sexy way was almost too much to resist. Just thinking about it made her crotch wet.

From the look of excitement in Francesca’s beautiful black eyes and the huge, wicked smile on her gorgeous face, Dominique realized that the brunette also knew exactly what the men wanted, and that she was more than happy to give it to them because she wanted it every bit as much as they did. It was undeniable that Francesca completely understood what it did to a man to watch two sexy women fighting, and that she also knew what it did to her to know that the men were watching her. The redhead knew how to read the dilated pupils of her rival, aware that for the Florentine beauty that was also a chance for her to show all of the men just how hot and sexy she really was by putting one of their local girls to shame right before their eyes.

Dominique looked over at Francesca, the gazes of both stunning aristocrats locking with each other deeply, intensely for the first time. The arrogant upper-class swordswomen connected up with one another and communicated with each other as only two females could do it: eye to eye, woman to woman, intimately and privately and secretly. In an instant, the contenders told each other everything as they exchanged naughtily little knowing smiles, each woman recognized that the other female completely understood exactly what it was that the men around wanted from them. Dominique could almost hear the words they were saying to each other just as clearly as if they had spoken the words out loud: “What do you think? Should we give these poor, hungry bastards the thrill of their lives…or not?”

As sexy as the whole idea sounded to her, Dominique finally decided against it. Whatever was to happen between two women should stay just between those two women and, except for a couple of totally spontaneous and unplanned catfights, the redhead had never let a man be a part of it. And she was not about to purposely go up there and make a public spectacle of herself by putting on a dirty little sex show just so that she could titillate a bunch of leering, drooling, gawking men. Raising her chin proudly, Dominique looked out at the crowd of men who had surrounded them and smiled suggestively before simply shook her head.

“No,” the magnificent Parisian hellcat softly said.

The disappointment flooded Francesca’s dark eyes when she saw the green-eyed beauty firmly standing her ground in the face of all of the begging and pleading, of the urging and prodding that the men were doing, and stubbornly waving them off.

“Oh, well…” the glorious Florentine woman melodiously sighed to nobody in particular. “I guess that you, French noblemen, must train your women much better. Are they all this meek and timid or did I just happen to run into the only cowardly Parisian female?”

 To Dominique, that little comment was just like a slap in the face. A hush fell over the room and the crowd of men suddenly parted, opening a path directly to Francesca in an instinctive reflex to what they saw burning in the redhead’s eyes.

“The only cowardly women in Europe are Italian whores,” Dominique grunted. “From what I’ve heard, Florentine men don’t want to train with their women because you don’t have what it takes in a long, close duel.”

“I have noticed your eyes on me since you entered this room,” Francesca replied. “So I’m sure you know how good I am at dueling, no matter how long and how close it may be. I don’t think I can say the same for French bitches, from what I’ve heard people say.”

The silence of the men in the guard’s room was broken by a few whispers and gasps of surprise. Dominique knew that, at that point, there was no turning back—she didn’t want to take that way out either, anyway.

“Why don’t you and I see here and now which rumors are true?” Dominique spat out. “Your sword against mine, French bitch against Italian whore.”

“That’s all I want,” Francesca mumbled before licking her sexy lips and raising her sword to wave it through the air with a quick threatening slash. “Come here and let’s dance, Parisian.”

The French seductress began to walk ahead down the aisle that men formed to the right and left of her. Sword in hand, she headed straight for her Florentine rival, ready to do battle with the magnificent, good-looking woman who had haunted her thoughts for too many days.

Chapter 4
Clash of Blades

It was a sight to behold, an image that Cézanne would have immortalized with his small, colorful brushstrokes if someone had invited the young painter to the Château de Maisons-Laffitte that day: two strong, proud, beautiful women—one with long, wild jet-black hair; the other with thick, blazing fire-red hair—standing face to face with swords in their hands, and looking challengingly into each other’s eyes. All men in the room could see the smalls of the females’ backs arching deeply inward over their plump, tight asses and their big, round chests swelling out in front of them as Francesca and Dominique challenged each other as much with their body language as with the defiant looks in their pupils. For a full minute, the rivals stood straight and tall, majestic and fearless as they proudly held their bodies up and out towards each other, their heads high up in the air above them and their feet firmly planted on the ground beneath them.

Facing each other a little less than two meters apart, it was clearer than ever to Francesca what a perfect match both were for each other, being equally tall, equally trim, equally shapely, with strong, well developed muscles and big, solid bones. They were even dressed identically—as real rivals always did, even without knowing in advance what the other was going to wear—with big, blousy, oversized men’s white shirts held together by four big buttons down the front, and absolutely nothing underneath, so that their full-sized, heavy breasts swung freely under their tent-like covering.  As always when Francesca practiced fencing, she was also wearing close-fitting, jet-black breeches that clung tightly to their bulging thighs and only came half way down below the knees, the lacy bottoms stretched to the limit by their thick, meaty calves—exactly the same breeches that the French red-haired sow was wearing in front of her. The masculine outfit, which the dazzling women had turned into pure feminine seduction, was completed with a pair of sexy little leather ankle boots and delicate, white socks sticking out a couple of inches over the tops. If it wasn’t for their starkly contrasting hair and just the slightest difference in their skin coloring—with Francesca’s flesh slightly less milky than Dominique’s—every man there would think, for all the world, that the Parisian and Florentine beauties were twins.

Francesca’s fierce pitch black eyes met Dominique’s blazing emerald green eyes even more intensely as the two attractive women raised their swords and touched the blades together, the sound of tempered steel echoing seductively off the walls of the vast opulent room. The females brought their weapons into contact twice more as a greeting and challenge before the fight, and the Italian’s heart began to race with anticipation.

“I know what kind of woman you are,” Francesca found herself saying with a whisper. “But this time, French cunt, you’ve met an even better woman…”

“You and I are the same kind of woman, you Italian bitch,” Dominique hissed back as both females dramatically crouched down into their fighting stances “The difference is that you think you’re the better woman, and I know that I am.”

The echoes of the men’s excited voices reached Francesca’s ears, but soon faded away. Suddenly, there was nothing but each other.

“En garde,” the contenders grunted at the same time and, abruptly, anxiously, the duel began.

With a certain impatience, the women swayed menacingly forward and backward, and from side to side, for two, three long minutes, their swords clashed together in aggressive attack and skillful defense. Already from the first loud clash of blades it was obvious to Francesca that she had met her nemesis in that life. Focusing wholly on each other, zeroing in on each other, she and her antagonist had already connected up with one another in such a natural and close bond that they could each sense even the smallest movement of the other’s muscles right on their skin. As if they were tied together by invisible strings, the fit, gorgeous bodies of the rivals moved in unison, in synchrony, each sexy part of their stimulating curves exactly mirroring the movement of its counterpart—their boobs rolling back and forth under shirts that warped and buckled under the weight of the generous, thick glands, their asses tightening the back of the jet-black breeches with the power of the bulging buttocks.

Another minute passed, and then another one, Francesca taking Dominique’s measure by clashing weapons together over and over again. She had heard about how good the redhead was with a sword, but the other beauty far exceeded expectations. Her thrusts were always parried by Dominique’s blade, to right and left, but Francesca took comfort in knowing that she was also deflecting all of the Parisian’s attacks with quick, deft defensive actions. To all the men around, and to Jaques himself, that the Florentine and the Parisian were equal in skill and ferocity at fencing was as undeniable as that the sun would fall in the west that night.

After a quick exchange of sword thrusts that didn’t reach the rival, Francesca and Dominique took a step back and circled each other warily, every muscle taut with anticipation. From the deadly serious looks on the faces of both beautiful female specimens, it seemed that the slightest touch of the other’s blade could draw blood, but the reality was that the swords which the two sexy women were brandishing at each other had little protective covers on their razor sharp tips—they couldn’t stick each other with them even if they had wanted to. And yet, that didn’t make the confrontation any less lethal.

“Not bad, Lady Bellini, not bad at all,” the redhead said with a half-smile flashing arrogantly on her face. “But you know you’re not going to win this, right?”

“You know how to handle a sword, Lady Beaumont, I’ll give you that,” the dark-haired panther retorted with her own smug grin. “But that’s not going to change the fact that you will lose in front of all these men.”

The swords clashed together, and the contenders found themselves engaged in battle again. That time, however, part of Francesca’s mind was on the men watching her fight with her sensual compatriot. She knew exactly what was going through the minds of all of them as they scrutinized both ferocious beauties confronting each other. By the way their feminine bodies moved and how sexy they looked when they were twisting and turning, heaving and jerking, it was no secret to the Italian noblewoman that all they must be thinking about was what it would be like to fuck them. Without needing to look at their dilated pupils or the bulge in their pants, Francesca was more than sure that every man present was already fantasizing about what it would be like to be naked in bed heaving and jerking right along with them. Watching the facial expressions and listening to the sexy sounds that both women were making in the evenly matched fencing bout, men already knew what she and Dominique looked like and sounded like when they got hot and aroused, so it must not have taken them any effort at all to imagine what it would be like to see those beautiful, excited faces and to listen to all of those erotic gasps while they had their dick right inside of them. Francesca was well aware that they were all visualizing all of those things in both women at the very same time because, locked in duel, they showed themselves side by side before all eyes, so that each and every one of the French nobles in the room could compare every little erotic detail about them directly to each other.

Parrying two quick thrusts from Dominique before counterattacking with a series of aggressive slashes that her gorgeous foe skillfully blocked, Francesca had to admit that they were fighting for the attention of all of the men just as much as they were fighting each other. Of course each woman wanted to be the one that all of the men were looking at, to be the one that was really driving them completely out of their minds, to be the one that they were all getting hard for even as they stood there watching, to be the only one that they were all dreaming about fucking, over that sexy enemy with plump breasts and long legs. But Francesca knew that all that drama was not just about men and swords, but about women and what it meant to be one of them—something that had not changed since ancient times, and that would not change in the centuries to come. As the swords engaged and disengaged in a threatening dance, the Florence-raised beauty couldn’t help but wonder which woman was sharper, quicker and more agile, which woman was stronger, healthier and more robust, which woman was more vigorous, dynamic and aggressive, which woman was more energetic, forceful and enthusiastic? When it was all over in a few minutes, which of the two women would prove to have more fire inside her, which of the two women would definitely out-fight the other, alpha against alpha until the ultimate resolution.

With every thrust of their swords and every movement of their sexy bodies, another thought assailed Francesca’s mind: which of them could out-fuck the other if they came to that. She could not deny that the idea had popped into her thoughts more than once, especially when she had met Dominique at some social event of the Parisian nobility. The mere presence of the curvaceous, seductive redhead had been enough to arouse her competitive curiosity, and she had thought she saw that same interest in Dominique’s green eyes. But, beyond some subtle hinting, neither of them had taken the step for an actual, serious confrontation…until now. Imbued with her combative feminine spirit, Francesca attacked aggressively, aware that there was no better way to prove that she could out-fuck the French beauty than by out-fighting her. She was going to show it to all those men, but mostly to herself and to that smug, hot woman named Dominique Beaumont.

For a few more minutes, the rivals fought like two caged wildcats. The young, healthy, potent ladies were locked in an unconditional battle for female supremacy, relentlessly lunging and thrusting at each other, but never managing to stab, each struggling to beat the other down, to wear her out and break her will before completely dominate her. Big and round wet spots appeared all over their pure white shirts as their big and round sweaty breasts pushed out against the material which was confining them and soaked right through it, and shiny black hair and blazing red hair billowed out into jumbled, tangled messes, making them look like two gorgeous, savage barbarians fighting to the death—although what was at stake in the contest was far more important than life itself.

Francesca had watched Dominique sparring a couple of times before—the last time a few days ago against Jaques Durand in front of the empress herself—but she was shocked at how quick and deadly she was now that she was facing a woman instead of a man. The Parisian also had a lot to prove now, and Francesca could feel her strength and intensity in every sharp whack of her sword, she could see the powerful muscles of her hips and legs rippling against the tight, black material that was covering them. Parrying a thrust launched directly against her fat boobs, Francesca knew that she was up against a real lioness and that it would take every ounce of strength and skill that she had in her body to beat her.

Covered in sweat, panting and determined, the two female rivals traded thrusts for a few more intense moments until, at last, one of them was able to get in a good, hard hit. The tip of Francesca’s blade stroke right into the side of Dominique’s ribs, and immediately the brunette’s mocking laughter echoed in the room along with the redhead’s frustrated growl.

“First blood to me, Parisian bitch,” Francesca said, beaming in proud triumph as looking around for the complicity of a particular man. Her dark eyes met Jaques’, and the Italian woman flashed him a big, satisfied smile that the handsome man returned.

“Stop looking at him, you dirty Florentine whore!” Dominique’s angry voice brought Francesca back to the reality of the fight, and suddenly she found herself defending against the redhead’s most vicious assault. The dark-haired beauty knew well that Jaques was the lover of her busty, green-eyed nemesis, so she couldn’t help thinking that, if with a simple exchange of smiles Dominique had such an attack of jealousy, when the French female discovered what had happened that very morning between her and the handsome aristocrat under the sheets of his bed, hell would break loose on earth…and she couldn’t wait to provoke that cataclysm.

But for now she had to physically stand up for herself against Dominique and try to thrust her sword into that perfect body of her enemy again. However, within seconds, the redhead got even, scoring a clean hit up around Francesca’s collarbones and pushing her back several steps. Immediately, the luscious French lips puckered up as she turned straight towards Jaques to blow him a big, sexy kiss. The cheeks of the man reddened, memories of the woman’s mouth on his manhood undeniably coming to his head.

“That’s just for you, my stallion,” Dominique stated before turning to Francesca. “After I beat you, he and I will ride to my villa…and keep riding in my bedroom, if a dumb Italian like you knows what I mean.”

Francesca’s beautiful black eyes got wider and wider and wider as Dominique spoke, and then suddenly ignited with blinding, jealous rage as she stood there and watched Jaques—the man she had been flirting with all morning long, the man that she had spent all morning teasing, and seducing, and putting under her spell with all of her sexy moves until he took her to his bed and she fucked him into a puddle of his own semen—puckering up and blowing her a kiss right back.

“Cunt!” In a flash, Francesca was on her redheaded rival like a wild animal, violently pounding on her sword and driving her backwards on her heels. Taking dead aim, she jabbed her weapon straight between her foe’s breasts and hooked the middle button of Dominique’s white shirt, its entire front being lifted all the way out as Francesca jerked her sword straight up into the air and popped the two top buttons right off of it.

Everything in the room seemed to come to a standstill, even time. The sound of the buttons of the redhead skipping across the hard wooden floor echoed in the absolute silence as everyone present, men and women, looked at the French beauty. The top of her shirt had fallen open all the way down to the front of her milky white breasts, and now the very tops of her big, round, rosy pink areola peeked up over the pure white material.

Suddenly, the deep silence was broken by a burst of shouting and roaring. The men howled like wolves, and Francesca couldn’t help but let out a long, cruel laugh as she pointed her sword at Dominique’s heavy bosoms.

“Did you like that, men of Paris?” the Italian spitfire spat out. “Do you want me to show you more?”

Francesca was really enjoying the moment of humiliation of her enemy but, hidden by the absolutely joyous look on her gorgeous face, there was actually some concern. At the very moment when she had seen the front of Dominique’s shirt falling away from her breasts, she was struck by how big and round, how full and firm they were, how they stood so incredibly high up on her chest and stuck out so far in front of her. Even aware of how impressive her own boobs were, Francesca couldn’t help but feel a little jealous—something very unusual for her when it came to comparing bodies with another female.

In front of her, Dominique looked down at her plump breasts with her emerald-green eyes wide open in shock before looking up at Francesca. Then her beautiful gaze narrowed into flaming craters of rage, and, before the raven-haired Italian could react, she charged straight up to her, slapped the palm of her left hand flat between her collarbones to take a fistful of her shirt and yanked it straight out in front of her. An anxious look appeared on Francesca’s big, black eyes as she suddenly felt the cold, hard steel of Dominique’s sword sliding up along her belly, right between her firm breasts, and coming out at the top, right along her cheek. The mighty upward thrust of the redhead’s sword flew the top three buttons of the Florentine’s shirt through the air in all different directions. With the white fabric torn and just one lone button remaining, Francesca fell to the floor right on her plump, juicy butt.

After the resounding thump of ass against wood, silence once again flooded the guards’ room. As she sat on her buttocks and gathered her wits about her, the very first thing that went through Francesca’s mind was how much of her beautiful young body was exposed to men with eyes desperate for flesh and her seductive fencing rival. Quickly looking down, she was relieved to see that even though her shirt had been unbuttoned all the way down to her navel, the opening was only about seven or eight centimeters wide, so her long, dark brown nipples and areola were still hidden underneath. The second thing that went through her mind was to understand that the female battle had completely changed. The brunette knew exactly what both of them were doing, using their swords now not to strike the hot body of the adversary, but to humiliate her by undressing her right in front of all those men. She was one button down in that competition, and all she could think of now was to get things even, at least to begin with.

Standing in front of her, Francesca saw Dominique hesitating for one split second as her eyes plunged all the way down through the opening of her shirt. She could read arrogance in the redhead’s green eyes, but also jealousy at what she was seeing. The contest of swords wasn’t over quite yet, and Francesca already knew that other fronts were opening up in that war of pride, beauty and dominance.

Chapter 5
A Secret Contest 

Many thoughts and feelings were going through Dominique’s head and heart as she looked at her fallen opponent sitting on the ground, glaring back at her with burning hatred and contempt. There was a lot of pride and satisfaction running through the Parisian’s body, but also worry. She was absolutely amazed by how deep and dark, how long and bottomless the chasm between Francesca’s boobs seemed to be, by how far back in the distance her breastbone looked and how much closer to her the front of her shirt seemed to be. Dominique could tell, without a shadow of a doubt, that what was hidden inside of all of that frightening darkness just had to be something absolutely immense. Trying to hide her jealousy, the redheaded beauty turned towards the men and raised both of her arms high up over her head in triumph, just like a bare-knuckle fighter who had just delivered a knock-out punch. Again, the men turned the silence into a series of perverted howls and yells, both women giving them the lust they demanded.

“This is what you like, huh, compatriots?” the French lioness roared. “Do you want to see some more Italian meat or not?”

The whooping, hollering, cheering audience made Dominique didn’t hear Francesca get up from the floor and come up behind her. The first warning that she had that her rival was even there was when she felt her gripping the left side of her shirt with a hand and yanking it downward with all of her might. With a shout, Dominique pulled away, aware that Francesca was going after her last two buttons. The sound of a shirt tearing preceded the soft clatter of something small falling to the wooden floor. Taking several steps away from her nemesis, the redhead sighed in relief as she realized that it was only one button, not two, that Francesca had ripped off in her sneak assault.

“Is this how you Italian women fight?” Dominique grunted, glancing down for a second to make sure the last button still prevented the front opening of her white shirt from showing more of her beautiful and fat breasts. “Attacking from behind like cowards?”

“I thought French women knew that all is fair in love and war,” Francesca growled back. “And, between women, it’s always war.”

“So be it,” the redhead said as she raised her sword to point at the last button of her rival. “I’m going to humiliate you in front of all these men.”

“Well…” the brunette waved her steel weapon threateningly in the air. “I’m going to humiliate you in front of Jaques when I rip off your last button.”

“You dirty tramp,” Dominique groaned. “Stay away from him if you want to go back to Florence with those fat tits of yours intact.”

“No woman tells me what I have to do, least of all a Parisian whore,” Francesca replied. “And if I were you, I’d rather worry about your own big boobs.”

“Just shut up and fight me, bitch,” the local beauty hissed.

“Come on, let’s settle this, cunt,” the foreign beauty uttered.

The redheaded French seductress and the raven-haired Italian temptress crouched down low as they started to circle each other, her eyes burning as if they were suddenly engaged in a fight to the death. Their pearly white breastbones sparkled and glimmered in the mid-morning sun while shimmering streams of sweat poured down between their big, heavy breasts. Like cannonballs, the boobs were slowly swaying back and forth in front of the women, and each and every one of the men present could only wish that both incredible pairs would jump out of the flimsy prison of those almost completely unbuttoned white shirts.

“Come on, Dominique, make that foreign bitch show us her fat tits!” Charles de Ventadour was heard shouting—undoubtedly, still upset by the previous humiliation.

“You got that redheaded slut, Francesca!” Armand d’Harcourt yelled, showing his true colors. “We want to see her big udders!”

Dominique lunged at Francesca, and the brunette went to meet her with the same determination. Bringing their swords together again, each beauty knew they were just one button away from getting what they themselves and the men wanted. Whoever was able to pop that last little button off of her opponent’s shirt first would make her large, solid bosoms come tumbling all the way out of her shirt in plain view of all of those hot, horny, deranged aristocrats, in what would be the ultimate humiliation. The men had edged all the way up close to the two sexy combatants, forming a tight little circle around them while French and Italian moved, attacking and defending in close combat—without any doubt whatsoever, that little fencing match was turning out to be something beyond any of the men’s wildest dreams. In that unexpected end of duel, it didn’t matter to either woman that they could already see the big, tight, perfectly rounded insides of their milky white globes pushing right through the opening of their shirts with every seductive twist and turn of their voluptuous and young bodies. All they cared about was getting that last button and winning their swordfight.

“Let us all see your overrated tits!” Francesca grunted as her thrust against the last redhead’s button was deflected at the last second.

“Let’s see how your naked boobs disappoint us!” Dominique spat just after her enemy dodged the cut that was to tear off the button of her shirt.

With a fierce frontal assault, the swords clashed again. With a ringing sound of metal scraping against metal that echoed off the walls of the palatial room, the blades slid across each other and met at the handles, bringing the two sexy women right up against each other in a clinch. The men gasped in excitement at the sight of Dominique and Francesca, the Parisian lioness and the Florentine panther, coming together eye to eye, nose to nose, thick juicy red lips to thick juicy red lips—so close, that they could feel each other’s hot breath right on their beautiful faces.

“Did you really think you could come to my city and take what is mine?” Dominique whispered, her mouth brushing against her stunning adversary’s.

“It’s not yours anymore,” Francesca murmured back before bringing her lips closer to the red-haired woman’s. “Everything you had, it’s mine now. Everything and everyone.”

Dominique didn’t have time to discern what was behind the mocking tone of the Italian’s last word because her rival tried to free her sword to attack her. There was a small scuffle that separated the women’s faces, free fingers gripping the wrist of the sword hand as both young beauties circled once, twice amidst shouts of encouragement from men before stopping, unable to disengage their blades.

As the two gorgeous women stood there, right up next to each other with the handles of their swords still hooked together, trying in vain to push the foe back, something powerfully striking caught Dominique’s attention. She looked down between them…and saw it: Francesca’s dark brown left nipple.  The big, thick milk rod was sticking right out at her, hidden from the men by the shirt but arrogantly, lustfully exposed to her emerald gaze. She herself had incredible nipples, longer and harder than she had ever seen on another woman in her life—and she had seen plenty of them—but what she saw right there in plain sight was a nipple that matched the ones she possessed in size and shape. There was a difference in color, with her own pair being rosy pink, but Dominique couldn’t help but wonder if there was also a difference in hardness.

“Enjoying the view?” Francesca’s haughty question made the French beauty look up. But, instead of meeting the brunette’s intense stare, she saw her rival’s dark eyes looking down. She followed Francesca’s gaze and noticed that her own thick right nipple was also uncovered, though luckily only for the other woman in the room.

“Are you enjoying it?” Dominique countered, again looking down at the Florentine’s sexy nipple. An excited impulse grew in her, one that she knew was more suited to lower-class women than to aristocrats. It wasn’t like she had planned it or anything but, seeing that defiant big nipple, so naked and vulnerable just centimeters from her own, Dominique let herself go…and reached out with her long pink nipple to give her dark brown counterpart a little nick.

It wasn’t much of a graze as the redhead barely brushed nipple tip against nipple tip, but it was more than enough to send a lightning-like shock all the way down the Parisian’s spine. But through the brief nipple connection, Dominique felt the sensation that coursed through Francesca’s body was even more intense, and the southern contender confirmed it by jumping backwards as if her nipple had just been bitten by a snake.

Only both women knew what had just happened, so the men looked at each other without understanding what had caused it all. A mischievous little smile came over Dominique’s face, the way that Francesca had reacted making her feel that she had gained some sort of advantage in that evenly matched female duel. But, seeing the outraged look and the bitten lip on the brunette’s beautiful features, she knew that she had just escalated their fight to a whole new level—a level that exists only between women, and women alone. Now there was no turning back.

“You stupid ginger,” Francesca growled, shaking her head. “I should have expected something so trashy from a Parisian woman. I knew that here there is no difference between a female commoner and a lady of the French court.”

The accusation was not misguided. In her couple of adventures in the brothels, Dominique had heard of a way in which plebeian women tried to resolve their conflicts before having to come to an intimate pussy duel. She had never witnessed one, but a prostitute had described it as a clash of hard nipples and firm breasts and referred to it as ‘titfight’—a stupid name for a stupid way of fighting, she had thought, an undignified, shameful form of female battle as opposed to the honorable encounter of pussies and clits. And yet, she had employed a lower-class technique in that upper-class shelter against the most formidable opponent she had ever known.

“I had heard that you Florentine noblewomen hang out with prostitutes and pig caretakers, so I wanted you to feel at home,” Dominique counterattacked to try to shake off the shame of what she had done. “Did it perhaps remind you of your first fights in the dirty brothels of your city?”

“You don’t know at all what my firsts fights were like,” Francesca growled as she raised her sword. “In fact, you have not the faintest idea how I usually fight and, believe me, it’s better that you keep on not knowing for your own good.”

The men were confused by the exchange of words, but Dominique had been in the female combative subculture for too many years to recognize exactly what her rival meant. Following her instinct, she looked down to find a big wet spot appearing right between Francesca’s legs, her thick, pungent womanly essence soaking straight through the material of her jet-black, knee-length breeches. Dominique was well aware of the Florentine women’s reputation on how they settled their affairs and how good they were at it, but she was still surprised to see the Italian beauty’s body instinctively getting ready for such an intimate battle so quickly after just a little nipple-to-nipple rubbing.

“I wasn’t born yesterday.” The redhead put her sword between her and her enemy’s blade. “I know exactly what you were talking about, and you are the one who should be very careful about going down that road,” she added, lowering the tip of her steel weapon slightly to point it subtly at Francesca’s wet crotch.

“That road, you mean?” The brunette also pointed her blade between Dominique’s legs without the men noticing. The French didn’t need to glance down to feel her pussy heating up and getting moist. “Don’t think I came to Paris just to attend parties and practice swordplay.”

Before Dominique could reply, Francesca came at her with long strides. Quickly, the redhead locked her sword with the brunette’s blade to defend herself, but her nemesis wasn’t going against her looking for that kind of fencing. Immediately, the green-eyed aristocrat felt the hot, sensitive rosy pink flesh of her nipple being rubbed by what could be nothing else but Francesca’s moist, tender milk shaft. The shattering sensation that undeniably coursed through both curvaceous bodies was that time more devastating on Dominique’s flesh, and it was she who jumped back away from her rival.

The men kept wondering what was going on while Dominique’s green eyes widened with contempt and Francesca’s red lips formed a cruel smile. The Parisian temptress felt that she was beginning to have absolutely no control over her nipples and crotch as her erections hardened in the center of her heavy breasts and her labia clenched violently, wetly between her strong legs.

“Nasty black-haired witch.” Furious about what the Italian beauty had just done to her, Dominique gritted her teeth as she hissed. “You’re a hypocrite, doing what you criticize.”

“You can give it but you can’t take it, huh?” the brunette mocked. “I knew you were a wimp.”

“Keep pushing, bitch, because in the end you’re going to get more than you can handle,” the French hellcat grunted, her gaze again drifting to Francesca’s breeches. The wet spot on her crotch continued to grow, and Dominique’s pupils frozen as if she were hypnotized by it. Swallowing some saliva, the redhead noticed her own dampness spreading through her proud pussy as the intimate smells of her and Jaques, and the unidentified third fragrance, intensified in her vagina.

“I can handle anything from you easily,” Francesca said. “And if you keep insisting on messing with me, you cunt, I’ll prove it to you.”

The mutual challenge hung in the air of the room as the two women cautiously approached each other with their weapons out in front of them. Dominique’s nipple was still stinging, so all she could think about was paying the Italian whore back—and she wasn’t going to wait a single second to do it. As soon as the two rivals touched swords again, the Parisian quickly leaned forward into Francesca, bringing them together in another handle to handle clinch, both blades forming a big ‘X’ right between their gorgeous faces. Dominique immediately, impatiently looked down and thrust her long and hard nipple outward in search of the dark brown cylinder which had caused her so much discomfort. Francesca showed she knew exactly what the redhead was up to, and quickly shifted her nipple to the side, just enough to avoid contact with its rose-colored adversary. Francesca’s nipple counterattack was quick and precise, but Dominique had just enough reflexes and intuition to avoid the brunette’s piercing weapon with a slight readjustment of her torso.

As all the men milled around them with confused looks on their faces, the Parisian and Florentine rivals just stood there, right up against each other, letting the fronts of their shirts touch to completely hide the narrow space between their luscious bodies from all eyes. With their swords crossed high up in the air between them, the two sexy women just kept looking down into the private battlefield formed by the sweaty white cloths, their eyes frozen on that tight little area between their hot, sticky curves as if the most fascinating thing in the world was taking place there—fascinating enough to make any man come in his pants if he saw it, because the sexy females were fencing with their nipples just as hard as they had fenced with their swords. But, from the enormous concentration on their beautiful faces, it was obvious that fight was twice as important.

For three, four minutes, Dominique’s hard, thick, rosy pink nipple and Francesca’s big, stiff dark brown nipple circled each other behind the shirts, lunging at each other, quickly stabbing out and then pulling back away from each other as each woman tried to nip the other while, at the same time, tried to avoid getting nipped. But contact still did not occur. Flaming red hair brushed sensuously across shimmering black hair as the two adversaries brought their chins all the way down against their breastbones, focusing all of their attention on the deadly dance that was taking place between their nipples. Dominique felt the wet spot between her legs getting bigger and bigger as she and her dark-haired nemesis stood there, completely motionless except for their two sexy dueling cylinders, and she found herself wishing Francesca was getting as wet or wetter than she was. In her mind, that would be a victory on par with finally catching the Italian’s elusive nipple.

When the rod-to-rod meeting finally happened, it was not the way Dominique wanted it. After a last second dodge, her right nipple managed to hit the brunette’s dark brown counterpart head-on…but her foe’s nipple rammed forward at the same time. The mutual tip-to-tip collision sent a visible shiver all the way through the women’s lascivious bodies, and the faintest little ‘owww’ escaped from their thick, juicy lips. Still, Dominique managed to keep her nipple pressed against Francesca’s, and her beautiful antagonist gave no ground either.

It was then that the spectacular redhead first noticed. Among all the male and female sexual odors that now dominated the room, a very specific blend of aromas prominently reached her nose. Unable to believe it, she leaned all the way forward and put her face right between her rival’s big breasts. As her flaming red locks brushed sensuously across Francesca’s remarkable cleavage, she took a deep breath and filled her lungs with the Italian woman’s fragrance. Her suspicions were confirmed and, in a flash, the expression on her face changed completely. None of the anger, or resentment, or ill will that she had shown towards her nemesis up to that point could even come close to the murderous, blinding hatred that suddenly filled her attractive emerald green eyes, because what she smelled on the skin of that gorgeous Florentine was the smell of Jaques’ ejaculation. Then, suddenly, her mind connected the dots, and the enigma of the strange smell that still marked her pussy was solved: it was Francesca Bellini’s sexual scent, left inside her by her lover’s traitorous cock.

“Fucking whore…and dirty bastard,” Dominique grunted before pushing Francesca back to separate their bodies. Looking around, she raised her irritated voice: “Everyone out of this room! Everyone but Jaques!”

Silence. Two women and a man exchanged glances in complete silence, the love triangle explained through their looks: fury, arrogance, guilt. Francesca could not help but put a big, triumphant smile on her face, aware of the critical blow she had just inflicted on her red-haired nemesis. A few steps away from her, Jaques seemed to want to say something, but in the end it was Dominique who spoke.

No one dared to reply to the fierce redhead, not with that choleric look dancing on her face. As the nobles left the place, Dominique knew that her personal duel with Francesca was about to become more private. And that, between women, always meant danger.

Chapter 6
The Undignified Way

“Now I know everything, you Italian bitch,” the redhead spat without taking her furious eyes off her. “It’s your filthy, putrid stench that I’ve been carrying around inside of me all this time.”

“You pathetic French tart, I was wondering if you were ever going to figure it out,” Francesca growled as her luscious lips curled into an even more vicious sneer. “You call yourself a woman, but you don’t even know how to keep your lover satisfied.”

“I can satisfy Jaques or any other man much better than you will ever be able to,” Dominique replied.

“If that’s so, why did Jaques come looking for me this morning so that I could fuck him before going to fuck you?” the brunette proudly boasted. “Accept it, whore, he prefers me because I do things to him that you couldn’t even dream about with this,” she said pointing straight down between her legs.

“That can’t compare to this.” The Parisian beauty gestured to her own crotch. “Jaques is a man, and men are weak. That’s why he fucked you. But he and everyone in Paris knows I’m the best at fucking, and not some Florentine vixen.”

“Keep dreaming,” Francesca hissed. “There’s a new cunt in town, and it’s much, much better than yours.”

“You’ll have to prove that to me,” Dominique throw down the gauntlet. “Well, if you’re woman enough…”

There it was: the challenge. Francesca had been on the verge of throwing it herself, but she didn’t care that her rival had gone ahead of her. The only thing that mattered was that, at last, they were going to take the final step in their female rivalry.

“I’m more than enough woman for that,” the Italian spitfire answered. “But I don’t think you’re woman enough to stop me when things get dirty between us.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jaques finally intervened.

“Should we tell him, Lady Bellini?” Dominique smiled. “Should we invite him to see which of us is really the alpha female?”

“I’ve never done it with a man present, but it will be a pleasure to let Jaques see with his own eyes how much better I am than you,” the brunette accepted.

“Perfect, the three of us will meet tonight at my villa then.” The redhead raised her chin arrogantly. “And I’ll show you both that you can’t measure up to me, Italian cunt.”

“I can’t wait, you nasty pussy.” Francesca licked her lips, “But now…why don’t you and I finish this fencing duel?”

In front of her, Dominique began to raise her sword, but the dark-haired woman completed her challenge by throwing her own weapon to the floor. The French opened her eyes in surprise, but immediately smiled lustfully.

“Fencing without swords, huh?” she said tossing her steel aside. “I knew you liked to fight like common women do.”

“I’ve never done this, but remember that you started it,” Francesca reproached. “I’m just not the kind of woman who leaves things half done.”

“I’ve never done this before either,” Dominique declared. “But it won’t be so difficult if the plebs do it.”

Francesca began to take off her shirt, and her foe followed suit, both women revealing their luscious breasts to each other. Jaques was silent as the two gorgeous females with whom he had had the privilege of having sex took a breath to hoist their big naked melons high up into the air. Francesca had seen dozens and dozens of boobs in her life, so her expert eye only needed a couple of seconds to size up how well-endowed the competitor was compared to her. To her annoyance, Dominique matched her in the breast department as much as she had done in fencing skill, the redhead’s pair being as massive and heavy as her own set, and equal in size and roundness—if it weren’t for the color of her nipples and areolas, Francesca would think she was in front of a mirror.

“You must think your tits are amazing, as fat as they are,” the Italian panther found herself grunting.

“My boobs are as fat as yours, as far as I can see,” Dominique answered. “But that doesn’t mean yours are as good as mine.”

“That’s just what we’re going to check now, isn’t it?” Francesca stared at her nemesis before turning her face to the man who served as an excuse for her rivalry with the French beauty. “Tell me, Jaques. Since you like to fuck any cheap whore,” she glanced sideways at Dominique to accentuate her point, “surely you’ve been to the city’s brothels, right?”

“Well…” the man said, blushing. “Yes, from time to time.”

“So I guess you’ve seen some titfights,” Dominique intervened, and Francesca knew that she understood where her initial question was heading.

“I have seen several titfights,” Jaques admitted. “Prostitutes like men to watch when they do it.”

“You must know the rules of that kind of duel,” Francesca took the floor. She knew perfectly well what was permitted and what was not in a pussy showdown, but beyond some rumors, she didn’t know how to battle with boobs according to plebeian standards.

“It’s quite simple, actually,” the man stated. “It’s only allowed to fight with tits. Hands must be behind the back, but if one of the women decides to pull the other hair or hug her opponent to keep her chest to chest, it’s acceptable. Between bobos there are no rules, however. It’s allowed to pound and rub with them, hard or soft, fast or slow, and use nipples to stab titflesh or other nipples.” Francesca locked eyes with Dominique at that moment, the unsettled score between them spoken aloud by their shared lover. “On special occasions, if the duel is evenly matched for a long time, fingers can be used to squeeze and scratch the other tits, but only if both women agree to do it mutually and out loud. In any other case, it’s grounds for disqualification.”

“I don’t need to get my hands dirty touching your ugly tits to win this thing,” Dominique boasted.

“I can’t wait to hear how you beg my permission to grab mine when I’m beating your repulsive pair with my own tits,” the brunette growled. “And how do we decide who has won, Jaques?”

“Most titfights end with a verbal surrender after five to ten minutes of contesting,” he explained. “A woman also loses if she falls on one or both knees.”

“How does it sound, Lady Beaumont?” Francesca inquired. “Are you up for something like that against tits like these?” she pointed to her own dense glands.

“You won’t last five minutes against these beauties here,” Dominique proudly stuck out her chest. “So yes, I’m up for crushing yours with mine, gladly.”

“You’re very funny,” the brunette mocked. “At least you’ll still have that to pick up men after I make you flat-chested.”

The attractive women started to move in circles around each other, and Francesca felt that they were two sexy topless gladiators like the ones who centuries ago fought in her homeland. Several steps away, she was able to get a better look at Dominique’s naked torso. It was noticeable that the French aristocrat was really, really well built, her heavy boobs supported by a fit upper body that reflected her own: flat belly, tight waist, toned arms. Francesca was more than aware that if things got wild between their two fat pairs of breasts, the rest of their bodies would also have to withstand the battle and its consequences.

Her rival took the initiative, closing the gap between them a little. Francesca accepted the challenge by stepping forward herself. When they got close enough to grab the other body, they both placed their hands behind them. Looking down, the dark-haired beauty noticed how imposing Dominique’s breasts looked at such close range, and knew how hotly contested their first titfight was going to be.

“Come here,” Francesca whispered in defiance as both women slowly brought the tips of their long, thick nipples closer and closer together. Their spear-like weapons were exactly level with each other, so the Italian didn’t have to aim, just stab.

Francesca moaned when the contact came, and Dominique replied her whimper. Immediately the two resumed their nipple duel, but in a manner far removed from the subtlety of before. Engorged, hard dark brown nipples and swollen, taut rosy pink nipples battled unrestrainedly, twisting and poking, rubbing and hitting in the ultimate fencing duel. Gasping, Francesca didn’t try to defend or dodge, just attack, attack, attack until the formidable pair of her red-haired rival gave way by bending or softening. But, before her eyes, all she saw were Dominique’s nipples getting bigger and firmer as the contest intensified. Luckily, far from collapsing under the French’s cruel onslaught, her own nipples swelled, becoming thicker and longer than she had ever seen before.

The nipple war accelerated as both nobles seemed to reach maximum stiffness. Her extensive fencing training enabled Francesca to land nine out of ten blows against her nemesis’ nipples but, when she failed, the assault wasn’t in vain. Dominique gasped in pain every time one of the brunette’s hard rods sank fully into her milky white breastflesh, and Francesca always took advantage of those moments twisting her nipples against the fat boob to redouble the torment. However, the Parisian delivered her own nipple intrusions against her ivory bosoms—whether intentional or not, they made the foreigner woman exhale her own anguish.

Moving in circles around each other, advancing and retreating, the gorgeous adversaries moaned, gasped and danced around most of the room under Jaques’ astonished gaze. Francesca didn’t know how long she had been engaged nipple to nipple with her foe but, as much as she knew that her dark brown weapons still had unfinished business with Dominique’s pink shafts, she understood she couldn’t win a titfight without coming with her full weight forward. So, taking a deep breath, she threw herself against the redhead with all her chest.

What Francesca didn’t expect was that Dominique thought the same thing and did the same thing at the same time, so she found herself in a carriage clash between her impressive breasts and the magnificent boobs of the French beauty. Growling, the brunette felt the plump mass of her challenger’s flesh against hers, and understood that Dominique’s curvaceous body was not just a pretty façade. Holding her heavy chest against the redhead’s, Francesca kept up the pressure and compression, hoping that her size and firmness would be enough to push the other bosoms back, but Dominique’s breasts played in the same league of volume and density, so for several intense seconds neither of them managed to make the other woman retreat.

“I’m going to fuck your tits here and now,” the Parisian grunted, her big boobs straining against Francesca’s. “It will be a taste of what awaits you tonight when we settle this for real.”

“You don’t have enough tits to fuck mine,” the brunette spat out while she held her position against the opposite breasts. “You’re going to get beaten here by my pair, and the same thing will happen to you tonight when you and I fight in a proper way.”

“Bitch, I’m sick of your arrogance,” the redhead said as she began to roll her bosoms tightly against Francesca’s rack. “I’m going to grind yours down.”

“Shut up, you cunt.” The Florentine clenched her teeth as she moved her shoulders to force her abundant breasts to rub against Dominique’s. “I’m going to crush those tits you’re so proud of.”

Francesca kept her hands behind her back as she rotated with her egotistical foe in the center of the room, their conflict continuing with a silence continually broken by gasps and moans. Lost in that vast ocean of firm titflesh, the gorgeous Italian female could feel her long nipples scratching the French’s dense boobs, but also her nemesis’ erect rods lacerating her own heavy assets. But, as devastating as it felt, Francesca knew that who would dominate and who would be dominated would eventually be determined by sheer mass, so she leaned forward and, pressing herself forehead to forehead and nose to nose against Dominique, brought more of her fat breasts to the contest.

The tension between her and the red-headed hellcat reached flaming heights as the thick, meaty pale flesh kept mashing and bulging against each other, quivering and trembling together, without the frustrating stalemate could be broken in favor of one or another beauty. Gone were the five, ten minutes that Jaques had said the titfights usually lasted, and Francesca still did not feel that Dominique’s bosoms or her own were going to collapse any time soon. As the increasingly copious sweat glistened on their opposite breasts like little diamonds in the mid-morning light coming in from outside, the dark-eyed woman thought it was time to raise the stakes.

“Let’s hug, whore,” she hissed. “I want to see if your ugly tits can hold mine tight and close.”

“Oh, you tramp, I was about to tell you the same thing,” Dominique confessed. “I want to see if your tits are as hard when I really crush them.”

Francesca knew her rival was as anxious as she was as soon as the two wrapped their arms around each other without further delay. Hugging Dominique, the Italian felt that now her boobs were really making full, absolute contact, with both pairs of large glands fighting for a space that didn’t exist between the two bodies. She stared into the redhead’s green eyes as both grunted and moaned, but every once in a while she looked down to check what the heavyweight globes were doing to each other as their mistresses insisted on crushing them together. But it didn’t matter how many gasps of pain Francesca drew from Dominique, because she never saw or felt her antagonist’s plump breasts give the slightest bit. At least her own set of firm bosoms were still resisting the frontal, crushing assault, although her groans were getting louder and sharper.

The Florentine spitfire had already forgotten Jaques’ presence and thought only of pressing and compressing. Francesca felt herself fused with Dominique’s white, young titflesh while both enemies staggered around the room, but she suddenly realized that being in a naked, unrestrained, unobstructed battle of big boobs with a curvaceous beauty of the standard of the extraordinary Parisian had consequences worse than breast pain. The intensity of sensations in her chest had diverted all Francesca’s attention from what was happening in her wet crotch, so the unexpected, powerful throbbing that erupted in her cunt caught her off guard.

“Shit!” she gasped against Dominique’s mouth as what could be no other than pre-orgasmic tremors coursed through the depths of her sex. “It can’t be!” For a woman so proud in control of her pussy, being forced to struggle to suppress the first tit orgasm of her life was terribly humiliating.

“Fuck!” To the brunette’s surprise, her adversary exhaled her own weakness with a lust-filled moan. “Impossible!” Francesca saw on Dominique’s beautiful face the same surprise, the same shame she felt inside—the redhead was visibly as affected by the insistent and continuous friction of breasts as herself.

As both fit, hot female bodies trembled together in small earthquakes of passion, Francesca understood that the way in which that matched titfight would be settled would no longer follow the rules of prostitutes and peasant women. She was fighting hard and tight against Dominique’s boobs, but also against her sexual energy, so Francesca knew that the lady-to-lady struggle would only come to a true conclusion if it was fought in the aristocratic style: no verbal surrender, but orgasmic submission. After dominating dozens of upper-class women in villas, palaces and castles across all Italy, the Florentine seductress was confident that she could keep her own sex under control long enough to trigger the humiliating orgasm that her overconfident nemesis was clearly trying to suppress—only that for the first time she would use her breasts instead of her pussy to get her way.

Francesca’s heavy boobs kept bulging vigorously against Dominique’s big orbs as the brunette discarded the plebeian rules in order to finish that atypical fencing duel with her on top of the Parisian lioness. Not caring about the possible accusations, she released the clinch and grabbed both of the redhead’s plump, firm bosoms treacherously. But, as if she and Dominique shared the same way of thinking, her rival also brought her fingers to Francesca’s big, dense glands at the very same time.

“You and I would understand each other very well if you weren’t a stuck-up tramp who fucks the wrong man,” the French growled as Francesca felt her sweaty titflesh being nastily kneaded.

“We think alike, but that doesn’t make us the same,” the Italian replied, her fingers squeezing the opposing breasts without mercy. “You will always be an overrated whore who doesn’t know how to give her man what he needs.”

“You bitch!” Dominique leaned forward to bring her full lips against her ear. “Tonight I’m going to fuck you cunt to cunt so hard you won’t be able to walk for weeks,” the gorgeous redhead whispered so low that only Francesca could hear her words.

“I can’t wait to feel your pussy submitting to mine, slut,” she murmured back into Dominique’s ear. “But first I’m going to make you come in this room in front of Jaques.”

“Oh, nobody told you?” the French purred smugly as her hands groped the Florentine’s round bosoms. “I have never conceded an orgasm to a woman. Not even once.”

“It’s funny, because it seems that nobody told you either.” Francesca continued to squeeze the redhead’s stiff breasts with her fingers. “No woman has ever made me come a single time. So I’m as unbeaten as you are.”

“Oh, bitch, that will only make it better when I get a good dirty orgasm out of you right here and now,” Dominique gasped. “Say goodbye to your unbeaten record.”

“You say goodbye, because I’m going to give you your first orgasm against a woman,” the brunette argued. “I’m not even going to need to use my pussy, you slut.”

Both beauties crushed and rubbed with their hands and boobs, holding each other’s large chest as close as they could, bringing nipples together while pinching and scratching them from the sides. Panting and moaning heavily in her rival’s ear, Francesca closed her tearful eyes as her heaving breasts suffered such a siege of pain and pleasure simultaneously, but Dominique’s agonizing sobs gave her the strength she needed to keep lacerating the Parisian’s swollen hot globes with aching hedonism.

Francesca felt that the decisive moment had arrived when her vagina started to throb with a heat that matched the eruptions that still raged in Ceboruco. The distant volcano had been bursting for months in the lands of Mexico, and the dark-eyed spitfire was sure that, if she herself burst into eruption at that moment, she wouldn’t be able to stop her orgasm for minutes—that was how horny and vulnerable she felt, something without precedent in her extraordinary life stealing orgasms from women inferior to her. Tired and sweaty, almost out of breath, Francesca channeled what sexual energy remained in her body to weaponize it and try to overwhelm Dominique, her gorgeous nemesis moaning and trembling against her in what the brunette knew was the vibrant prelude to the French hellcat’s orgasm. It was only a matter of seconds before one of them gave in to carnal weakness, and Francesca prayed to God to grant her an extra moment of endurance.

Perhaps the Almighty didn’t approve of that very unchristian fight, or maybe it was just bad luck or fate but, just as the female duel reached its decisive climax, the loud sound of trumpets resounded from the outside. Caught by surprise, Francesca and Dominique pushed each other away, separating their aroused bodies within three or four seconds of the humiliating sexual outburst while Jaques put into words what both beautiful nobles already knew.

“The Emperor has arrived!”

Francesca heard the horses and carriages arriving at the Château de Maisons-Laffitte. Unsatisfied, she hated Napoleon III and his Court of fainthearted men and weak women for stealing from her and Dominique the resolution they both deserved. On the verge of physical and mental collapse, she looked at the sweating, exhausted redhead, frustration binding the stunning rivals together for a moment.

“Your lame emperor won’t save you tonight when I pay you a visit at your villa,” she gasped, her big boobs burning, her cunt howling for orgasmic release.

“I’ll wait for you when the sun goes down,” Dominique replied between gasps. “And then not even all the nobility of Europe could prevent you from me pulling what you owe me out of your pathetic body.”

“You, me and Jaques, and no one else.” Francesca picked up her white shirt to cover her bruised breasts. “In your most private chamber, where no one will interrupt us again.”

“Just the three of us, Jaques as witness, you and I solving the big question.” The Parisian woman also grabbed her masculine shirt from the floor. “Only one of us will remain unbeaten before the next morning comes.”

Francesca nodded. The wait until nightfall would be long, eternal, but the attractive Florentine knew that the wait would be worth it. After all, she was in for the fight of her life.

Part II
A Fateful Rendezvous

All about women settling scores

Chapter 7
The Villa of the Howls

Back to the present

The last lights of day came in uninvited through the floor-length windows of Dominique’s bed chamber to bath her voluptuous nude body in brilliant shades of dark yellow and reddish orange. Her savage moans and groans were getting louder, harsher and stronger as she kept to violently ram the freshly peeled cucumber all the way inside of her luscious cunt, harder and harder, faster and faster, deeper and deeper, in a way that no woman she knew could do—not even Francesca Bellini, she wished for. The arrogant words that the dark-haired beauty had spat out to her and the visual reminder of the defiant topless female continued flashing through her mind, over and over and over again, in an obsessive cycle that Dominique knew there was only one way to exorcise.

“Oh, fucking Italian bitch, saying I’m not woman enough to stop you when things get dirty,” the redhead gasped, her soaked labia tightening angrily around the cucumber. “I’m going to destroy you pussy with mine.” Her emerald green eyes burnt with anger and hatred, but also with malice and desire, as she made her promise. “And when I do, I’ll tear those fat tits out of you.”

Dominique still felt her pride wounded and her womanhood dishonored by the whole thing that had happened that very morning. She hated Francesca’s big boobs for forcing her to fight like a common whore, and for denying the superiority of her own breasts. She had had to go down into the filthy mud of vulgarity and still she had not drawn anything but a frustrating, inconclusive outcome to their low-class efforts—no greater reward than a sort of tie with the woman she hated the most.

“I’m going to ride you like you ride a bitch,” the French hellcat kept grunting. “Hard and tight, you under me, in front of Jaques.” Her sexuality had been scorned by the affair between her rival and her lover, and she was determined to restore it by fucking her and then him that same night. “Both of you will know who is the best woman here!”

Jealousy, lust, revenge, hatred and desire connected, intertwined in a wet sensation that poured directly into the very heart of the Parisian’ femininity. Dominique’s whole body froze as the strong sensations saturated her luscious, throbbing cunt, setting it on fire with rage and fury, power and energy. Moaning, she let the back of her head slide downward over her pillow, her neck bulging outward and her perfectly shaped chin pointing straight up toward the ceiling. The cucumber sank a little deeper into Dominique’s pounding core, her back arching high up into the air as her tight, round ass rose up well above the bed.

Finally, the orgasm came. The stunning aristocrat roared at the top of her lungs like a lioness, heaving and jerking, rocking and bouncing up and down on the mattress as a crushing series of spasms gripped her entire naked body and shook it with such incredible force that the creaking of the heavy wooden bedframe beneath her echoed along with her screams throughout the ancient villa. Beyond the big windows, another woman’s cry matched hers, or maybe it was just a fantasy in the midst of the destructive climax. The French redhead kept trembling in a full one-minute orgasm, the longest and heaviest of her twenty-four years of life. That fact deeply upset Dominique since the explosive orgasm was the first one she had after her tough titfight with Francesca hours earlier—somehow, it was the same orgasm that the Florentine almost forced out of her. The cause and effect couldn’t be clearer, so Dominique couldn’t help but yell again, that time in fury—and again another distant howl answered her, though at that point the Parisian woman wasn’t sure what was real and what was not.

“The one I’m going to trigger in your pussy will be much worse,” the sexy redhead threatened an invisible Francesca as she slowly pulled the cucumber out of her. Holding it up over her naked body, she saw that it was mashed to an unrecognizable pulp—soft, wet and mushy with a long, wide dark green band right across the middle. As she dangled it out in front of her, the top half of the cucumber just came right off and landed on her flat, hard stomach. “You stupid Italian whore,” she hissed, “you’re about to find out that I’m more than enough woman to stop you.”

Sliding out of bed, Dominique walked to the open, large windows, leaving behind silky sheets smeared with the scent and juices of an alpha woman. Outside, night had already come and, from the height of the second floor, the redhead could see her butler lighting the torches in the courtyard at the entrance to the villa, and her stable master waiting for the guests. The moon shone full in the sky, highlighting the sweaty and generous curves of the naked mistress of the place. Observing her domains in the forest of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the gorgeous young noble smiled proudly for all the influence she had accumulated in the Imperial Court thanks to her sexual hegemony over men and women. And that was the center of her power, her own stronghold: a villa so old that every time its fields were plowed, some antique column or a small idol of a god from another era would appear. Dominique’s great-grandfather had bought and restored it, but it was under her that the place had received the name by which it was now known: la villa des hurlements, the villa of the howls.

Dominique’s smile grew smug as she thought that Francesca must have heard the stories. It was well known that almost every night howls were heard in the woods around the villa, but not from wolves or ghosts, but from the men and women who went up to the second floor of Lady Beaumont’s mansion—or when, while alone, the green-eyed beauty jerked herself off. Men like Jaques were the lucky ones, since their screams were of joyous pleasure, of carnal union with the best woman in all of France. But women were not so privileged. Their cries were also full of sexual bliss, but it was a forced, violated pleasure, an unsatisfied satisfaction, a complete and absolute submission to a superior female. The villa of the howls was Dominique’s lair, a personal hunting ground where she was the only predator, and Lady Bellini was on her way to it. The Parisian hellcat was impatient.

Finally, the hooves of a galloping horse echoed through the forest. Dominique wondered whether it would be Francesca or Jaques, but she didn’t have to wait long to get her answer. The man appeared in the villa on Rosalinde, his black mare, but the woman barely paid attention to him as a second horse was then heard approaching the place. Her heart raced and her crotch throbbed knowing that it had to be her Florentine rival.

“Take care of Rosalind,” Dominique ordered her stable master. “And you, Jaques, come in, undress and go up to my chamber,” Dominique said without even looking at her lover. “Don’t keep us waiting or we’ll start without you.”

Unlike Jaques’ mare, Francesca’s horse seemed to take forever to cross the forest—or maybe it was Dominique’s anxiety taking over. Her overconfidence fluctuated in the wait as she again visualized her nemesis topless, sweaty and smug, in front of her. For a moment, she remembered how vulnerable she felt at the end of her titfight with Francesca, and wondered with concern what it would be like to face that voluptuous, beautiful body in the most intimate of fights. Behind the Italian’s dark eyes, Dominique had seen determination and pride instead of the fear and humiliation she instilled in other women by confronting them. Even worse, that female might had flashed in Francesca’s dilated pupils even as they were both about to orgasm at the end of their first epic encounter.

“She’s the most dangerous woman I have ever faced,” the redhead admitted with an angry whisper. “But I am Dominique Beaumont, the sexiest and most dominant woman in Europe,” she added proudly. “No Florentine whore is going to beat this Parisian lioness, let alone tonight.”

Just as she conjured back her confidence, Francesca made her appearance. The foreign beauty was dressed in a long black dress, which contrasted strikingly with the nervous white stallion she was riding. Under the light of the moon and the torches, her Mediterranean features and curves looked even better, much to Dominique’s annoyance.

“Welcome to my villa, Lady Bellini,” she greeted while letting arrogance override anger. “I’m glad you haven’t changed your mind and fled Paris.”

Francesca looked up and, even at that distance, the French could feel the brunette’s gaze set on her plump bare boobs. The Florentine’s black eyes flashed with a bit of jealousy and frustration, but remained smug.

“As for me, I thought that I might find the villa empty, because you had decided that it was better to leave the city than to go ahead with this,” Francesca said, rising slightly on the horse. Dominique knew she was trying to see her exposed cunt, but the shadows and distance prevented it.

“Don’t be impatient, you will see it soon,” the redhead scoffed. “And feel it.”

“That’s what I came here for, Lady Beaumont.” Francesca got off her horse and handed the reins over to the stable master. “To feel each other.”

Dominique opened her mouth to reply to Francesca, but something distracted her. From her privileged position, she could clearly see that the leather saddle and, in fact, much of the coat on the Italian’s stallion was full of female juices. The redhead could see the cum glistening viscously under the light of the newly lit torches, and couldn’t help but be surprised by its copiousness. Now the screams she had thought she had heard in the forest made sense: as the rules of the cuntfight demanded, Francesca had jerked off just before the confrontation, and what had echoed in the distance had to have been the culmination of what had begun that morning with swords, nipples and breasts—an orgasm as crushing as the one she herself had just had. Knowing that her rival had been masturbating and coming so powerfully on the way to her villa made Dominique’s long nipples harden a little more.

“Come on up here and let’s feel each other properly, Lady Bellini.” The French woman’s voice could barely hide how horny she was. “Make sure you take off that dress and whatever you’re wearing underneath before you enter my private quarters. But keep your boots on.”

Something flashed in Francesca’s dark eyes as she nodded. Without taking her eyes off the redhead, Francesca walked toward the front door, her generous, defiant boobs bouncing on her chest with every step she took. Dominique bit her lower lip as the brunette who challenged her disappeared from sight, and her heart raced at the imminence of the expected meeting between them and their pussies.

Turning around, Dominique approached the bed. Seeing the abundance and gooeyness in the fluids she had left on her sheets—fluids that matched those Francesca had left on her horse—she realized that all that spectacle of liquid excess was a sign of weakness and strength at the same time. Francesca and she had both climaxed mightily because of all that their enemy had provoked during their first duel, which spoke clearly of the carnal influence they exerted on each other. But, on the other hand, Dominique knew that a copious cumshot was a symbol of womanliness, a representation of fertility and influence, so in the end she and the beautiful Florentine were once again at the same level of danger, apex predators—lioness and panther—in an ecosystem where there was no room for both.

Sitting up in bed, Dominique pulled on her short heeled boots. The seductive redhead had always had a strange fetish in that regard so, whenever possible, she fought her sexual battles completely naked except for her boots, and demanded the same from her rivals. There was something about hearing the leather sliding together, feeling the heels locking while legs fought for position that excited her. So, shod at last with the only unnatural armor all over her splendorous naked body, Dominique stood up again and approached a beautiful rosewood chest, a gift from the Empress Eugenia herself. Opening it, she picked up her lucky bracelets: five exquisite pieces of gold craftsmanship brought from faraway India. The redhead usually wore the bracelets in her most important female duels so, without hesitation, she placed them on her right arm, the jingling of the pieces ringing out as a warning of what was to come. Slowly licking her lips, Dominique waited impatiently for Francesca. The time for their imperative cunt battle had finally arrived.

Chapter 8
Physical Matching

Francesca kept hearing the agitated sounds of her powerful white stallion as she entered the perilous den of Dominique Beaumont. She hardly paid attention to the sumptuous decoration of the mansion, to the paintings of Flemish and Spanish artists hanging on the walls, to the Persian carpets covering the floor, to the marble columns recovered from centuries of oblivion and reused in the great rooms. The Italian simply looked for the main staircase and, when she found it, began to ascend it with long strides, her heavy bosoms swaying under her neckline. The torches flanked her with tingling light and warmth on her way until, at the very top, she saw Jaques in front of a double oak door. The man was shirtless, and was taking off his pants when he saw the brunette appear.

“Oh, Francesca, I wanted to…” Jaques started to say, but the southern beauty suddenly grabbed him by the balls, forcing a moan from the handsome lover.

“After I fuck her senseless, I will give you such a fuck that you will never desire that Parisian whore again,” Francesca grunted, twisting Jaques’ manhood for a few seconds more before releasing him.

“Fuck her?” the man asked in surprise, clutching his crotch. “Are you two going to…? I thought this was going to be a fight.”

“It is a fight,” the Florentine clarified. “One that men don’t usually witness, so be thankful that we let you see us.”

“But…” Jaques still didn’t understand. “How are you going to fight while fucking?”

“You men are so simple, thinking that everything is solved with fists, swords and guns.” Francesca shook her head. “You don’t comprehend the real power that moves the world, the seductive supremacy of female curves and smooth skin.” As if to prove her point, the woman began to remove her dark dress, Jaques’ eyes now fixed on the flesh she was baring for him. “No fist knocks out as hard as a glimpse inside of a deep, moist, bulging cleavage. No sword is as dangerous as a dress that emphasizes a round, firm, strong ass. No gun conquers with as much authority as a soaked, profound, throbbing pussy does.” The dress fell to the floor, finally ceasing to conceal the stunning, generous body of Francesca Bellini, the finest woman in all of Italy. “Now, get on your knees.”

As the brunette knew, Jaques could not disobey her—not when she stood before him in all her splendor, with her big boobs, her wide hips, her long legs but most of all her perfect cunt. The man dropped one knee to the ground, and then the other, his eager eyes unable to turn away from that tempting flesh show—not even the gold bracelets flashing on her left arm distracted the Jaques’ attention. Francesca raised her chin proudly, feeling indomitable, unbeatable. Holding on to that vibe to obviate any doubts in her head, she moved past the kneeling aristocrat and pushed open the double door to Dominique’s private quarters.

The Parisian’s naked beauty almost knocked her down. In the center of the bedroom was she, glorious in her nudity, sumptuous in her curves, authoritative in her aura: Dominique Beaumont, the undisputed French queen of sex. Francesca had to do her best not to open her mouth wide at the seductive spectacle of firm flesh and silky skin in front of her. Waist and hips formed lusciously arched lines against the moonlight coming through the windows, and the plump, heavy breasts of her nemesis looked somehow larger than they had that morning, the pinkish nipples so erect that they even cast shadows in the bedroom. Francesca was pleased to see the little marks she had left on Dominique’s big glands during the titfight, but when she looked down at the trophy she had really been looking for, everything that had happened hours before seemed like child’s play.

“Take a good look at my pussy, Lady Bellini,” the other hot woman whispered. She didn’t need to add anything more, and Francesca knew why: Dominique’s formidable sex could speak for itself, her dense mons pubis and fat labia telling the Italian without words of the countless women that had been subjugated by the feminine power between the French lioness’ legs. Dominique’s cunt was hairy, as the brunette would expect from an experienced cuntfighter, her curly reddish pubes forming a tangled, dense protection. But the key to the whole confrontation lay in what was sticking out stiff and big at the apex of her rival’s pussy channel, the thing Francesca hadn’t stopped hearing about since her arrival in Paris: Lady Beaumont’s clitoris. The raven-haired Florentine had engaged cunt to cunt with enough females to predict how much a clit could grow once the real duel began, and what she saw in Dominique’s crotch announced without a doubt that she was about to face the longest and thickest weapon of her life—a clitoris that, for the first time, may have been able to match her own in full size.

“That’s a nice pussy to beat, Lady Beaumont,” the Italian said in the most threatening tone of voice she could muster. “Please take your own look at mine,” she murmured, placing her hands on her hips and opening her legs for inspection. Francesca was aware that Dominique’s emerald green eyes had been studying her boobs and waist, her hips and legs since she had entered the private quarters, so her enemy must already well know the surprising similarity between their curvaceous bodies. The redhead should have already seen the marks on her round breasts and the erection of her dark nipples, the firmness of her flat belly and the strength of her thick thighs. But now that Dominique was lowering her gaze to her pussy, Francesca knew the first psychological victory of the fight was at stake.

“It looks perfect to get the beating of a lifetime,” the Parisian woman hissed after a long minute of examination.

“It seems that you are not looking properly,” the brunette grunted. “Try again and get a good long look at my fat mound of Venus, at my thick lips. Check out my lush dark pubes. And pay special attention to my clitoris and consider, if it’s already this big now, how impressive it will be when it touches yours.”

“There’s nothing bigger there than in what I have, Lady Bellini,” Dominique grunted in reply.

“Perhaps,” Francesca sincerely admitted, “but there’s nothing bigger in yours either.”

“Well, it’s better that way, don’t you think?” The redhead began to walk to the side.

“For once, I agree with you. It’s more interesting if we start with apparently identical weapons.” The Italian licked her lips as she moved to the other side, both beauties circling each other completely naked except for footwear. “What about boots?”

“An old fetish of mine. I hope you don’t mind granting it to me.” Dominique smiled. “And those nice bracelets? They’re for luck, aren’t they?”

“I bought them from a Persian merchant a few years ago,” the brunette explained. “And yes, they’ve always been lucky for me…just like your bracelets, I guess.”

“They’re from India,” the redhead replied. “They have accompanied me in my best battles.”

“And they will do it in your first defeat.” Francesca smirked.

“You will taste the taste of loss tonight for the first time,” Dominique hissed.

Francesca’s dark eyes strayed for a moment to her rival’s bed and the copious female juices that stained the sheets. Suddenly her brain connected the dots, and she understood who had cried out in unison with her as she masturbated in the woods. Everything, absolutely everything between her and Dominique seemed to match them in a perfect pairing, even when they jerked off before the battle of pussies as required by tradition. The other beauty’s profuse orgasm showed how much the French had in store for her if she was able to trigger it, but also her sexual potency and that the strong, avid desire for that woman-to-woman conflict was noticeably bilateral.

“I’m gonna squeeze an orgasm out of you twice as intense and abundant as the one you had in that bed, Lady Beaumont,” Francesca threatened.

“Yours will be twice as strong and copious as the one you drenched your stallion with, Lady Bellini,” the Parisian counterattacked.

Jaques then entered the room, closing the door behind him. The brunette barely gave him a couple of seconds of attention: the man was now completely naked, and his cock was incredibly erect. The Italian certainly understood that, although he had seen both beautiful female specimens naked before, he had never seen them together, defiantly standing before each other. That was a completely different scenario, an infinitely more exciting one.

“Do not speak, do not interfere. Just stand in a corner and watch.” It was all Dominique said to the man. “Now, Lady Bellini, we can discuss the rules of the duel, in case there are differences in how we handle these things in our respective countries,” the redhead added. “Italians also fight to first orgasm, don’t you?”

“That’s right,” Francesca replied. “We fight by fucking, we don’t fuck with the excuse of fighting, so we don’t prolong the duel. I assume it’s the same here in France…”

“Yes. This is a battle of sex, not just hard sex,” the Parisian agreed with her. “Although I assure you it will be hard.”

“I don’t care how hard you think it’s gonna be, because I will always be harder,” the Florentine hissed.

“We’ll see about that.” Dominique glanced down at the brunette’s crotch.

Francesca glanced down as well, and saw how her nemesis’ clitoris was already growing just from the exchange of words. She felt her own weapon hardening, as well as her own dark nipples. Remembering how annoyingly hard Dominique’s rosy pink nipples felt against hers hours before, she couldn’t help but think what it would be like to be clit to clit against such an undeniably stiff vaginal hard-on.

Continuing to walk in circles around each other, with Jaques as their only witness, Francesca and Dominique kept analyzing each other in silence. No matter where she looked, the Italian spitfire still couldn’t see any part of the French hellcat’s physique that she clearly surpassed. Their bodies were practically twins from head to toe, identical in height and weight, matched in fitness and sex appeal, and only a few facial divergences and the color of hair, eyes and nipples prevented Francesca from being a doppelgänger to Dominique. The Florentine had always firmly believed that there was no other busty, leggy woman like her, but now the possibility of someone playing in her league seemed to become a reality in that gorgeous fat-titted Parisian woman.

“I have to admit that we’re the perfect physical match for each other. And your pussy looks great.” Francesca had been about to say something similar, but was surprised to hear it from her rival’s mouth. “But we’re both experienced enough to know that sometimes a nice body falls apart quickly when it doesn’t have what it takes in a cuntfight.”

“That’s true, Lady Beaumont,” the brunette said. “But, since I assume this is your first time fighting a Florentine, let me explain you something we usually do in these cases in my city.”

“I’m sure it’s something fun,” Dominique licked her lips in amusement.

“In Florence, if after a first visual inspection the pussies appear to be equal in size and shape, women usually agree on what we call toccare le armi, that is, touching the weapons,” Francesca explicated. “It’s the way we have to check first hand if things are as even as they seem or if one of the cunts is just a front.”

“So…you want to finger me before we start?” The redhead’s smile grew on her face, more arrogant and contemptuous than ever. “My dear, that’s very kind of you, but let me be very clear and tell you that it won’t help you in what’s to come next.”

“We finger each other,” the Italian was forced to clarify in the face of Dominique’s overconfidence. “If your cunt can’t handle my fingers for a moment, then maybe you shouldn’t have challenged a woman who is better than you.”

Somehow, that got on Dominique’s nerves. The French growled and walked straight towards her, and Francesca didn’t wait and took a few steps in the direction of her enemy. The two women clashed loudly chest to chest, the echoes of the morning’s bout of mass and firmness literally reverberating through the room.

“I can take whatever your fingers and pussy do against my womanhood,” the redhead grunted against her face. “And I can because I’m a much better woman than you.”

“My pussy is now at your fingertips,” Francesca spat back as she instinctively rolled her plump boobs against Dominique’s voluminous pair. “Feel for yourself how inferior you are to my womanhood.”

“Touch me,” Dominique groaned, her thick nipples searching for Francesca’s. “You’ll feel that your cunt can’t even dare to compare to mine.”

“You bitch,” the brunette hissed and, without wasting a second, she brought her hand on the other beauty’s naked pussy.  It was time to find out how good Dominique Beaumont, the Parisian lioness, really was.

Chapter 9
Touch, Caress, Invasion

“You bitch.” Dominique’s insult replicated her foe’s as she felt Francesca touching her pussy at the same time she was touching hers. She had been amazed at how spectacular the Florentine’s most intimate parts looked, but touching the massive sexual anatomy with her own hand went far beyond that. She could feel the thickness of her mons, the lushness of her bush, and the firmness of her labia flaunting under the touch of her probing fingertips but, above all, she was able to gauge the level of threat that it represented. The redhead had faced many, many pussies in her life, and two or three of them had been almost as fat and firm as hers, but that was the first time she had encountered one that matched her own in size and density—it didn’t matter if she experimentally curled her fingers between Francesca’s dark pubes, or if she delicately ran the channel between the vaginal lips from bottom to top and back again, because what her Italian archenemy brought to the battle was undeniably a perfect replica of her own French sexual weaponry.

Under the attention of Jaques’ lustful, hungry eyes, Dominique held breasts and nipples against Francesca’s big counterparts as they both felt each other’s. The brunette’s gaze on hers was intense, brazen, but she could see some frustration in it.  Feeling the other aristocrat’s fingers sliding up and down her wet cunt, Dominique understood the sentiment, for after all Francesca must have come to the same conclusion as she did regarding the exasperating similarity between sexes. The eye-catching redhead already knew that it was going to be a hell of a fight, and it was undeniable that her rival had come to the same conclusion.

“Nice big cunt, Lady Bellini,” Dominique conceded, but was unwilling to admit any more. “It’s a pity that you’re determined to make it lose its unbeatability by bringing it up against a pussy superior in every way.”

“What you’re feeling is far superior to what I’m feeling,” Francesca replied. “You’re well endowed, true, but you don’t stand a chance against me down there.”

“I’m gonna whip your cunt with mine,” the redhead spat out. “I’m gonna break your clit in two.”

“I’m gonna beat your pussy so bad,” her adversary responded with her own threat. “And that includes your ugly clit.”

Despite their words, Dominique was aware that neither of them had dared to touch the other clitoris yet, though she herself wasn’t sure if it was out of fear, respect or honor. What she could feel was her own sexual lance hardening and extending as the fingering continued, and she didn’t need to look down to know that Francesca’s clit was in the same engorging process.

“Tell me something, you little cunt,” the Parisian whispered after a while. “Toccare le armi includes feeling each other in depth?”

“Only if you dare to have my strong fingers inside you,” the brunette said. “I wouldn’t want you to come before the real duel begins, Lady Beaumont.”

“I’m so sure I can handle you that I’m gonna let you shove your fingers inside me first, for as long as you want,” Dominique challenged proudly, recklessly. “One minute, two, three, whatever you need to realize that you’re gonna lose our personal duel.”

“I don’t need any advantage, you insignificant pussy,” the stunning Italian snorted. “Go ahead, rape me with your fingers. I won’t touch you while you do it. And I assure you that before long you’ll know why you’ll be fucked like you’ve never been fucked before.”

The tension from the mutual temerity increased the temperature in the room. Dominique felt both pairs of boobs pressing tighter together, their stiff, thick nipples stabbing mutually as the women’s pussies grew wetter.

“Let’s feel each other at the same time,” the Parisian finally mumbled, aware that the perfect pairing between them included unbridled arrogance.

“Good,” Francesca accepted with a grunt.

Slowly moving her fingers towards the other sacred hole, Dominique prepared herself to feel how tight Francesca was where it really mattered—that excited and worried her at the same time. Making sure to invade the other pussy at the same time as her antagonist so that neither could have the upper hand, the green-eyed beauty inserted three fingers inside Francesca, and immediately felt the sex impulsively clench around her phalanges. Her own cunt squeezed the fingers that the brunette plunged into her vagina, the three intruders soaking in female juices in what Dominique knew the other noble would take as a small victory. But Francesca’s sex felt equally wet on her fingers, so the French knew that, if her rival brought up the subject, she would have her own argument to counter her.

“So this is what Jaques felt when he was fucking you,” the Italian panther restarted the war of words by bringing up, however, the subject of the shared lover. “Now I understand why he preferred me.”

“No man fucks me, Lady Bellini. I fuck them,” the redhead refuted. “That’s why Jaques and anyone else would choose me over you and your loose cunt any day and night.”

“I’m all tight and firm down there, just like you’re feeling,” Francesca grunted. “You wish you had a pussy like that instead of this weak thing.”

Dominique felt the other female’s fingers make a dirty move inside her, and instinctively she did the same. Both beauties moaned against each other’s faces, their eyes staring at each other with hatred.

“Your cunt is the only weak thing here,” Dominique said, trying to prove her point by readjusting her fingers inside Francesca. Her foe gasped before the Parisian felt a quick, short in-out movement of the opposite hand on her sex, forcing her to pant.

“Yours are so weak that can’t handle my fingers touching it.” The foreigner twisted her fingers at the same time Dominique did, and both women let out a brief moan.

“Looks like it’s yours that can’t take it,” the owner of the villa hissed as she pulled her fingers in and out of Francesca’s soaked pussy with speed and skill.

The brunette’s sexual groan was in some way what gave the starting signal and, before she knew it, Dominique found herself hooked up with Francesca in a sudden and unforeseen fingering contest. Feeling her foe’s phalanges moving in and out of her wet hot sex, she despised Francesca more than ever for forcing her to compete in the most ignominious ways possible—there had been no dignity in their titfight, and there was none in masturbating each other like horny sailors’ wives or war widows who have no man to fuck. But as she felt Francesca’s throbbing cunt against her assaulting fingers, she had to admit that two don’t fight if they both don’t want to—and she wanted to, in any way that humiliates the dark-haired spitfire.

Pressing her plump bosoms against Francesca’s set of big breasts, Dominique impaled her three fingers inside her rival’s burning gooey cunt over and over again, making her gasp and moan, but the brunette gave as much as she received and forced exhalation after exhalation from Dominique with quick and vicious pussy penetrations. The way Francesca’s skillful fingers parted her slick labia to rape her was affecting her more than she wanted to admit, so the redhead gritted her teeth and accelerated the violation of her raven-haired foe’s cunt, taking comfort from the increasingly high-pitched and desperate laments of the other woman.

“Am I getting you horny, Lady Bellini?” Dominique taunted, trying to gain some kind of psychological advantage.

“Says the woman with her pussy on fire,” Francesca grunted back. “It would be so easy to finger you until you climaxed…”

“I can make you come against my fingers right away.” The Parisian beauty heard her gold bracelets clinking as she sped up the fingering.

“You’re about to orgasm, Lady Beaumont,” the Italian said. “And we’ve barely started. Do you really think you’re gonna hold your own against me pussy to pussy?”

“I’m not just gonna hold my own against you pussy to pussy, you bitch, I’m gonna break you pussy to pussy. Just as I’m gonna break you now with my bare hand.” Dominique twisted her phalanges inside the brunette, making her moan loudly, but her opponent retaliated by forcing her to exhale a piercing groan by pushing her fingers deeper into her. 

“Everything with you always has to be a duel, right?” Francesca gasped as she matched Dominique’s in-out pace. “Okay, whore, here’s one for you: let’s keep jerking each other off until we see who comes first. Whoever wins gets to keep the rival’s lucky bracelets as trophies for the main cunt war.”

“I can’t wait to get my hands on your bracelets,” the French agreed. “Let’s masturbate each other until you come like a loser in heat.”

For the next two, three minutes, women’s fingers kept exploring and caressing the smooth vaginal walls of each other’s cunt. The bedroom filled with gasps and moans, and some little squeals as one of the contenders achieved just the right stimulation in just the right soft spot. Touching deeper and deeper, Dominique felt Francesca trembling increasingly out of control against her fingers, but the shocks of pleasure that coursed through her pussy under the Florentine’s assault were also taking their toll on her. Sweat already covered her entire body and, together with Francesca’s profuse perspiration, formed a thick layer that covered the shuddering flesh of the females in fingering duel.

“Come, French cunt, come,” the brunette breathed.

“You first, you Italian pussy,” the redhead panted.

Although Francesca’s passionate reactions made the Parisian woman realize that she had caught the rhythm and drive that excited her rival the most, everything seemed to come to a standstill for a couple of minutes more, with the Florentine spitfire surviving her fingers without crossing the climaxing line. She herself was holding her ground in that overexcited state that the other beauty was putting her in and felt that, despite all the lamenting and shaking, she would be able to avoid the outburst of defeat for much longer—unless Francesca broke the unspoken pact and touched her aroused clitoris. But neither made any pretense of assaulting the other ultimate weapon in that mutual masturbation that went on for so long that the fingers eventually slowed down from exhaustion.

Beyond the windows, night covered an entire continent on the brink of war, its dark cloak broken by the orgasmic shrieks of some noblewoman defeated by her political or love rival. The orgasmic defeat of Duchess Antonia Domínguez by Duchess Maria Vittoria dal Pozzo would bring a new king to an unstable Kingdom of Spain, and the battle between the victorious cunt of Princess Luise of Prussia and the humiliated pussy of her sister-in-law Marie Amalie of Baden stabilized the Hohenzollerns in such tense times, but none of the sex duels in Europe could compare to what was happening in la villa des hurlements, where what was at stake was something far more important than mere political power: pride, honor and status of woman.

“If you are tired of trying in vain to make me come, you can simply stop resisting and burst into climax,” Dominique spat out as she felt her enemy’s fingers penetrate her with less and less impetus.

“Your hand is tired,” Francesca accused, the truth in her words bothering the redhead. “You’d better surrender once and for all and come against mine. Your poor cunt hasn’t got the endurance to withstand all this penetration forever.” 

“You shouldn’t have said that, Lady Bellini.” The French plunged her fingers as far as she could into Francesca’s deep sex to make her gasp. “Quick, Jaques, go to the kitchen and get the biggest cucumber you see. I want to show this ugly bitch what penetration and endurance is all about.”

With a grunt of frustration at having to leave the room, the man ran out. Dominique didn’t even notice the man coming out of the room, as she was too busy trying unsuccessfully to silence the moans that the wet fingers of her nemesis were forcing out of her. Alone with Francesca in her quarters, the Parisian lioness kept raping the other seductive female, each hot gasp encouraging her to continue pumping her fingers into her, but her thoughts were already set on the upcoming dildo-style duel.

“What a big mistake you just made, Lady Beaumont,” Francesca said first. “I have such mastery of my vaginal muscles that I can mash a hard banana completely, or fuck the leather horn of my saddle. A cheap whore like you has no chance against me.”

“If you had seen how my pussy crush the fattest cucumbers in my orchard to a pulp, you wouldn’t be so smug. I will be in absolute control in the next battle.” Dominique pushed her breasts and nose against her foe’s. Both sweaty beauties snarled face to face with hatred and envy and malice, the French hellcat feeling that, whatever it took, she had to conquer that identical gorgeous body of the southern woman if he wanted to keep her prosperous, triumphant life on track.

But what happened then was totally unexpected, and carried the ‘whatever it took’ beyond what she had anticipated. Even years later, the spectacular redhead was never able to determine who had started it, but a second after looking into Francesca’s dark eyes with unrestrained animosity, she found herself engaged with the brunette in a wet kiss. Dominique had never in her life done such a thing with another woman, as she had no love interest in them and female contests between aristocrats were limited to tussle with pussies, but her conflict with Francesca seemed a constant transgression and crossing of lines. Closing her eyes and tilting her head, the Parisian plunged her tongue into the other mouth, immediately realizing that all the preliminaries to their anticipated cuntfight had inevitably led to that kiss—fencing in front of a crowd of horny men, the clash of long nipples and large bosoms, the wildest masturbation of their lives, the half-finished mutual fingering, the promise of a double cucumber fuck. Dominique had to admit that both rivals had done an excellent job of turning each other on for hours, and now that mutual arousal was the driving force that pushed them into another sexual duel, that time with lips, teeth and tongues. Feeling the heat and pressure of Francesca’s mouth against hers, Dominique felt terribly impatient to show the Florentine how a real woman kissed.

Chapter 10
The Deepest Muscles

Francesca could believe it, but she was making out with another woman. In that messy, dirty female battle of firsts, kissing Dominique with closed eyes went far beyond their titfight and mutual fingering—it was something that two lovers would do, not two enemies. The Florentine spitfire certainly didn’t like women and, if she used her pussy against them, it wasn’t for simple sexual pleasure, but for the bliss of domination. Of course she had explored the bodies of her Italian rivals, touching their boobs, hips and asses when she had needed to, but there had never been any carnal intentions of seduction and affection.

It was clear to Francesca, naturally, that there was nothing friendly between her and Dominique now either, their exchange of hard bites and aggressive tongue licks still maintaining the perpetual state of war between the two young beauties. But there was a certain mutual surrender in the kiss, some loss of control that made the brunette uncomfortable and, from what she knew of her, the redhead as well. That hadn’t been a challenge issued by one of them about who was a better kisser, but rather an almost natural reaction of their bodies after hours and hours of competing sexy woman against sexy woman. Francesca really wanted to beat Dominique with her tongue as she had wanted to do with her breasts and as she still wanted to do with her fingers, but that didn’t stop her from feeling that, in a way, both foes had lost a battle against themselves by engaging with each other in that kiss.

Frustrated, Francesca once again plunged her wet tongue between Dominique’s full lips, and felt the other female counterattacking with her own tongue. Like snakes, the organs of taste intertwined with each other, forcing a mutual moan. The Italian tilted her head a little more while trying to push the other tongue back with her own, the kiss giving her again enough erogenous drive to finger Dominique’s pussy hard again. Panting against her mouth, the redhead began to move her hand inside Francesca’s cunt as well, and the Florentine couldn’t help but shake at the renewed invasion. Kissing and fingering, the stunning contenders tried to subdue the other with sheer pleasure. Francesca maneuvered face to face with Dominique, always looking for the best position to bite and lick, her tongue constantly meeting a resolute counterpart that felt as soaked and big as her own. The equally fleshy lips opened and closed in unison, in the same way that further down the vaginal lips were opened wide by wet fingers.

The maddening pleasure that Francesca gave and took, but above all, the way it was happening ended up getting on her nerves. She withdrew her tongue from the other mouth at the same time Dominique pulled hers away from her fat lips. The felines in both of them took control, and the brunette felt the Parisian beauty begin to bite her neck. She responded by sinking her teeth into her foe’s neck, and the dark-haired panther and the red-haired lioness engaged in a nasty, aggressive exchange of bites.

Francesca didn’t know who left the other pussy alone first, but the next thing she felt was Dominique’s slimy hand grabbing one of her breasts while her own fingers, full of female slime, clung to the left French’s boob. Free hands grabbed the other silky mane, and pulled it to better control the other neck as the nibbles began to give way to long lustful licks.

“You horny bitch,” Dominique gasped as the good-looking brunette moved her tongue along her chewed soft skin.

“You’re the horny bitch here,” Francesca spat out, the tongue of her nemesis licking one of the bites she had left on her neck. “Kissing me like a lesbian. So typical of Parisian women.”

“You Florentines are all lesbians,” the redhead replied. “That’s why you couldn’t pass up the chance to kiss me or grab my tits and cunt.”

“You’re the whore who enjoys touching me.” As if to prove something, Francesca pushed Dominique, pulling their hot bodies apart for the first time in twenty minutes.

For a few seconds, the women looked at each other in silence. The gauzy-white drapes moved softly in the breeze coming into the private room, and Francesca couldn’t help but shiver tenderly as she felt the coolness on her sweaty, excited skin. In front of her, the body of Dominique was also drenched in sweat, but that was not the only thing that had changed since she first saw her naked when she entered the chamber. The redhead looked curvier and womanlier, as if all the shared stimulation had swollen her feminine virtues: her bosoms were fuller, her belly tighter and her cunt fatter. Dominique’s pink nipples and clitoris had grown to what Francesca hoped was their maximum if she didn’t want to have problems in the upcoming cuntfight, and even the emerald gaze of the Parisian had hardened. Luckily, she herself felt bustier and sexier than ever before, her whole body burning with feminine power after all the dirty things that her rival and she had done to each other. Looking down past her fat-nippled boobs and flat, sweat-filled belly, Francesca observed her own clitoris, and felt pride in how long and hard it showed.

“Looks like we’re both more than ready for the main event,” Dominique broke the silence, casting a glance that mixed admiration and contempt at her body. “Don’t you think, Lady Bellini?”

“No more stupid games with bracelets at stake? Sounds perfect to me,” Francesca grunted. “This is already much longer than I’ve ever fought with anyone, so let’s stop beating around the bush for once.”

“We just need that Jaques…” The redhead suddenly fell silent, looking to the side. Francesca followed her eyes and, to her surprise, she found the man there, holding a huge cucumber in his hands.

“When did you return?” the Italian asked.

“Several minutes ago,” Jaques answered.

Francesca found it incredible that the two women had been so immersed in their battle that they didn’t even hear the nobleman enter, but none of that mattered now that they had the weapon they needed to settle their issues once and for all.

“Give us the cucumber,” Dominique ordered, and Jaques obeyed. The natural dildo ended up in the hands of both beauties, who caressed it while staring defiantly into each other’s eyes.

“It’s quite large and hard,” Francesca said with a cocky smile. “Are you sure your pussy can take this?”

“I’ve taken larger and harder things before,” the French hellcat stated with her own smirk. “What I have doubts about is that your cunt can handle it.”

“We can easily check that,” the brunette declared. “Shall we do it on the carpet?”

“I’m fine with that,” Dominique responded.

The arrogant beauties sat on the floor. Francesca felt her naked ass to settle against the soft carpet, but all her attention was on the powerful and wet cunt of the other aristocrat—the womanhood that she had promised herself to defeat.  Noticing Francesca’s gaze, Dominique spread her legs a little wider, and the Italian did the same, spreading her legs farther apart. Time seemed to slow down for Francesca as they just sat there staring at each other’s pussies, with the cucumber still held in both their hands.

“Allow me, Lady Bellini.” Her nemesis made the first move taking the cucumber. Keeping her beautiful emerald green eyes firmly glued to Francesca’s dark ones, she reached down with her right hand and opened her soaked labia a bit more. Then inserted part of the cucumber into her cunt, raising her chin with pride as her sex engulfed the end of the thick dildo as if it were nothing. Francesca forced herself to keep an impassive face at the swallowing capacity of Dominique’s pussy.

“Let me join you, Lady Beaumont.” The Florentine spat out as she grabbed the other end of the cucumber and pushed it into her own cunt. She immediately felt the pressure in her vaginal walls but, like Dominique, she was able to take it without any problem.

For a few seconds, Francesca and her enemy slightly readjusted their positions in the carpet, getting ready to put their pussies to the test in what would be the beginning of the final test. The brunette’s cunt was so soaked with juices that the beautiful brunette knew that, if necessary, she could take the entire length of the cucumber inside her. With self-confidence bristling her skin, Francesca glared at Dominique, who returned her gaze with arrogance and vanity.

“The first woman to get the other woman to come wins,” the Italian finally said.

“One orgasm,” the French accepted. “Whoever triggers it from the other will be the better woman between us.”

Francesca immediately felt Dominique’s thrust—the final battle had begun, and her nemesis wasn’t going to delay it any longer. As eagerly as the redhead, the Italian tightened the muscles of her pussy and returned the push. Francesca felt Dominique stiffen on the other side of the cucumber, but she herself stiffened as well when she felt the natural dildo get a little deeper inside her. Letting out a soft moan of pleasure, Francesca took a little more of the cucumber in her yielding cunt while she impaled the sex of her rival a couple of centimeters deeper. Dominique gasped, her hot breath echoing in the air, but the mutual grunts of ecstasy increased as the two nude aristocrats felt their sexual muscles closing around the cucumber and sucking it in more and more.

Overcoming the initial sensations, Francesca rested her hands on the carpet and began to pump, quickly establishing a hard, motivating rhythm that she hoped would force the proud redhead to surrender to carnal bliss once and for all. But, as Dominique had done since that morning, the French hellcat immediately matched her in momentum, pumping back with determination and vigor. Francesca felt the cucumber rubbing against her vaginal walls, the rough green skin scrubbing more and more inside her and forcing loud groans out of her throat. On the other end of the connection, Dominique exhaled her own growls of pleasure, with the Italian feeling the redhead’s tremors through the cucumber.

With Jaques and the moon peeking through the window as their only witnesses, the women pumped and pushed and pierced, moaned and gasped and grunted as the cucumber was sinking into their pussies. In spite of Dominique’s bragging words, Francesca had not expected her rival to be able to take that huge kind of dildo so easily in her cunt. From her position, she could see the Parisian’s plump labia opening wider and wider to engulf the cucumber, but she also noticed how the powerful sex muscles of the other female began to crush the invader as the juices that Dominique’s pussy expelled were turning greenish with each contraction the two beauties shared. Inside her, Francesca felt her own cunt mashing the cucumber, so she wondered how long they would be in that double penetration test before they had to discard the natural dildo.

“Your Italian cunt is strong, I admit it,” Dominique breathed out without slowing her raping pace one iota. “But I don’t think it will last much longer against my pumping.”

“Yours is taking much more than I expected, bitch,” Francesca was forced to admit, matching her enemy push for push. “But a French pussy will always wear out before an Italian one, I assure you that.”

Gasping as her wide hips and strong ass moved in rhythm with Dominique’s, the brunette kept stabbing, her cunt soaking the cucumber between temblors, her clitoris throbbing, her legs quivering. Her dark eyes locked with the redhead’s irises, and the hate, jealousy and anger that fed both women passed from one to the other.

“I’m gonna destroy your pussy,” Francesca grunted. “I’m gonna humiliate you and tell every lord and lady in Paris.”

“If you want us to break the secret of what we women do when we’re alone, that’s fine with me,” the Parisian replied. “When I fuck you for good I’ll tell the Emperor to spread the word to all the European courts of how the pussy of a cheap Italian whore like you is no match for my French cunt.”

“You’re not gonna say anything because you’re not gonna win this duel, Lady Beaumont.” The dark-haired spitfire gritted her teeth and picked up the tempo.

“Just watch me winning it, Lady Bellini!” the other woman shouted. To Francesca’s surprise, Dominique thrust against her with such force and impetus that she found herself falling backwards onto the carpet.

The hands of the opposing beauties interlaced their fingers together as the Parisian took the position on the Florentine. Francesca immediately felt Dominique’s heavy breasts pushing against her beautiful fat pair as her foe mounted her, but the chest-to-chest burden was nothing compared to the burst of sensations that exploded in her pussy. With gravity in her favor, the redhead began pumping on top of her, the cucumber raping her now with savagery and dominance. Francesca honored the name of the old villa and began to howl desperately, for the first time in her life absolutely overpowered in a fight—no woman had ever done such a thing to her, no woman had ever forced her to exhibit such a weakness.

“I knew you couldn’t take it when it gets real,” the French spat out, her sweat pouring over Francesca’s convulsing body. “The new cunt in town is nothing more than talk, you weakling.”

The brunette couldn’t respond, her open mouth unable to emit anything but uncontrolled gasps. The big cucumber kept penetrating her for an eternal minute of pleasurable torture, sinking between her wet labia and squeezing powerfully into her heated vagina. After a particularly intense thrust from Dominique, Francesca threw back her head and screamed at the top of her lungs, and the echo of the shriek was answered by a cruel laugh from the other woman.

“Take a good look, Jaques,” Dominique said as both women kept pumping each other, one in control of the other. “This is the bitch you preferred to fuck first this morning, this sad excuse of a pathetic pussy that can’t compete with mine!”

“You dirty tramp,” Francesca managed to articulate between moans. “I fucked Jaques better than you…and I’m going to fuck you, too.”

The threat only caused Dominique to increase the pumping pace, and the Italian howled again as she felt an imminent orgasm assaulting her cunt. Grasping at what was left of her female pride, she moved her strong hips in a hard, pounding rhythm that, for a moment, made Dominique groan aloud. But her nemesis had the upper hand, and the Florentine could only tremble and moan under her unstoppable sexual onslaught.

Then Francesca felt it: the cucumber was starting to soften and crack under the pressure of both powerful pussies squeezing. Panting, she realized that it might be her way out, so she immediately focused all the muscles of her pussy to work against the cucumber in the same way she had done countless times with bananas. She wouldn’t have time to mash it down to pulp, but if she managed to break it, nothing would separate her cunt from Dominique’s. And, for all her Florentine pride, Francesca was sure that in a direct fight her opponent wouldn’t stand a chance against her.

Another long minute of intense sensations passed with Dominique raping Francesca. Panting desperately, whimpering with erotic pain, the dominated woman defiantly kept up the fierce pumping against her rival, but what the brunette really wanted was to get the cucumber mashed once and for all—her escape and recovery route.

“Just come, you pathetic pussy,” the French lioness roared. “Just let it go, loser.”

Francesca screamed again, her cunt taking a little more of the cucumber. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, cursing the orgasm that was about to explode in her wet cunt. Moaning almost breathlessly, the Italian beauty felt her clitoris redouble in hardness, and knew that, despite her efforts, the resolution of her bitter rivalry with Dominique Beaumont was about to happen. For the first time in her life, she was going to be the one getting fucked.

“I hate you!” Francesca cried, tears leaping from her eyes as her tongue began to taste the bitter flavor of defeat. In seconds, it would all be over.

Chapter 11
The Taste of Defeat

Dominique was in seventh heaven. The woman who had challenged and threatened her the most, the lady who had tested her mentally and physically as no one had ever done before, was finally underneath her, screaming and gasping, moaning and grunting, getting the fuck she had long been asking for with that arrogant attitude. And it was she, and she alone, who was putting the unbeaten Florentine in her place, subjugating and humiliating her the way so many females had failed before. Dominique felt almighty, unconquerable, the finest of women—a goddess on earth.

Francesca’s yell declaring her hatred for her only made the situation more delicious. Pumping against the brunette, Dominique couldn’t deny that she too hated the beautiful foreigner, but forcing Francesca to say it first made her smile proudly.

“I know you hate me, Lady Bellini,” the French exhaled. “You hate me because I’m a better woman than you. You are dying of jealousy because I’m sexier and I fuck better than you do.”

“Bullshit!” Francesca managed to reply with an angry growl. “You hate me for my perfect body, but you’re going to hate me more when I prove to you that I fuck much better than you.”

“Ha! Keep talking nonsense, bitch.” Feeling the Italian’s body trembling, Dominique knew that her rival’s sexual stamina was about to be broken. “You’re finished.”

Dominique pumped once, twice, three times, each time forcing a high-pitched moan from Francesca. The female duel that had begun that morning was about to reach its conclusion, with the Parisian aristocrat as the superior woman. Just a few more pumping strokes and…

Suddenly, the cucumber broke in two. With a cry of surprise, Dominique felt her pussy losing its grip on the natural dildo and, before she could react, her crotch made direct contact with Francesca’s for the first time—hard clitoris to hard clitoris.

Dominique’s sexy green eyes widened as soon as she felt the Italian’s most secret weapon against hers. She had seen how fat and long Francesca’s clit looked, but what she was touching with hers now went far beyond that. The dirty, violent cucumber fucking she had given the brunette had undoubtedly turned her rival’s sexual spear into a bigger, firmer version of itself, and now the redhead found herself screaming against her will, her own clit completely overwhelmed in the fight that really mattered.

“You bitch!” Dominique fell backwards to the floor, feeling an eruption of blazing heat deep inside of the walls of her cunt. A second later, she felt Francesca engaging her in a scissoring clinch, the opposing pussies saturated with thick, pungent female essence locking in a frontal battle. After narrowly surviving the previous duel, the Florentine spitfire was going to give her no quarter.

“What’s wrong, tramp?” Francesca said, sitting above Dominique, pushing her cunt, her clit against hers. “Am I finished? Are you sure?”

“Fucking whore.” The French moaned with hate and pleasure as she felt her swollen clit being instantly beaten by its bigger counterpart. “What I am sure of is that you split the cucumber willingly to prevent me from fucking you completely.”

“Jealous of how strong my vaginal muscles are?” the southern woman mocked. “And what do you think of my clitoris, huh? It’s really large and firm, isn’t it?”

“Just because I’ve fucked you good, you nasty sow,” Dominique spat out. “Wait a moment and you’ll see how mine grows bigger than yours.”

Despite her defiant words, the redhead could only continue to lie on the ground as she took Francesca’s cruel pussy-to-pussy pumping. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her hot blood flowing through her veins and her dense, heavy breasts heaving up and down as her dark-eyed nemesis fucked her with a vindictive smile on her sweaty face. 

“You’re so pathetic and weak when the moment of truth comes,” Francesca scoffed, but something in her voice made Dominique react. The other female spoke with condescension and overconfidence, as always, but there was something broken in her tone—after all, seconds earlier she had been on the brink of losing.

“Say what you want, but you’re the only one who’s close to having an orgasm,” Dominique said in defiance, and began pumping against her. “And it’s gonna be my clit that pulls it out of you.”

“I’m not that close, you bitch,” the brunette groaned.

A heated tribadism contest broke out with both gorgeous women pumping against each other as if there were no tomorrow. Francesca, with the sitting position, clearly had the advantage over the lying Dominique, but the increasingly sharp and rough breathing of the rivals showed that wasn’t a one-sided battle. Closing her eyes, the French hellcat focused on the intimate contact of hot naked sexual flesh against hot naked sexual flesh, and felt how, if not for Francesca’s huge clitoris, the pussy war would be evenly matched—their labia were identical in size, firmness and wetness, and they slid up and down together with equal skill. But her clit, though huge and stiff, could not avoid clear submission against Francesca’s greatest hard-rock weapon.

“Given the reputation you Parisians have, I didn’t expect such a lamentable clit,” the Italian gasped as Dominique felt her intensifying the rod-to-rod pressure.

“You Florentine bitches sucks!” was all she could reply.

One minute passed, then two. Frustration grew in Dominique as she was whipped by her mortal enemy and her formidable clitoris, only the sexual moans that she succeeded from time to time in getting out of Francesca keeping her in the fight. Their big, strong, sexy cunts rubbed and collided together, naturally hostile to each other’s very existence, confronting each other in their natural condition, always lips to lips and clit to clit. Under the Italian’s assault, Dominique could feel all the heat accumulated in both bodies feeding from the friction of bare skin on bare skin, the raw, sparkling carnal energy radiating through her, warming the insides of her luscious thighs and detonating in the sexy folds of the insides of her groins. Sensing a devouring fire burning deep inside her pussy with increasing intensity, the redhead couldn’t deny that the defeating orgasm was coming to shatter her sexual defenses despite her best efforts.

“Just come, you pathetic pussy,” Francesca said, mockingly imitating Dominique’s words moments before. “Just let it go, loser.”

“Keep rubbing your little pussy against mine and we’ll see who comes first,” the Parisian replied with a boastfulness that she didn’t really feel. “Dirty bitch!”

“Weak cunt!” the Florentine panther snarled. “I’m going to…”

A moan cut off Francesca’s threat. Glancing at her rival, Dominique saw the brunette raise her head, close her eyes and gasp, her beautiful, sweaty body shaking slightly over hers. Something was really affecting her and, through the pussy-to-pussy grinding contact, the redhead knew that Francesca was narrowly keeping her own orgasm at bay. It was then, after another clitoris on clitoris scrubbing, that Dominique realized what was happening: her own sexual spear had surprisingly, quickly grown to match her antagonist’s clit in length, width and hardness—just as she had provoked the enlargement of Francesca’s weapon with her dominant cucumber fucking, now it was her foe’s authoritarian pumping that awakened the beast that was her own clitoris.

Momentarily stunned that they were such perfect sexual rivals as to force their bodies to go further than they were ever capable of, Dominique shook her head to get her wits about her and take advantage of Francesca’s moment of weakness. Thrusting with her pelvis, she managed to knock the dark-eyed brunette down, and exchange positions. Sitting, Dominique began to pump, making sure her clit always pressed against its formidable counterpart.

“That is,” she grunted, her hips moving with the skill of a woman who had fucked dozens and dozens of females. “This feels more natural: me riding you.”

“French bitch!” Francesca moaned as Dominique grabbed one of the Mediterranean beauty’s legs and, lifting it up, put it over her shoulder to fuck deeper her nemesis’ soaked cunt.

“Give me your orgasm so I can watch you run away with your tail between your legs from my villa,” the redhead spat out. Proudly, she saw her clitoris pushing rival’s thick, long weapon back.

“You’re going to come against my clit,” the brunette claimed despite the facts. “I promise you that!”

Dominique felt pre-orgasmic juices like molten lava dripping from the dueling cunts, her wet womanhood facing Francesca’s in a nasty, incessant pumping that continued under Jaques’ vicious eyes for another long minute. But, to the redhead’s frustration, her sexy enemy didn’t break out in front of her and her lover. Quite the opposite: Francesca’s clitoris began to regain ground, thrust after thrust, and before she knew it, Dominique had already lost her grip on the other leg, with the Italian straightening her back to match the sitting position of the French noblewoman.

Cursing the physical and mental strength of the other beauty, Dominique reached down with her right hand and grabbed Francesca’s thigh to push herself harder against her rival. The next clitoral clash made them both howl, but somehow Dominique’s sexual spear got the worst of it and was pushed back. The Parisian hellcat threw back her head and shouted again, her agony echoing through the big room—it was as if a lightning bolt had suddenly struck her. A strong tremor ran through her body as she fell onto her back again.

“I got you,” Francesca gasped with an exhausted smile. “I knew your clit couldn’t handle mine.”

“Big dirty whore,” Dominique moaned. “My clit was beating yours a moment ago, and will do it again soon.”

But the Florentine spitfire was again taking the lead, her thick clit now mercilessly lacerating the redhead’s retreating weapon. Gasping and quivering, Dominique took the punishment, feeling that the orgasm growing inside was becoming more and more imminent and unstoppable. But, after a few seconds that felt like an eternity, she noticed that her dark-eyed, fat-breasted rival began to shake and pant heavily against her, the long finger, cucumber and clit fucking taking as much of a toll on the brunette as it did on herself.

“You’re so close that this is going to end right here and now,” Dominique boasted, rising up on her elbows and, after a series of impetuous pumps, on her gorgeous ass.

“Not as close as you are, bitch,” Francesca groaned, her pelvis bucking as the two beauties kept testing each other’s strong pussy with their own.

Now on equal terms, Dominique scissored with Francesca as the contending aristocrats pumped into each other in wanton abandon, each female seeking to overpower the rival in tribadistic capitulation. The French groaned as her clit clashed tip to tip with the brunette’s over and over again, the ultimate weapons alternating dominance and submission in a matter of seconds. Dominique managed to pull the southern woman down and overwhelm her on several occasions, giving her hard, long clit the beating she knew it so richly deserved, but Francesca retaliated each dominant assault by knocking her down on the carpet and pounding her clit severely, unkindly.

“Look at that,” the brunette gloated as the sexual duel dragged on far longer than any of them could have expected in that almost perpetual pre-orgasmic state. “Look at my strong, sexy lips squishing your ugly labia. And you call yourself a woman!”

“Please, bitch,” Dominique grunted, her wet pussy rubbing up and down with her horny counterpart. “I’m ravaging your soft labia with my gorgeous lips. I’m really fucking you, right?”

“You wish, tramp.” Francesca readjusted her pelvis against Dominique’s, and both women moaned from the deeper contact. “Just feel me and you’ll know which one of us is truly fucking the other more.”

“Just kept bringing that weak clit of yours against mine and let’s see what kind of woman you really are,” the French lioness spat out. “That poor thing is getting the ass-kicking of a lifetime.”

As if replicating the fencing fight of that morning, Dominique engaged in a quick, desperate clit-to-clit clash with Francesca, the aroused, stiff sexual rapiers hitting each other with pinpoint precision. But a look of complete shock came over the redhead’s beautiful features as her foe suddenly changed tactics and pushed the whole of her cunt against hers with rudeness. In half a second, Francesca’s big, brawny pussy labia clamped like jaws on the Parisian’s thick, sinewy left lip, and Dominique could only whimper loudly at the sudden sexual aggression. Her response was not long in coming, however, and she herself bit the left lip of Francesca’s cunt in revenge, drawing a long, erogenous moan from the Florentine’s throat.

“Bitch!” both panted as moist, tender, female erotic flesh made hot, sticky contact with moist, tender, female erotic in a way that has not happened before. The voluptuous naked bodies shuddered together in pain and pleasure at exactly the same time, copious sweat splashing all over the place as the upper-class adversaries exhaled deep groans of anguish, the stimulating sounds of the well-matched carnal contest echoing through the bed chamber and beyond the huge, open floor-length windows to get lost in the depths of the dark forest.

For a few minutes, Dominique trembled against Francesca, each woman having one of her rival’s pussy lips trapped tightly between her own while they kept pumping and rubbing. Looking right at the other female through round, pleasure-filled green eyes, Dominique squeezed the other cunt a little tighter, getting a pussy bite back immediately. The Parisian beauty knew she had that dark-haired slut and her sex right where she wanted it, but she also was aware that Francesca had her in a dangerous position too.

“I’m not going to let go, you sow, until my pussy rips your pussy to shreds,” Dominique found herself gasping.

“I can do this all night,” Francesca grunted. “If you are woman enough to last so long while our pussies settle things between them on their own.”

“I don’t think your worthless pussy has the courage or stamina to fight mine until dawn,” the French said. “Admit it right now, you Italian slut, admit that I’m a better woman than you are and that my pussy is stronger than yours is…or I’ll let mine eats yours alive.”

“You admit that I’m the better woman, you French bitch!” Francesca roared, and the mutual cunt lock brutally intensified.

Despite her haughty words, Dominique felt she couldn’t hold onto that tough duel for more than a few agonizing seconds. Cursing, she pulled her pussy away from Francesca’s, only to find her opponent was also retreating. The horny sexes released at the same time from each other but, with their eyes flashing with hatred for the shared moment of weakness, the beauties crashed them together again, labia to labia, clitoris to clitoris…and that sent one of the females finally over her unbeatable resistance.

Dominique felt it, in her flesh, in her mind, in her soul—a feeling that would stay with her for the rest of her existence. For the first time in her life, she felt what real terror was like as her cunt was totally, incontestably overtaken by another woman’s pussy. Never had she ever imagined that something like that could happen, never could she have ever believed possible what Francesca Bellini’s pussy had just done to hers. For years, Dominique had thought that it was impossible for another woman’s labia to take hold of her powerful vaginal lips the way the brunette’s sex was taking hold of hers, or for another woman’s clitoris to bend her own big, powerful sexual spear the way the Florentine’s love rod was bending hers, but her own emerald green eyes were watching it happen, wide open with fear.

“Come!” In front of her, the dog-tired, sweaty Florentine looked at her with pride and arrogance, with complacency and satisfaction, feeling that her rival was once and for all overwhelmed. “Just come!”

“No!” Dominique continued fighting despite the serious and critical sexual damage that her nemesis was inflicting on her at that crucial time. “No!”

“Stupid French whore!” Francesca sneered as both beauties pumped on the verge of their volatile orgasms. “Surrender!

“Never!” the redhead replied with agony. “You’re not in Florence anymore! You’re in Paris now!” she howled, more to herself than to her pretty antagonist. “Where women really know how to fight with their pussies!”

“Your pathetic and little Parisian pussy can never compare to a Florentine pussy!” Francesca bragged, a proud, wicked smile shining on her exhausted face.

“My Parisian pussy is going to rip your Florentine pussy apart!” Dominique threatened. “Mine is…”

The beautiful redhead couldn’t finish the challenge. Her mortal enemy’s strong cunt definitively, irreversibly shattered her female honor and vanity forcing her to climax like never before. Dominique shrieked in the loudest howl that ever resounded in la villa des hurlements as Francesca’s firm clit pressed hers against her own hood, bending it so sharply that the French thought it might actually break in two. Squirting copiously, she fell on her back, with Francesca on top of her, still pumping against her defeated cunt in the consolidation of victory.

“Yes! I…” the Italian panther gasped before, suddenly, started to tremble against the redhead. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Much to Dominique’s frustration, the brunette abruptly came with an anguished yelp. Feeling Francesca’s hot juices mingling with hers, she cursed for not having resisted a little longer—ten, fifteen seconds longer, and she could have been the winner even with her labia and clitoris trapped.

Screaming together, mouth to mouth, the French seductress and the Italian temptress shuddered on the carpet as the vaginal earthquakes wracked them for a long minute. The curvy, sexy bodies jerked back and forth as powerful waves of female climax were passing through them, their big, heavy breasts heaving up and down, their long, silky fair flying out in all directions around them. Dominique felt she had no control over her own flesh as her entire body violently bucked and lunged, thrust and swayed, her luscious lips parting involuntarily in sexy, loud, ragged moans.

Then, everything ended, and only the silence remained, broken by gasps, and two broken women watched by their common lover hugging each other on the carpet in full nudity. The most intense and hateful cuntfight of their lives had concluded, with one pussy proving that, that night at least, it was the best.

“Jaques…” the victorious woman whispered feebly. “Come here and fuck me in front of Lady Beaumont,” she said, staring exhaustedly into Dominique’s watery eyes.

The exhausted redhead couldn’t reply before those tired but proud dark eyes. Her rival didn’t need to flaunt her victory, not when their expressions said it all for them, not when she could hear Jaques approaching to his new mistress. All she wanted was to grab Francesca by the hair and tear her apart right there and then, beating her arrogant and firm body with fists and kicks before throwing her on her bed and fucking her in revenge. But the only thing she did was gasp weakly when the brunette was the one who grabbed her red hair while Jaques began to fuck the Italian from behind. Dominique moaned as Francesca’s body was forced against hers with each thrust of the man, her boobs crushed by the pair she had faced that morning, her pussy rubbed by the cunt that had been superior in the night’s sex battle. Dominique didn’t know who started it, but she found herself kissing weakly with Francesca, the hands of the rival beauties grabbing the other boobs, pinching the other nipples, until the blackout came…

Epilogue

Somehow, both women made good on their threats to fight all night. When they awoke, the carnal contact was enough to launch them into a new sexual assault where one sought revenge and the other final domination. With Jaques sleeping in bed, Dominique Beaumont and Francesca Bellini kept breaking any precepts about how female nobles should battle each other. They kissed and groped, confronted nipple with nipple and tongue with tongue, and even ate pussy for the first time. Dominique got the justice she looked for by fucking Francesca’s clit with her own, and not even her own orgasm seconds later could take away such satisfaction. The Italian spitfire didn’t give up, however, and an hour later she finally managed to force another orgasm from the French hellcat’s sweating, horny body at the same time that Dominique was making her come. The hatred and the jealousy kept the two bitter antagonists fucking and orgasming until dawn and, although with the sunrise Francesca galloped away on her black stallion taking the final victory of that long night encounter, both women knew that their rivalry was far, far from resolved.

The End

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