Clawie vs. Little Miss Alpha from FCF

This Story is a Sequel to The Mirrored Witches of Jade Hollow

Go Read That Before Reading This!

“Little Miss Alpha” – Amber:

I can see you somewhere in the glimmers. Hear your voice, in the winds that howl outside my room in the coven. And though I bested you when our feud seemingly came to an end, I have not been free of you for a moment. Not a single moment. No, in fact, in every moment since that fateful night — the night I became the only emerald witch of the Jade Hollow, I have thought about you. About our hatred. About our bodies. About how closely matched we seemed to be. Thoughts which drive me to loathe you even more.

Why should you be on my mind? Why should I miss you, when I did all I could to rid myself of your presence? Why can I not just take your absence, and revel in it and this world without you. Despite those questions, and the answers which like smoke, pass through and flit away from my grasping and desperate mind, I am left with only the cause. Only the torment of your absence. One that leads me to sit here, slouched, staring into the emerald I wear around my neck. It mesmerizes me. Entrances me. Sings to me, like the seraphim, telling me to do what I have thought about for so long now. Creating in me a desire which tugs at my heartstrings, and the same of fate, each telling me do the inconceivable. The unwise. The unbelievable.

Trying to resist the urge I stand, and clasp my fingers around the emerald. Keeping it from my eyes — hoping that in the darkness I will recover and abandon my maddened thoughts. But the thought is too deep now. Too far etched into my soul. I cannot resist it. Cannot ignore. Cannot live another second without your hate. Without your anger. Without fighting you for every breath. Every moment. Without you as my contrary. My impasse. My villainous. My RIVAL.

And so after a sudden spin, a raised arm, and then a forceful toss, I set your emerald cage free. Free, that is, until it shatters against the stone before the fireplace. As it lands, and in a concussive moment of flash, green fire, and cataclysm, I see you form. I see your form. Your fiery eyes. Your irritatingly identical — hate-inducing — taunting breasts.  All of that, and your glaring eyes. Eyes which meet mine, and without a word we charge at each other, reaching out — ready to battle anew. Ready to tear each others worlds apart once again.

But as soon as we touch, in an instant we are elsewhere. Elsewhere and kneeling. Hands tied behind our backs, positioned side by side, in a blinding bright light, which makes it hard to see or determine where we are. I expect the light to fade, and the difficulty to pass, but instead it remains. And from it — from somewhere deep in the light I hear a voice, which sounds like — like — my voice, no yours. Our voices, layered on top of one another. And in said convergence of sound, is said:

“The fates cannot let you tear the coven apart with your war. Nor can any one timeline or lifetime contain your hatred. Your lust. Your competition. We would end you both, but we cannot. And so we must cage you both. Not with bars or chains but with time itself….”

I try to speak, to respond, to argue, but as soon as I do I feel my voice stolen. Taken from me, as our future is explained.

“….Not one moment, but all moments. A curse you shall bear until you have exhausted yourselves. Until your feud is over. Until you have tested each other in every conceivable way. Until not one of you, but BOTH of you are satiated. Until you hate ebbs. Until your sickness is cured….”

“Clawie” – Chloe

Amidst the jade fog, I lay there. Slumbered. My hands, knees, and side seem to be touching something sold. A floor of kind, but it’s not there. There is no up or down, north or south. Just me, and the mist. And my endless slumber. My one good eye blinks lazily. And glance up, the fog is shifting. The unknown light behind it waning, like massive shutters are closing around it, and then it returns to its brightness.

Then I see it. Two sets of eyes. Blue as the ocean, filling the surroundings. They gaze at me, much like they have for the last . . . eternity it seems. Then blackness again. Complete and utter blackness. I hear a grunt, like thunder echoing all around me, then a bright light, the fog swirling and a loud cracking sound. The sky itself, if that was the sky, and not the bottom of this ethereal lake that I’m floating in, splits in half. I feel intense pain. Light breaking in. Each ray touching my skin feels like a thousand needles.

I cover my face and scream, my entire world spinning around me. Then I am flung out. Suddenly there is inertia and momentum replacing the stillness, and I am tumbling on a floor.

I lay on it. Panting. My one eye staring in shock at the ground. The animal fur rug. My fingers prodding and probing it. I sniff it, and even lap it with my tongue, feeling the dirt and sweat minced fuzz sticking to my tongue.

This is . . . Real.

I glance up, and there you are. Standing, glaring and heaving.

“Enemy . . .” I hiss, and push up to all fours. But you’re not waiting, you charge at me and I launch myself, then . . . The flash. And I’m mesmerized mid air again in stasis. No. No. NO! I will not go back. Not back to that horrible prison. But the voice of the Mother Supreme comes. Filling our minds. Chanting in a tongue without words. A language long forgotten and erased. I wiggle and flail.

Then . . .

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaasp!” I sit up in bed, cold sweat on my forehead and heaving chest. I stare into the darkness, the fluorescent green light of the clock. My heart pounding. The light is flicked on and he sits up next to me. Grabbing my shoulders, his mouth moving with words I can’t hear. I blink hard, staring at him. Who is he?

Mark. Yeah. Mark. My husband. I bury my face into his chest, shaking. Confused to which one is real. The dream felt even more real than this. I blink again, and stare at the crib in the corner. Laura. Our 1 year old. I gulp, pulling the sheets, I walk up to her bed side, holding the edge an staring at it.

I’m Chloe Portwood. I’m 22 years old. I’m married. And I have a daughter. I keep repeating to myself. My body still shaking. Mark calls me to bed, but Laura stills. I pick her up and hug her to my chest. The warmth, the love. Yes. This is real. This is as real as it gets. I pull the strap of my sleeping tank down, and guide her small mouth to my left nipple. Shutting my eyes, feeling the warm tingling sensation as she suckles on me.

I turn to him, sweaty still, and I smile. He smiles back, and rolls in bed.

It was just a dream. Just a fucking dream. I think to myself, as my eyes glance to the pant suit hanging at the closet entrance. I should get some sleep. Tomorrow is the big meeting. I need to be prepared for that.

Amber:

“Amber…? Are you there…? Amber Tems? Hello!” A man’s voice calls to me. He is irritated and confused, and though at first he wholly unfamiliar to me, slowly does a memory of him form in my mind.

“Uh … yes, sorry, David…. I….” My voice is different, not the sound of it, but the tone. Gone are the lingering drags on letters. Absent the sensual tones. And dismissive undercurrents I remember. I remember…. But do I…? Where is that memory from? Who was I when I spoke like that…? My mind drifts in search, trying to put the fragmented pieces together to form some fractured whole.

“Look, I’ve had a rough night, ok…? I don’t time for whatever it is that is going on with you.” As he speaks, I search his face, trying to pull out everything I know about him, so that I can respond.

“Is uh … Lauren, giving you a hard time…?” I ask, and at the sound of the name he stiffens, only to ignore the question outright. Look….. This is an important day for you. There are two proposals being pitched. Yours, and Chloe Portwood’s.” The name, at least the first part of it, brings an image to my mind. One that fades and vanishes before I can seize it.

But even as I stumble through the moment, one clouded and fogged in confusion, I feel my nipple catch and drag inside my bra. A new one I purchased to keep pace with my milk-expanded breasts. An expansion brought about by my 7-month-old daughter, Jayna, who today remains at home with our new babysitter. A situation I resisted at first, but with the child’s father being as absent as he is, I had little choice. Even if I miss her. Even if I would rather be home, holding her. Loving on her. And making my life — our life together, as wonderful as it can be. But still, I must move. Must go. Not only through this door, but up the corporate ladder. All I have to do is outpitch this Chloe. All I have to do, is outsell you.

For that reason, I wore my lowest cut blouse. With hip-hugging slacks, that show off my figure. Fully intending to use my figure and assets to steal the hearts of the all-male board, ethics, female empowerment, and pride be damned, as I open the heavy wooden door to conference room and step inside.

But once I do, and take a single step, my eyes lock. Soul freezes. And in an instant, as my eyes meet with yours, a knowledge that had slowly dimmed within me was set ablaze. “Chloe….” I whisper it, and though before I knew not the name’s meaning, now…. NOW, I can feel my blood boil, and breath quicken. My enemy…. I recognize, as my eyes narrow. As my fists clench. As my soul begs me to attack you, even if the setting is wrong. Even if the moment is for something other and else. Despite that desire, however, I still cling to a sense of normalcy I had not seconds earlier.

“Gentleman, are we all ready?” I say confidently, as David enters behind me and takes a seat next to you at the conference table.

“Chloe, you don’t mind if I go first, do you?” My tone seems normal to most, but in an instant you recognize it as a taunt.

Chloe:

I pass through the glass doors of the tall high rise in the heart of the Financial district. Catching a glimpse of my reflection on the glass.

I’ve gained weight. That’s for sure. 17.4lb to be precise. That’s what motherhood does. The crazy hormones that ignore every attempt to diet and work out. And even with a little human being suckling nurture out of my teats daily, my body still has swelled and curved, although I have to say, still in a very appealing way. For my 5’2” height, I don’t really think my current 130 lb **ish** weight makes me fat, especially that the majority of the gain came around my breasts and hips, not my waist. If anything, I have a proper hourglass figure now, that I have grown accustomed to showing off in my brand new pant suits that I bought after my maternity leave was over.

Hugging my briefcase to my chest. I walk past the security, who I catch, again, peeking into the top of the shirt. Have fun hun, I leave those extra buttons open for a reason. And those rogue glances that keep getting stolen around are what a new mother needs to boost her ego and confidence around the typical scrawny stick figures that fill these halls.

I make it up to the meeting room, and sit at the table along with Greg and Amy, I try to create some small talk, Amy complimenting my looks with her words, while Greg surely does with his eyes. I lean back into my seat, fingers crossed over my waist, responding to their questions about my little Laura is treating me. Sentences filled with awws and winces, I try to take my mind off the dream. The reality of it. But how can I, when I see the jade mane moving behind the glass.

I sit up, watching you enter, with David in tow. He outranks the hell out of you, and yet, you’ve always the one who commanded that air of authority. I stare at you, speaking your words. Amy’s brows nearly hit the ceiling, while Greg shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Your tone is combative, too hostile, everyone can see it.

But I’m anything if not a professional. So I just smile cutely at you, and in a sweet little voice I say:

“Of course Amber, go ahead. We’ll just have to save the best . . . for last.”

Amber:

The meeting passes, as most do, without note for most. Save for the two of us. Save for Amber and Chloe. Each of spending not only the other speech, but our own glaring at each other. Sniping at each other. Extending legs, pulling up skirts, and leaning over, way over, whenever possible, to steal the attention and attraction of the board from one another. And yet still, despite the tension in the room, and our quickly escalating hostilities, as the last words are spoken and the meeting brought to an end, they leave us. Alone together. Not just in the room, but on the floor, our being used only for meeting like this and nothing else — save for whatever might transpire in their absence.

And in that absence, as you gather your folders, papers, I step closer to you. My eyes watching your every movement like a hunter — like a predator. But you know I’m coming. I can feel it in the electricity that crackles between us as I approach. Hear it in your breaths as they quicken with every step I take. Smell it, as our motherly pheromones mix and mingle between us. And yet, even though you know I am coming, I still look for the psychological advantage, when I taunt you, and beckon you to look at me. “There is no way they buy your “pitch” over mine….” 

Chloe:

What a shit show.

Even the prime time show of cleavages and thighs did not help distract Michael and Dave off the horrible output of this meeting. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter to the firm which pitch is taken by the client. As long as they take one. In many cases, the whole thing is staged, with one pitch that is vastly superior to the other thrown in be a sure thing, and not give clients real choice while making them feel they made the right decision.

Yet, this was nothing short of brutally shredding and dismantling each other’s efforts. There was no synergy, cohesion, and when the client left, it was clear that neither of our ideas were looking all too good for her.

But strangely that didn’t matter to me. I was busy staring down, stuffing my papers into my purse. Everyone getting the hell out of the room as fast as they could to get away from this thick swamp of awkwardness.

All but you and I. And from the corner of my eye I can see you approaching. Walking. Strutting your thick thighs and curvy thighs. You come up behind me, and I feel you leaning in. Heavy boobs against my back, your chin almost on my shoulder, hissing the words.

The touch feeling like a jolt of electricity shooting through my entire being. Flashes fill my mind, hot ones, and icy cold ones as well. Jade smoke and fog. A cottage. A cauldron. Booming voices.

My right arm snapping back, my elbow burying itself into your fat right breast, I can feel your hard nipple poking into my bone, while I semi violently shove you back, and spin towards you.

“The only way they would consider your **pitch** is if you gave them a complimentary blowjob with it, AMBER.”

Amber:

As I slowly press myself against you — my large breasts flattening against your back, my intent being to weigh you down, in every way that phrase can be meant. Wanting to overwhelm you, before you have even spoken. Scare you off, before you even dare to engage. But as always and ever, you strike back, ramming your elbow hard into my right breast. The attack is hard, but only enough to make me recoil both up and back in a fraction. As I do, you spin, and raise, and when you do, and within an instant, I step back forward into you. Our heavy, jutting breasts meeting at their centers, keeping us both touching but at bay.

In that bay, we glare at each other, as the maelstrom of hate spins between us once again. “Don’t tell me about blowjobs, with that little show you put on up there, slut. You were practically begging the board to fuck you. Only way you can get ahead? Huh…?” As I ask, I shift my left breast forward and into your right one, challenging you. Daring you. Even as we continue to trash talk one another.

Chloe:

I spin fast, but you are already charging.

“Ugh!” I grunt, feeling your boobs crashing into my own. I’ve always noticed your pair. They called us the Green booby twins the first year I worked here. Of course I had to pretend I did not hear it, but now, our boobs are out of control. Swollen a whole size bigger thanks to child birth and nursing. The impact so jarring, my ass climbs up a little on the edge of the conference table.

I clench my teeth, and immediately push my right boob into your advancing left. Stifling a soft Aah in my throat. My breasts so sensitive, and my bra is struggling to keep my nipple in.

“Speaking of shows, you seem pretty keen on giving the whole company a view of us, quite the exhibitionist, aren’t ya?” I hiss, then shove you hard by the hips. Panting, I glance at the glass wall of the conference room. Then, I step aside, and walk towards it. Not the door, no, I go for the strings holding the blinds in place. I roll them down, then twist the stick, letting the shutters fold in, concealing us from view.

“I’ve done a lot of things to get ahead in this company. But beating someone’s ass, that’s new to me . . . And I don’t mind starting on it right now, hoe.” Animosity filling my voice. My mind flashing with . . . odd images. You, me, NAKED. A roaring fire. A bearskin rug. My heart pounding harder and faster. 

Amber:

Since the day we started, we have been compared. Judged not on our own merits, but against each others. As if we, without the other, were nothing. As if we were one being. One woman. And were defined not by our own acts, but our acts in concert. Maybe it was our oddly similar green hair, or our near identical bodies. Maybe it was the way we came in on the same day. Or the way, we found ourselves in different cliques. Ignoring each other at first, and insulting each other quickly thereafter. But regardless of cause, this is the path we have been set on. Hating each other without end. Wanting to hurt each other, even without cause.

That hurt I prepare to give you, before you pull away and walk to the windows of the room. Working to shut them, concerned that we might be caught. But even as you do as much to protect us, I chase after you in a stomp, and then just as the blinds drop, I reach out and pull your wrist to make you face me again. “Fuck getting ahead, slut. I just can’t stand you…. Your little brat daughter. Or these pathetic breasts you think are so fucking sexy.” As I speak I poke my right index finger into one of your breasts hard, letting my finger catch on your top and drag it down an inch or two.

Again you chase after me. Like a rabid hound out for fucking blood. You grab my wrist. I yank it, but your grip is too strong. My brown eyes are set on fire, staring at you, your words pissing me off, but then you mention my daughter, my Laura.

My right hand coming up and I cup your chin, fingers squeezing your cheeks, and forcing your lips to pucker like a goldfish.

“Mention my daughter again, and I will fucking kill you whore. This is between us. And if ya fucking want to make it about our breasts, I’ll make sure you go home to your little runt dry as a desert.”

My left hand jerking free this time, and reaching down, I grab your top and yank it up out of your skirt, my fist balled around it in a very damn clear message.

As soon as you react to my comment, I swear I almost cum. Mmm, so mad you get. I want it again. I want to taunt you with her name, just to get a rise out of you. But I decide to save it for a moment more opportune as you squeeze my cheeks. Decide to keep it as a dagger, still sheathed, as I slowly move my hands to the bottom of your top and pull it free, just as you did to mine.

“When I get done with you, there won’t be a drop of milk left for her…. And you’ll beg me to come over and nurse her for you, cunt….” Just as my comments make it to you, and your eyes flare again, I yank up at your shirt. Pulling it up over your breasts — trying to take it off of you completely.

Chloe:

Teeth clench, and tempers flare. Two proud new mommies, with aching breasts, begging for release. With a past darker than we could even fathom. And now, locked in this room.

“When you knock on my door with your little gnat starving on your shoulder, I will spit in your face, and hers. She can bring my saliva off your face, tramp!”

My other hand going behind you, jerking your top completely out from the back. Fingers working the buttons. You tug mine up. Ignoring the buttons. It jams against my armpits but I bend over and step back, releasing your shirt. I let you pull mine off, in my tan size too small bra. I rush at you, and yank yours open, tugging it down your arms. And I smack my bra covered boobs into yours. Holding us still for a moment.

“Fuck you. And fuck your breasts.” My lips purse, I let a thick line of spit drool down out of them to smear your pale, huge breasts.

Amber:

We give into the hate — into the malice, so easily. As if it is our second nature, or our first. As if we had fought many times before. We think nothing of the ease. Nothing of the comfort we find in the quickly escalating tension. Tearing each others off and apart. Until we stand, with bras covering our breasts, only to then pause, and press together.

In that moment, as I try and process your words. Words which make me flare just like you, at the mention of my daughter. Of her starving and you spitting on her. God…. It makes my eyes close as I try to even begin to handle the anger that fills me. The outright RAGE. Before I can express it or try to put it into words, you curse at me — at my breasts, before letting your saliva drip down from your poison-covered lips between our breasts. A spit you rub in with your own, with a quick shifting drag.

“At that moment I can barely breathe…. Barely think…. And yet, driven more by instinct and desire more than logic and thought, I press my tongue out, and with it bring my own saliva. I too letting it drip between us, before working it into yours with my breasts and whispering. “Fuck you, Chloe. Fight me with your tits.”

Chloe:

Our tops on the floor next to us. Our pumps dug firmly into the carpet. Skirts strained by our thighs to their limit. Bra covered boobs mash. And now, you add your spit to mine. I hiss, rolling my shoulders right and left. Dragging and rubbing against yours. Both our pair are far softer, and much more tender than they were, the last time we bumped chests by accident at the firm’s Christmas party two years ago. Back then, both interns, hopeful, we just shared an electric look of tension, smiled and moved on.

But why is it so hard to think of anything besides locking up with you right now. Spit smearing our breasts. I bring my arms around you again, and with a flick of my fingers, I unhook your bra, grabbing the straps, I violently pull them down your arms. The only thing keeping your cup in place, is being trapped between us.

“It’s your fucking funeral, Amber. I’m going to milk your jugs dry, until they are coughing powder milk.”

Amber:

Every second that you stay, and don’t relent. Every second that you harden instead of wilt. Every second that you match my hate and fire with your own, I fall deeper into this trance with you. Our inhibitions disappearing as we continue to challenge and dare each other to resist — to struggle against our own desire for dominance.  Shadows of memories, both of meetings past and odd images of us locked together, in moments I am sure I have not lived, flashing before my eyes, as we lean into each other. In that press, at the same moment we reach around each others back and unclasp each others bra. Once done, and in like matching manner, we tear down each others straps, readying each other to go tit-to-tit, flesh-to-flesh for the first time, at least as far we believe.

Just then, as the contact between our weighty breasts keep our bras from falling off, we exchange taunts. You telling me my tits will be dry and me responding. “Bitch…. When you’re dry, and you scream for me to stop, I’m not only going to have milk left for my baby and yours, but I’ll have enough to nurse you…. Are you ready, Chloe? To taste the milk of a better mother…?” 

Chloe:

You rip my bra strap so furiously, I can feel it breaking, and the metal frame scratching my back. But I don’t care. Everything stings and tingles and aches so much now, the light scratch quickly fades in the madness of it all . . . Right now, I want you to . . . suffer.

“I’ll shove my boob down your throat, and squirt my milk until you fucking drown on it, whore!”

My hands coming up, wiggling out of the strap of my bra, I bring them up to your shoulders, grabbing them tightly, I give you a violent shove back! The separation causing our bras to fall down between us. Like a rag of some street racing flag girl.

And then I pull you right back, driving my swollen boobs straight into your naked pair! Arching my back, letting my belly slap yours. My arms tossing around your upper back and neck, hugging you to me, with a tight **SQUEEZE**.

“Come on, fight me Amber! Fucking FIGHT me!” 

Amber:

To my promise of punishment you reply, and then as your hands raise to my shoulders, you pull me not closer but shove me away! Our bras falling to the conference room floor between us. But the distance between us lasts not a moment, as we not only pull, but charge back at each other, slamming our swollen milk-filled breasts together. And though I want it. And though I need this confrontation. This release of all that courses through my veins, it hurts. It hurts so very badly. My nipples not only raw from my daughter’s teeth, but my nipples sensitive in every way. They being in no state to be used as a weapon. Despite that, however, we do so use them. Letting our soft tummies, and enlarged breasts meet and press — push and smash.

As they do, we wrap our arms around each others necks, laying our arms on each others shoulders and pull each other into a tight hug. Each of us trying to squeeze the others tits until they ache. Until they flatten. Until they spray the milk meant for the others daughter. And though that is my goal — the fate I seek to create. As we squeeze, and grind our breasts together, you can hear me whimper in pain, as my head comes to a rest on your shoulder. A whimper I follow with a threat. “Give me your milk, bitch….”

Chloe:

You immediately mirror my grip. Your thick, toned arms wrapping around my shoulders, pulling me in. That baby weight that we’re both gained, looking just . . . incredible on each other’s flesh. My tattooed arms tighten around your body, and my face buried into your shoulder. I feel the strain in my swollen, tender breasts and I whimper. You tighten even more, and I gasp softly. But I push into you even more. I pull you tighter. It’s a battle that defies reason and logic. Spit soaked orbs grinding, gliding, deforming each other.

“No . . . you won’t . . .” is all I manage to hiss out through the shroud of your green hair. Grimacing, staring at my tattooed arms. Suddenly in shock. When . . . Did I get these tattoos? How do I not remember? The company has such a strict code. Did I never wear a tank top in summer days or the picnics? Did I never share my social media with anyone? How . . . Where?

I am taken out of the thoughts with a violent squeeze from you. I grimace and stumble with you, linked together, and we bump into the wall hard. Struggling on our sides.

Amber:

Tighter and tighter we pull together. Only sharing with each other the slightest of left-to-right motions. Each of able to hear the other’s every sound. The “oomps”. The soft moans of effort and pain. The hitches of breath. The agony-derived whimpers. And with that chorus of sounds and sensations, we begin to stumble. Forward together and then to the side. Each of us still in our heels, which catch and stick to the carpet as we try and catch a footing.

But that footing does not come, at least not until we crash into the wall on our sides. That barrier letting us once again focus on our war of tits. But with that focus, I feel it. My own breasts giving in. Not fully, but just enough for small droplets of milk to come forth, betraying the effectiveness of your attack. Not wanting you to notice, I try to distract, by pulling back, and once again spitting on our breasts.

A spit that lands, just as I start to shift my chest, left and right against yours. Pressing my tits and then dragging them against you. Smearing saliva and milk between us, as we start to roll against the wall. Fighting to pin the other.

Chloe:

The thud to the wall is soft. Far too soft to notify anyone outside to that madness transpiring in here. While David and Mike are probably spreading the word about the **verbal catfight** that was our meeting before, they are missing on the real show. The actual physicality and animosity that would blow their minds, quite literally.

I am feeling a burn in my breasts. Unlike when Laura is suckling on my nipples, it comes from both. And I almost gasp loud, but you pull us apart, then spite on my breasts. I glance down and see it. The whiteness. Almost cum like smearing our breasts and I know it’s not mine, but you quickly close and gyrate right and left.

“Ughh! You’re leaking already . . . Uhh! You fucking . . . whore!” I grimace, feeling you pin me to the wall. Then I gasp and a soft squirt from my right boob spills on our already wet breasts. Biting my bottom lip hard.

Amber:

“Fuck… Fuck you, bitch!” I fight to get out through heavy breaths, as the aching in my breasts continues to grow. But that pain comes with shame, as you beat me to drawing milk. Stealing it from my daughter like a thief in the night, cruelly taking the nourishment that might otherwise be hers.

But even as you take that lead, I take another, pinning you to the wall beneath me. Pressing my forehead to yours to keep you from leaning out and pushing me away. There, as your bare back flattens against the wall, I continue to drag my swollen breasts against yours. Their passage made easier by the fluids we now mutually excreet. A fact, your leaking, that I comment on, just as you did. “Mmm, give me Laura’s milk you cunt! I’ll teach you and HER to steal the spotlight from my pregnancy! With your bratty little bitch of a daughter!”

And though I taunt, and though you will soon react, each of our streams have begun. Not fully or spraying, but small droplets from each of us. A pace made quicker as we press and shift together. Your nipples feeling like daggers on my skin. Each scraping me enough to distract, as you surge forward, and roll us on the wall. You then pinning me against it, as I had you not a moment before. yt

1:50:02 PMChloe – ClawieYou say it again . . . You fucking mention my daughter once more, and this time, by her name.

A fire lights up in my heart, in my chest. Far greater than the burns in both my nipples as you massage and lactate them effectively using nothing but your pillowy orbs. I surge and twist, turning one side then another, then we twist and I push you into the wall. My body is gleaming with sweat, with the bonus of milk running down our breasts, yours and mine. I can feel mini squirts gushing from our nipples on occasion, the over pressurized breasts eager to release the incredible pressure inside of them as they get flattened.

I turn my head, and grind my left cheek to yours. Warm tears running down our cheeks. My left and your right long lashes fluttering together, like tiny soft swords fencing and flapping. I lift my right heel off the floor and push my leg outwards, pinning my right knee to the wall, grinding my hips against yours. I can feel the top of my skirt getting soaked by the running milk.

“Never . . . mention her name. You whore. Or I will dunk your precious . . . slut . . . JAYNA . . . in a tub of my milk, and give her all she can handle, and them some!” 

Chloe:

One foot on the ground, the other hanging and swaying in the air, my knee pivoted to the wall I know I am taking a huge gamble. But with our arms tight around the other, and the wall behind you, I’m counting on the extra weight to help pin you against it.

The corners of our lips touching lightly, we can taste each other’s lipstick. Hot flashes fill my mind again. The taste of sage, elderberry, and Sulphur. The memory of teeth chewing on lips until they are running red, mixing our essences and filling our throats with them.

I blink hard and I am transported from that moment back to reality, or is this the dream? I no longer know, but I feel your hip thrusting, your cunt boxing mine right between my spread legs. I grunt, and my leg slides off the wall. We stumble, staggering. You leading the charge. Our breast flesh oozing outwards, into our sweaty armpits. I try to slow you down, to twist, but each slight motion brings agony to our flattened, gushing glands. The edge of the table impacts my ass. And you keep pushing into me.

“Cunt . . . You’re not . . . Going to win. You don’t have . . . the tits.” I gasp the words out. And you roar and shove into me and I fall on the glass top of the conference table, pulling you with me. Our legs dangling off the edge.

Amber:

This battle is unlike any of our other battles, I think to myself as I compare this war of wrestling tits to our violent catfight and our tied sexfight. But then it hits me. What fights? When did those happen? I don’t remember…. As I struggle to recall I flashback to me shoving your staff up your sex, and coating it with your juices. To face-fucking you on a slab in front of of a coven of witches. Then, my mind flashes again and I see you atop me. Grinding your sex into mine. Laughing as your legs coil around me. Smirking cruelly, as my pussy gives into yours. Oh my god! Like a flash, it hits me! But what!? But when!? But who!? The questions flood my brain as I charge out from the wall and send us hurtling on top of the glass conference room table.

There, one on top of the other we roll, legs dangling precariously — still locked at the chest. Finally I take the top position, raise up, and slam my breasts down into yours. The impact causing us both to yelp, before I pull back, and do it again. Our glorious glands squirting with each blow. Leaving us with a puddle beneath you, and between us. One that splashes as I come down again, sending droplets of our combined milk into our open mouths.

Chloe:

We hit the table top with a thud. And I can feel you gyrating, grinding, trying to wiggle higher atop of me. I tighten my hug, while you release yours. So I quickly follow suit, grabbing your right love handles, and your left shoulder, I push hard, and we begin to roll. Our asses on the edge of the table. Giving us no leverage with our legs, that just flail and kick wildly, heels flying off, and prompting us to use our toes to grab and push at the lined seats around the table for position.

Each grunt, heave, and gasp bringing our green hair to whip around and slap each other’s sweaty faces. More flashbacks. A similar embrace. But no. there were something else. Yes. Red. A lot of it. Streaks on faces, cheeks, busted lips. Your paw spreading over my face. Your thumb pushing down on my left eye. My screams, my hand trying to stop you helplessly while you gouge in.

Then I am taken out of the trance with a vicious thud of your breasts on mine. I grunt and shudder. You lift up, your breasts swaying, spraying milk and sweat on my face, then you slap down again.

I feel fire erupting insides my glands, and I scream in outright pain for the first time. The squirt of milk out of my baby chewed nipples smears your flesh completely. My arms reach up and wrap around your neck. Like a counterweight. Holding you tightly, stopping you from slamming a third time.

“No! NOOOOOO!” I scream, my legs kicking wildly, trying to find anything to brace on, but we are out of chairs. I curl my right leg and catch the edge of the table with my heel. Bridging, trying to slide further on the table.

Amber:

With each thudding landing my breasts make against yours, I feel your breasts begin to give. A truth you feel as well, as beneath me you panic, wrapping around me in an embrace. A tight one. One not to hurt me, but to keep me from rising up again. To keep me from delivering another blow of tits to you and yours. As you hold me, you kick desperately with your legs. Trying to find a place to brace yourself. A way to climb further on the table. A way you find, as your right leg curls and catches, allowing you to slither up beneath me. You try to pull me with you, but my knees catch on the edge of the table, we find our breasts pulled apart. With yours lifting off of mine, as you crawl towards the center of the table. But as you move, and I remain, your breasts move past my neck, then my chin, and then….

Before I think about the rules of this, or how I should want anything but to do this, I latch my lips to your left nipple. Then, not biting or gnawing, I begin to suck. Draining your breast of its milk, as I crawl up onto the table. Thereafter lifting my body off of ours and to all fours, as I shift to the side, so that we form a T, as I continue to pull your daughter’s nourishment from you. As make such a movement to keep you from kicking me off the table and to the floor, but in so doing, I put myself in position for you to either mimic my attack with the slightest of shifts, or to, with a greater one, lock us once again tit to tit, this time, facing opposite directions.

Chloe:

I grimace and scream. My breasts are getting crushed, flattened. Boxed by your pair. And regardless of what happened before, gravity and leverage have their effect. I am the nail, and you are the hammer, or rather, our breasts are. I clutch desperately. Wiggle. You slide, and slither. My boobs sliding off yours, and I find relief in the lack of conflict now. The nook of your chin giving my sore breasts a much needed reprieve.

But then your mouth latches to my nipple. And you begin to suckle! My eyes go wide, I shake, and yelp.

“Ahh! What are you doing you crazy whore!” I groan, you latch with lips and nip with your tears. Much like my darling Lauren does. You try to open up the duct and my milk begin flowing. Your suction much more powerful than hers. I push on your head, but you give me a warning nip. Your body shifting, pinning me down. But your right breasts sags over my right shoulder. I grab it with both hands, like a coconut, I squeeze it with both hands from the sides. My mouth wrapping around your nipple. I nibble and bite. Sucking. You might be ontop, but your milk is now flowing with gravity into my throat.

“Ugh . . . We’ll see who . . . **gurgles**. . . dry out, first . . . Cunt!”

Amber:

Suddenly, I realize my mistake, being tit-down, hanging over you. Not only in that you can quickly counter, but that your suckle will be gravity-aided, as you begin to pull from me. To ebb that advantage, I tuck, and drop to my side, my hands on your hips pulling you with me. Neither of us letting the other’s nipple drop from our mouths. Each continuing to suck and drain the other’s tit.

I should hate it. The taste of your milk. Having part of you inside me. But with every drop I take, I steal from your child. Taking it from them, and for myself. But it isn’t enough! Not when your other breast remains quickly dripping, but not actively drained. And so I reach for it, and with my fingers begin to massage it. Trying to fasten your drain, on both nipples.  Knowing that at least for a moment this is a race. A contest of wills and rations. Who will dry up first? Who will empty out last? That is the question we ask each other, even as I break from my suckle to taunt you. “Your baby — your LAURA will starve, bitch!”

Chloe:

The initial positioning aids me in at least catching up with you. I can feel my throat filling with your sour milk, and when you flop to your side, our legs pointing in opposite directions, wet skirts swishing, I cough and hack lightly, spitting some of the overflow, but I gulp and swallow it. Refusing to appear meek to you.

Your lips tighten around my nipple. Suckling. My eyes rolling in my head. You are draining me quick. Skills you earned on your knees, bobbing your head over cocks I bet. But you taunt me again, once more using Laura’s name. I grimace, my right boob feeling almost drained. It is already seeping steady, even without your  suckling. I grunt and release your right and dip my head down to your left catching it with my teeth. I bite your nipple, a bit harder than before.

“Told you . . . Don’t say . . her name. Or poor Jayna . . . Might starve tonight without her mommy.” My arms tighten around your left boob, feeling now significantly more swollen than the drained right, I start to suckle, and turn, rolling you to your back, and now, I put myself above you. You’re drinking me faster, but I just push my boob down on your face. Smothering you. Letting you take all the flesh and milk you can handle, before realizing that you can’t . . . breathe!

Amber:

Each of our mouth-chosen breasts nearly drained, we are each confronted with a choice. Continue till it is truly dry, or switch to the other to begin our efforts anew. I choose to stay, to complete the draining. Clinging to your nipple, now with my teeth. Even as you move and adjust. Even as you rise, and then take the top position. A position which lets me finish off that breast completely, but too quickly in fact, as gravity causes all of it. Every last drop to flow into my mouth.

A flow which causes me to choke, and spew out your milk, at least until your breasts lower atop my face. My coughing leaves me unprepared to resist, or to fight back, and suddenly, I cannot breathe. Suddenly I cannot see. I am lost in the dark. In the suffocating confines of your well-soaked tits. I struggle in shock and desperation, trying to, as you did before, catch the glass table and escape. But you keep me weighed down and buried. “God NO!” I scream into your tits, though from that sound must come almost nothing — just a muffled betrayal of my panic.

In that same vein, I move my hands to your body and try to push you off of me, but they slip with the wetness of the milk that coats. I try to roll, but find your weight too great to move off of me, just as mine would be for you. And despite my glee at finishing off one of your breaths, I find the milk I stole from you choking me, and the breathless trap of your tits, suffocating in the extreme.

Chloe:

Turning slowly on the glass, leaving a print of sweat and milk on it, I flop you to your back. And you, in your greed, accept it without resistance. My eyes shut in pain. My right boob is shriveled noticeably than its twin. Turned red with the blue veins around my areola and nipple outlined like a city map. I sob while suckling, which affects my work on your left breast. But soon, my gambit pays off.

You begin to cough. To sputter against my boob, but there is no where for you to go. Your hands come up and start to push at my shoulders, and mine go to intercept them. I grab your biceps and force them down. Then the elbows. Then the forearms. Until our arms are spread on the table. Your legs kick, your heels drum on the glass, but I weigh you down. My right breast utterly drained. Nothing more is leaving it, except a thick stream of sticky blood.

I keep gulping on your milk. Gyrating. Grinding my revealed pink panties against the glass. Clit and labia smushed against it. I growl. Pinning you down. Like I taunted you earlier. I’m drowning you in my milk. And I am dry humping the glass to the music of your gurgles and gags.

“Who . . . has . . . the better . . . breasts now. Amber?” I hiss, before latching again and suckling. 

Amber:

I hear you taunting me, even from the confines of your engulfing breasts. Every bit of me hates you. Every cell in my body. Every beat of my heart. Every ounce of my raging soul. But as seconds pass, and you continue to smother and suckle. As you continue to press your breasts down atop my face, I slow. My kicks growing weaker, and my efforts to overpower you soften. God I wish, more than anything this could be me right now. Me atop you. Pinning you. Smothering you. Killing you. But as attempt after attempt are fended off. And as you not only keep, but strengthen your grasp upon me, my vision begins to fade, and burning lungs begin to collapse.

It is then, that beneath you, I go limp. Exhausted. Smothered. Breathless. With not an ounce left to battle you with. Leaving the choice with you, as to what to do with me. How to punish me. How to end this, and me — if you so choose. And as I wait for your decision, our true nature finally dawns on me. This is our fate. My fate. To fight you forever. It is a thought that brings a smile to my face, even as I start to twitch beneath you, and drool on your breasts.

Chloe:

The flailing dies down. The grunting turns into a low hum. The bulging muscles on your arms mellow into marshmallows. And even the flow of your milk off your left tit begins to dry out. You’re left with a tiny bit in each breast, but still, neither are as dry as my right one that is suffocating you now.

Your motion slows down. Your body going still. Complete submission to me. And thoughts fill my mind. Voices screaming to me to just . . . lay there. To choke you out. To take out your life. To end this, and you. To let your little runt, your demon spawn starve tonight. To grow an orphan, without her mother around her. Till wolves pick her off, or better, my Laura, when time comes.

That thought is so sweet, so overwhelming, I grin wickedly. But then another thought fills my mind, and I know I need it more. I want to cherish it with more urgency.

I lift my chest off your face, and hear you coughing, gasping, choking on my milk, blood, and your drool. And I crawl around you. Slowly. No need to hasten. I slide over you, bodies aligned. From our ankles to our heads.

I want to look into your face. I want to see your eyes. My fingers slip into your green hair, gripping it, fixing your head firmly. My breasts, bruised, swollen, shriveled. Yet still . . . victorious spread over your own. They hurt. Even the tough hurt. Leaky nipples align. And I lift my chest up, then drop it down on your own. I grimace in pain. Shiver. Then I lift and slam again. And again. And again.

“Say it! Say it . . .Amber . . . Say it, or I won’t fucking stop!” 

3:49:31 PM Amber (UGH, BITCH!)

3:49:42 PM Clawie (Suffer, CUNT! Admit it, you just want to finger your gash until your wrist is sprained, don't ya, whore!

3:51:01 PM Amber (Shut up! You know the effect our writing together has on me!

3:51:20 PM Clawie (I won't shut up! I want to fucking hear it cunt!

3:52:59 PM Amber (While I'm writing in character, I'll give you this out of character. Today you bested me. Not just in the battle. Not just in a game of chess. Today you were a better writer. The best writer. And I, though I have come literally 6 times, have sat her all day, terrified that I am not good enough to keep your attention. An attention I covet like diamonds and gold.

3:53:26 PM Clawie (Mmm Godddddd . . . Yussssssssssssssssssssss Together . . . Forever . . . Amber)

Amber:

Like being lost in a kaleidoscope, all around me spins and morphs into madness. But from that madness I hear you. I feel you. Sliding atop me, as you align our bodies. Your lips bent into a wicked smirk, as you crawl forward and lower your body on top of mine. Your still clothed, but soaked lower half coiling around mine, as you take ownership of me. As you claim me not as your own plaything, but as your victim. Your lesser. Your felled goddess. God you were perfect today. You were better. You were unmatchable. You were heaven and hell. Violence and pain incarnate. And even in that blinding beauty, I can barely open my eyes to see you. Barely muster the strength to give you the glare you have earned before today, or the look of submission you have so expertly beaten out of me.

But I do muster. Do find it, to look up at you, blinking through the tears to respond. “I…. ugh…. I will…. NEVER GIVE INTO YOU!” In a brief flash of energy, I offer in as loud a voice as I can muster. All before, I spit up at you. Saliva. Milk. Blood. All of it splashing across your face as you pin me down effortlessly. 

(Punish me….)

Chloe:

I blink hard. The cocktail of spit, blood, (**MY** blood), and milk, (**MY** milk) splattering my reddened face. I stare at you in shock. Completely astonished by your defiance. Where do you have that steely will from? No regard for your own safety, pain, or even your daughter’s.

I then grin, widely. Viciously. Sadistically.

“Thank you . . . “I say in a soft whisper, and lean down, and kiss you! I kiss you . . . Violently. I kiss you with my lips, and my teeth. Biting your lip and shoving my tongue into your throat. Pinning you down underneath me. Your body flailing. My breasts grinding down on yours. My own breath held in my throat from the savage compression. But I don’t relent. I don’t ease up. I keep . . . Grinding you down. Mashing you. As you suddenly realize what I am doing.

Like I sucked the milk from your teats, I am now sucking the breath out of your lungs. Holding your legs spread with my feet hooked to the insides of your ankles, knee caps pinning yours. My soaked wet pink panties grinding, gyrating against your own. So drenched, they are now see through. And my clit, poking through the silk, drags across your own, while my body proceeds to overwhelm yours.

Amber:

I have a child to think about! A 7-month-old! A baby! I should give in! Concede! Escape this ill-conceived battle with my life, if not my pride! Only madness…. Only lunacy…. Only the hate we share, would drive me to resist you. Not just by refusing to say what you want me to say. Not just to admit in words your dominance. Or to tell you how worthy you are…. No, for as you wrap yourself around me. As you begin to fuck me through your — through panties. As you kiss me, passionately, hatefully, actively pulling the last breaths from my lungs…. I grind back. Kiss back. I use every last bit of energy to fight you. On this battlefield. On every battlefield. Forever. For always. In this life, our next, and our last. Nothing….. NOTHING! Will stop me from fighting you. Testing you. Defying you at every turn.

But even that defiance — my defiance has its limits. And as you fuck me, and kiss me, I feel those limits approaching. Not one but two. Suffocation. Not partial or feigned, but true and infinite, coming, just as my body threatens to do the same.  My own pent up lust and passions building. Welling. Surfacing as I squirm beneath you. As I press my forehead to yours, tighten my grip on you, and then, as a last act of this life, cum for you. Beneath you. At your whim and wish. Giving you a victory so complete. So utter. So devastating, that there can be no question which of us is the true emerald queen this day. You. Chloe. My goddess. My conqueror. My forever-rival. My….

Chloe:

(Mmmmmm . . . So perfect . . . God . . .)

Our kiss intensifies. Your teeth nip on my gums. Lips. Tongue. And we just bleed together. Groaning. Grunting. I’m sucking everything out of you. Your life essence. And at this moment, you don’t seem to mind. It seems that your focus is to take as much as you can before you go. Arms tensed to our sides. Breasts deflated, pancaked. Bruised. Milk slowly running down your side, both ours mixing to form a puddle around our bodies on the table.

Your hips tremble, and I feel it. Your gush. A violent orgasm. And I groan, following suit. Immediately. We both cum. Our pussies trembling. The thin panties peeling, non withstanding the pressure of our juices. And then . . . it happens.

Our nectar touches. Mixes. With a hiss. Like lava or acid. It mixes and smears and coats our pussies. And our eyes go wide.

Everything . . . And I do mean **everything** comes back.

The hut. The imprisonment. The Witch Coven. The sexfight. The mother supreme. The spell. The curse. Our curse. Immortality. To live lifetimes of conflict, unrest, of war, time and again.

The kiss breaking, and I gasp, my hand pushing at your face. Grunting a loud curse. Your paws shoving at me. You gasp for air. And we collapse off each other. I slap the glass. Eyes wide, almost hyperventilating. Glaring at you.

“You . . . You . . . You bitch. You . . . You horrible witch!” I hiss.

Then suddenly the walls collapse, hellfire erupts around us, and we are sucked into a black vortex. Screaming we fall. My arms and legs kicking wildly hoping I can nail you with anything. But we are kept apart before crashing hard into a solid floor.

I groan in pain. Looking up. And there she stands. Mother Supreme. Staring at us.

I blink hard. I reach to touch my right eye. Then flinch. It’s there. I have my eyes back!

I look at her hopeful, but she scowls at us. Her head shaking.

“No . . .” I gasp. I can hear you whimpering. But she brings her staff up, and it glows again . . .

“Children . . . A life time apart, and you have learned nothing. Like moths to the flame, you are drawn together. This won’t do.”

“No! But I won! The curse is broken! It has to be!” I scream in protest. But her staff hits the ground and . . .

**GASSSSP!!** I wake up in the middle of the night. Blinking hard.

What an awful dream . . .

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