Paula Antoni’s career was on the express elevator.  Discovered while working retail at twenty-two, at twenty-four she was a highly-sought-after model.  She was frankly gorgeous.

She met Joe Martinez through her management company.  He was also up-and-coming, a photographer who could create fantasy that appealed to masses.  He brought out the best in Paula.  His photos of her won awards.  She loved to pose for him.  On their fourth shoot, as he knelt in front of her, she draped a long leg over his shoulder and tugged her short skirt up around her waist.  It took less than a minute of his tongue to bring her to orgasm, her hips pumping.  And that didn’t satisfy him.  He closed his lips on her clit and pushed his finger deep into her.  Then two fingers.  He didn’t stop until she came the fifth time, in tears.

After that, she would do anything for him.

She learned soon enough he created dark fantasies too.  And that all dark fantasies are rooted in brutal reality.

He groomed her well.  He showed her his earlier work first, the photos where the women were more evidently posed, their movements choreographed, their appearance altered with cosmetics.  Even in those photos his skill at simulation was obvious.  She thought they were erotic.  He integrated the vignettes she saw into their sex, telling her while he fucked her how she was more beautiful that the women in his photos, how she would have elevated his erotica into art.  He made it her idea to be in such a shoot, a private one, just for him.  It went well.  Now as she rode his cock it was she who would describe what she might do with another woman.

Slowly, he introduced her to more.

“The blood is so realistic,” she marveled.

“The blood is real,” he said.  This was the pivot point.  He held her eyes.  The woman in the photo lay spread-eagle.  She was unconscious.  Her sweat-streaked rival stood over her, and twisted the toe of her shoe in the vanquished woman’s pussy.

Paula caught her lower lip in her teeth.  He saw it in her eyes even before she spoke.

She would do anything for him.  And willingly.

He told her his vision of the harem.

He told her his vision of the harem.

“A  story of conquest.  The man seems to be the center, but in fact he is not.  The woman who is the harem queen is the center.  She has fucked and fought her way to the top.  Every woman in the harem wants to displace her, to bring her low.”

“Am I the queen?” Paula asked.

“No,” said Joe.  “You are the neophyte.  The neophyte is beautiful, but unproven.  The man fucks her,  as he does each new woman.  It is very pleasurable, but because she untested against the other women, she doesn’t yet understand that she must fuck him as if it is the last time she will ever fuck any man.”

Paula felt her nipples and clit throb each time Joe said fuck.  It sounded hard, like a punch.  She reached into his lap and freed his cock from his pants.

“How does the neophyte prove herself?  Does she fight the queen?”

Joe smiled.  “The queen would cripple her.”  His cock grew harder in Paula’s grip as he said this.

Paula frowned.  “Then tell me.”

“She fights another neophyte.  Another new woman to his bed.”

She ran the pad of her thumb around the head of his cock.  A thick drop of cum oozed from its tip.  She used it as lubricant.

“If she wins?” Paula asked.

“The woman who loses leaves the harem,” Joe said. 

Paula looked at the spread of photos again, and then lowered her head into his lap.  Joe closed his eyes.

“We shoot tomorrow night,” he said.

Joe costumed her as an Etruscan princess, captured in war and taken east.  His choices made Paula feel unbearably erotic.  As a captive woman, her body was barely covered; she was stripped to her tiny thong she wore to cover her shaven pussy.  Her wrists and neck bore collars that could be used to chain her if needed.  Her flowing hair was tied back.  The only bit of her prior life she was allowed to keep were the large earrings that all the women of her people wore.

He took shot after shot of her like that.  Her bared breasts ached with lust for him, and in anticipation of what was to come.

As he photographed her, he described her rival to her.  She had been brought west to the harem, from the Vedics.  Her hair was ebony black, and glossy.  Her skin was nearly black.  She wore white henna tattoos on her biceps and in an arc across her lower stomach, and a heavy necklace that dangled and bounced on the upper curve of her breasts.  Her dark pussy bore thick hair that she had trimmed to be covered by her slender loin covering.

His description lingered on the Indian girls breasts.  “Her breasts are bigger than yours.  Not by much, but the difference is there.  It’s her nipples that are remarkable.  Yours are beautiful, but compared to hers they are delicate.  Hers are black and thick, as hard as stone when she is aroused.”

His obvious desire for this bitch made her burn with jealousy.

Joe put down his camera.  He was barefoot already.  He unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and then his pants.  His cock hung between his thighs.

Paula crawled to him like a cat.  She took him in her mouth, loving, as she always did, how her lips and tongue could stimulate him to full erection in seconds.

“What starts the fight between the two neophytes?” she asks between deep tastes of him.

“The Vedic girl finds the Etruscan unexpectedly with the man,” Joe said.  His eyes closed.  “At a time she was to be with him.  She finds the other sucking his cock.”

Paula heard the studio door as she swallowed him again, but it didn’t register until a sharp, accented female voice cut the air.

“What the fuck, Joe?” said Vashti.  She was dressed exactly as he had described the Vedic neophyte.  “Who the fuck is this?”

Paula stood and faced Vashti.  Purposefully, she let a thick stream of Joe’s cum drip from her lower lip onto her breast.  Slowly, it ran down the inside curve and down her stomach.

“The second neophyte,” Vashti said.  “I see.”  Her nipples thickened.

Joe picked up his camera and stepped to the side.

Paula let a second drip fall to her other breast.  Staring into Vashti’s dark eyes, she massaged it into her own erect nipple with her thumb.  She parted her lips, showed the other girl the slick wad on her tongue, then swallowed it.  Carefully, she removed the hoops from her ears.

“His cum is mine,” Paula said.

Vashti started to circle.  She raised her hands, curling her fingers into claws, showing Paula her black-polished nails.

“No,” she said.  “I hope you enjoyed that.  You’ll never taste him again.”

They clashed.  Vashti raked her nails down Paula’s breast, then shoved her back.  They were both breathing hard.  They clashed again, and again the dark girl slashed.  Paula moaned and pulled away.

“Has he convinced you that you’re a cat?”  Vashti said.  “You’re not even a kitten.  I’ll leave your little-girl tits in shreds.  I’ll leave you one eye so you can watch me suck his cock the way he really likes before I throw you out.”

Paula screamed in rage and flung herself forward.  Vashti met her head on.  Tits to tits.  Joe was a true professional.  His camera caught the split-second of impact, Vashti’s bigger, harder breasts mushrooming Paula’s breasts, Paula’s head thrown back, her face contorted in pain, her long ponytail of hair cutting through the air around her head like a whip. 

Paula would have fallen but Vashti caught her by the front of her tiny stylized thong and jerked it up, deep between the white girl’s labia.  Her bicep bulged as she lifted Paula, screaming, to her toes.  Then her kneecap smashed Paula’s pussy.

Paula had never felt pain like this.  She’d never even imagined pain like this, a bright white sunburst through her pelvis.  She fell, curled on her side.  Vashti stood over her, and again Joe’s lens captured it:  the erotic beauty of a woman who has just hurt her rival, and discovered how much she liked it.  Vashti’s black hair in her face, her dark nipples jutting like scimitars from the curve of her breasts, her fists clenched, her eyes like dark stars.

Vashti dragged Paula to her feet, and pushed her against the wall.  Paula breathed in hitching sobs, the pain in her womb still nearly unbearable.  Vashti set her forearm across Paula’s throat, her hip between Paula’s thighs.  Faces inches apart, Vashti set five talons into the point where the upper curve of Paula’s left breast sloped away from her upper chest.

With excruciating slowness, she ripped five bloody furrows.  She made sure one went directly through Paula’s nipple.  Her clawed hand curved as it went, stretching Paula’s breast, finally losing its grip on its underside.  She took ten full seconds to do this.  Paula’s scream rose in volume and intensity for seven seconds, before her voice broke.

Vashti reversed her hand, cupping Paula’s breast from below.  Grunting with effort, she crushed it with all her strength.  Joe captured a close-up of five black fingers nearly disappeared into distorted white titflesh, the brown nipple bulging.  Vashti slid the fingers of her other hand under the ornamental collar Paula wore.  With that grip on Paula’s throat and breast, she moved slightly back.  Still nearly nose to nose with Paula, she hammered her knee into her pussy, over and over.

When harem cats fight, they fight to destroy their rival’s sex.

Vashti let Paula collapse to the floor.  She put her foot on the sobbing brunette’s cheek, and twisted it back and forth, rubbing Paula’s tears on the polished wood.

“I thought she’d be better, Joe,”  Vashti said.  “This little cxnt is no match for me.”

“Maybe I wanted to see how badly you could break her,”  Joe said.

His words curled Vashti’s lips.  One of the things that drew her to him was the way he sensed things that she had never told him, the way his artist’s eye wormed into her soul.

“I think she’s already broken,” Vashti said.

Paula thrust her dark foot away.  Vashti let her get up.

“Fuck you, bitch,” Paula panted.  She wanted to control her voice for this black whore but she couldn’t.  She hurt too much.

Vashti moved forward.  Paula held her ground.  Their breasts just touched.  Vashti moved her shoulders in a small figure eight.  Her nipples dragged across Paula’s.  Her right nipple slid through the blood on Paula’s left, smearing it.

“Fuck me, bitch?”  Vashti said.  “Joe does.  Tomorrow, he’ll still be fucking me.  You heard him, though.  He wants to watch me break you.  Tomorrow, no man will want your ruined pussy.”

“I said Maybe,” Joe said.  “And maybe Paula has more steel than you think, Vashti.”

As if it were her cue, Paula smashed her forehead into the bridge of the Indian girl’s nose.  Vashti staggered, fell hard on her back.  The white girl was on her in a heartbeat, her hands wrapped around her throat. 

“Pleased to meet you, Vashti,” she said, and squeezed.  “Not sorry to see you go so soon.”

Blood bubbled from Vashti’s nose, running down into her bared white teeth.  She couldn’t breathe.  She gripped Paula’s wrists but couldn’t break her hold.  Paula put all her upper body weight on Vashti’s windpipe.

Paula felt a huge surge of adrenaline, a rush like she’s never felt before, not even with dozens of cameras clicking, as Joe snapped her now strangling this whore.  Even with her thong still painfully pulled deep between her labia, she felt her pussy grow hot and wet.  She rubbed it on Vashti’s belly, her green eyes locked with Vashti’s dark ones, watching them fill with panic.

Vashti’s nails closed on Paula’s dangling left breast.  All ten of them.  She stabbed both thumbnails into Paula’s nipple, driving them deep, into the center of her breast.  Paula screamed.  She let go, but before Vashti even sucked in a deep breath, Paula again headbutted her in the face.

Joe had not been certain of this pairing.  He had worried that Paula was too soft.  Now he was no longer worried.  The catfighter that he had thought was buried in the lithe brunette was boiling out.

Paula dragged Vashti upright.  Her eyes were half-closed and unfocused.  Paula led her, stumbling, the few steps to the studio wall and smashed her face into it.  Vashti slumped to the floor, her glossy raven hair spread in a fan around her head.  Paula gingerly eased her imbedded thong free and turned to Joe as she pulled it aside.  On his knees already, he let her take the camera from him.  She took a few frames of his tongue licking her, her flat belly angled down to his hungry mouth.  God, his tongue! 

She unsnapped the neck strap from the camera and took it with her.

Vashti moaned, and coughed a spray of blood.  Her nose was broken, badly.  Paula knelt across her right thigh and ran her fingertips across the white henna triangles that crossed Vashti’s belly between her navel and her loin cover.  “So pretty,” Paula murmured.  She wrapped the camera strap around her right hand, across her knuckles.  She pulled aside the triangle over Vashti’s pussy, and drove those knuckles into it, twisting them on impact, and listened to the screams.

When she stopped, Vashti was sobbing uncontrollably.  Paula stroked her face.  I made those tears, she thought.  She smiled, and wrapped the camera strap around the black girl’s neck.

Vashti beat at Paula’s arms and shoulders.  Her long legs drummed against the studio floor.  The girl she had taunted, called not even a kitten, had turned panther and was strangling her.  Paula stood, lifting Vashti’s upper body knee-high, and dragged her, to increase the crushing pressure on her throat.  Vashti’s hair hung in her face and over her shoulders to the hardwood.  Paula shook the noose she had made.  Vashti’s hair rippled.  Her bare breasts rolled on her chest.  The blood pouring from her nose filled her mouth and sinuses.  It began to trickle from the corners of her mouth.  Joe’s camera captured the moment that her face relaxed as she fainted.

Paula let go of the camera strap, and Vashti’s head simply fell to the floor with a dull crack.  Unconscious, the dark girl immediately violently coughed, spraying blood, and drew a deep shuddering breath.  Paula walked around her, listening to her sobs.  She lifted one of Joe’s tripods.  It was lightweight aluminum, a single rod that branched into three legs at its bottom.  She folded the legs closed, clicked the lock that held them there.  She turned back to Vashti.

Vashti lay on her side, her breathing still racing in harsh gasps.  Her head throbbed almost as if she were taking punches to it to the rhythm of her heartbeat.  Paula stood over her for a second, then with her foot flicked Vashti’s top arm so that it fell behind her back, opening her shoulders a bit.  Vashti’s breasts lay stacked, her right atop her left, gleaming near ebony with her sweat.

Paula asked, “Joe, did Etruscans fight with spears?”

“I don’t know, love,” he said.  “But Etruscan harem girls fight with anything in reach.”

That was a satisfying answer.  She smiled, and drove the tripod down into Vashti’s left breast. 

Vashti shrieked as the metal pinned her breast to the floor, grinding into its core as her dark titflesh pancaked.  Paula spread her hands wide on her weapon for stability, spread her feet wide for balance, and leaned into it.  Vashti’s scream spiraled up in volume and desperation.  She did the only thing she could do, which was to shove the tripod away.  With Paula’s weight on it, it ripped a path of internal destruction from the center of her breast to her thick nipple.  Blood vessels, milk ducts, lymph glands tore and burst.  Vashti pulled free but her breast was already visibly swelling, her skin tightening.  Still screaming, she tried to scramble away.

Paula followed.  The tripod smashed down on Vashti’s shoulders and back and ass.  Vashti collapsed, next to a glass coffee table on which sat a cup, coasters, papers, a candle.  Paula swept it all away and made her rival into a new display.  The Indian girl lay dazed across the table on her back, her shoulders just off its edge.  Her henna-tattooed arms sloped down to the floor, her head back, throat exposed, hair spread in fan across the floor.  On the other side of the narrow table, her flat belly with its pattern of tattoos angled in an erotic curve down to her wide hips and ass at the floor.  Her loin covering was still askew, her pussy bared.  The centerline of the table ran below her shoulder blades.  Her upthrust breasts were the focal point of the tableau.  As a model, Paula knew scene structure.

Paula allowed Joe to photograph this as she turned three things over in her mind.  The stab of insane jealousy she had felt as Joe had described Vashti’s breasts to her, leaving no doubt that he preferred them to her own.  That Vashti had mockingly called her breasts little-girl tits.  That Vashti had clawed her breast, marking her with bloody slashes that would in time heal into scars.  Paula’s painted lips drew back from polished teeth.

She raised the tripod.  Vashti’s body jerked and jittered as Paula beat her breasts, beat them until both were as torn and deformed as the first.  Blood flowed from the cones of Vashti’s nipples like slow-moving lava down the sides of sister volcanos.  It rolled down her ribs to pool on the glass, it spattered on her belly and her collarbone.

Vashti begged.  She pleaded.  Screaming at first and then in whimpers.  Paula didn’t care.  Finally, Joe put down his camera and held her arms, and took the tripod from her.  By then Vashti had fallen limp and silent.

Some art that Joe made, made millions of dollars for him and for the women he photographed.  Some art Joe made was for a very select clientele, few in number but glad to pay dearly.  His book of the harem girl battle was just such a collector’s piece.  Paula cherished her copy, often studying it when she was alone, looking for the tears she had made.   

All dark fantasies are rooted in brutal reality.

The End

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