To the Last Breath

One wave of crystal blue ocean water after another, came rolling in and then without more than the most gentle of landings, rolled out. Each accompanied by no wind - no rain, only the most occasional sounding of bird, and footstep of jogger. Almost empty, the beach on which those waves crashed was, from the first grain of sand, to the last. In fact, for yards in the hundreds, there were only two: Ronaldo and Jasmine, a couple who had sought that particular cove out, not just for its beauty, but also its obscurity-born privacy. In those two expectations, it was perfect. A veritable dreamscape of color and sound, left mostly untouched and unoccupied, as if it had been dug out from rock, and shaped by the maker for they two, and they two alone. Or at least that's how Jasmine thought of it.

In much the same way she saw every other happening in her life as of late, that moment, and that beach itself, were simply another thread to be woven into a romantic tapestry Jasmine had begun when first she met her precious Ronaldo. He was perfect. Handsome. Fit. Funny. Loving. Kind. All and every. Her soulmate with not a single hesitation. Oh, how she loved him. Her every thought findings itself a mere hop skip and a jump away from their eternity together: children, marriage, retirement, old age. And though those plans ran on endless loop through her mind, she had but one worry. For Ronaldo had been the property of another woman when first they met. And though it took time and effort - guile and daring, Jasmine finally overcame his resistance and hers, in the end wooing her Latino romeo and taking him as her own.

In that victory, however, she began to find only dread. For if he left another for her, how was she to know he would not, in similar fashion, leave she who stole him for any other thief who might come along? Yes, she had all that he wanted: a thick toned ass, large tits, a thin waistline, with perfectly-kept tight-curled hair, but was it enough? Would it always be? No sooner had such thoughts crept back into the caramel-skinned Latina's mind, than did an unexpected shadow pass before her eyes. There, the figure laid down an oversized beach towel, and lowered herself onto it, not feet from Jasmine and her boo, despite nearly a mile of open beach from which to choose. The figure was a woman's. A beautiful black woman's, thick, toned, and busty just like Jasmine's, hidden only by the most insubstantial of bikinis, covering nipples, and kitten, but not much else. She had placed herself just under, and neatly between the couple, so that were she to scootch herself back up the beach, she would find herself tucked tightly between them.

The gall! The nerve! How dare this bitch! Jasmine had not moved, or spoken, and yet despite her silence, she was enraged. Fuming. There was literally zero chance this girl wasn't trying to draw the eye of Ronaldo. Why would she place herself so close when they were surrounded by open beach? And why between them? AAarrrggghh! As tempest and tumult swirled and stormed within the brunette, the invading girl began to stretch and pose herself, at angles which would give Ronaldo the best view of her assets. Jasmine in terror looked to her lover, hoping to see him looking at his phone, or resting his eyes, and though it was the latter activity he was undertaking, it was upon the chocolate-skinned doppleganger that his eyes rested. Up and down they traveled her body, taking in every muscle and mound - every crevice and curve, his tongue licking his lips all the while.

It was every one of Jasmine's nightmares and fears made manifest. The young Latina's dream moment of relaxation and warmth ruined by some bitch in the middle of nowhere. She wanted to attack! To strike! To release her fury, but she knew not how with Ronaldo there. If a fight broke out, he would break it up, and feel nothing but sympathy for the skank. If she said something, he would in defense deny that she had caught his eye, and try to spin her actions as something else entirely to save his own skin. No, she had to get rid of him, so she could handle this girl alone. But how?

Just as she began to ask herself the question, the black beauty sat up, and stood, using the most intentionally drawn out, and sexual of motions she could. Once vertical, the shaded seductress winked at Renaldo, and began to walk back up the beach towards the small dressing boxes, and vending machines that sat between the beach and the adjacent parking lot. One might think that the girl's decision to leave would calm Jasmine, but since she left her towel, the Latina knew the respite was only a temporary one, and that after the girl finished whatever she was doing, she would return. One moment passed, then two, as thoughts and plans began to take shape in Jasmine's mind.

"Honey, I'll be right back, ok?" The Latina said simply, in the most innocent voice she could muster."

"Where you goin', huh?" Asked her companion, confused by the sudden departure of not just one, but now both of the women with whom he occupied the empty span of beach.

"I'm gonna get a drink. You want one?" The brunette responded, finding herself unable to come up with a better explanation as to why she needed to follow after her chocolate doppelgänger.

"Yeah, a Coke. But hurry, this whole lying on a beach thing is your flavor, not mine." He responded impatiently.

"I'll be back, don't worry...Jeez, always so impatient." She said quickly, as she leaned over and kissed her pouting boyfriend's forehead. Then, not a moment after her lips left his skin, she burst into a brisk jog, and made her own way back up the beach, to find her new rival. Despite those predatory instincts, however, it was she who was found first.

"Only one of us is going back down there, bitch. You know that, right?" The ebony-skinned girl said bluntly, as she stepped out behind the Latina, whose eyes still scanned the area around the dressing boxes. At the hearing, Jasmine turned around, her blood boiling, and her eyes set afire with rage.

"Just who the fuck do you think you are, puta?" Fired back the curly-haired brunette, slipping in some of her own Spanish flare, as she often did when angered.

"I'm Darrisha, and I'm the girl who's gonna steal yo man." The black girl responded, making clear that she had not even a single doubt in her mind, either of the propriety of her intent, or her chances of success.

"!Vete a la mierda puta!" Lost in the brashness of it, Jasmine charged forward, her feet crunching atop the gravel-covered ground, unable to stand hearing another word from the girl who had so boldly proclaimed her own inevitable victory. As the Latina took to closing the distance, Darrisha did too, their equally large breasts slamming together, setting loose a loud slapping sound which echoed through the cove. With their ample chests pressed together, they grabbed for and caught each other's wrists, each then twisting and bending, trying to wrestle the other for leverage and control. Stumbling together, they each tried using their thick calves and toned thighs to keep themselves upright, as their upper bodies met inch for inch, every muscle stretched and straining against that of their rival. And though each wanted to scream out in rage and effort, they held such cries inside, neither wanting to alert Renaldo to their ongoing struggle.

Pouring their passion into overpowering each other, they locked gazes in a maddening glare, every eye involved filled to the point of glisten with all the hate, intensity, and confidence that either could possibly muster. They both desired desperately to bend and break the other's body against their own, driven by not only fear of losing the man they wanted, but also frustration at the similarity between their gym-honed bodies. To cause pain is what they wanted. To make the other cry, and submit, so that they could have Ronaldo all to themselves, and know it was they who was the better woman. But as each of the girl's shoves was met by that of their foe, and every push by one was met by the pull of the other, they two warriors came to the painful and unexpected discovery, as they stumbled there locked together on the gravel-strewn parking lot transition. Specifically that the only victories being scored and losses incurred were those of their breasts, which had become uncovered in their violent struggle, setting loose their thin bikini tops, which came to a dangle down by their stomachs. Glorious, and beautiful items of desire, which had without intention, become weapons, smashing, and compressing those of their rival. Rolling in tides of flesh, areola, and erect nipple, one after another, taking turns, unguided, dominating and being dominated. It was in that unintended contest that both women began to fixate, as their attempts at wrestling the other down met stalemate after stalemate. Then, as if unable to do anything but, their eyes pried themselves away from their mutual hate-and-fire-filled gaze, and instead turned to watch as their double D's danced with each other, wincing every time their's seemed to give way, and smirking whenever those of their opponent's did the same.

Almost without conscious thought did it then happen, that both Jasmine and Darrisha brought their back and forth fighting - their fruitless struggle of hands and arms to a halt, releasing each other's wrists. They did not let their hands linger unengaged for long however, as each then cinched the other in a tight bearhug, meant to bring their breasts to bear more fully against those of their opponent, turning their attentions to the budding breast battle, which appeared to they two to actually be a method by which they might settle their jealous dispute and to see who truly deserved Ronaldo, or at least one that could be finished before he came looking for them.

To that end they each squeezed and twisted, their eyes firmly affixed to their chests, mesmerized by the sight of such equally sized and shaped tits smashing, and then being smashed, and nipples of such equal length bending and then being bent.

They had not forgotten that they were fighting, mind you, battling for the right to head back to Ronaldo in all of his perfection. In fact, that thought was at the very forefront of their minds - driving each of them to use every muscle in their body to aid and aim, angle and attack. With each thrust they could see it, the benefit of every lean and push on the outcome of every meeting of flesh. Into that contest, their blistering desire to win, and the unwanted feeling of pleasure each began to drift, deeper and deeper, as if into a trance. A state born of the tantric-torture of tit against tit combat, one which cut them off from all sounds, smells, and sights, until finally their focus was broken by the clatter and clamour of the sudden arrival of what seemed to be a veritable caravan of cars, pulling into the beach's mostly empty parking lot. So loud it was - so violent to their concentration - kids screaming, brakes screeching, and parents yelling over it all for peace and proper procession.

As said scene unfolded, there they stood, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, bikini tops hanging on by only the barest of threads, foreheads pressed together as they gazed down to their battling breasts. They each knew they had to break, had to separate, even though neither wanted nothing more than to continue. And yet, against that carnal and carnivorous desire, they forced themselves to pull apart, catching their falling bikini tops with one hand, and their rival's free hand with their other. From that awkward space, and not feet from being seen by the cars full of strangers who had arrived which with no more subtly than a bomb exploding in a library, they ran. Their goal was one of the tiny dressing boxes that stood between their near naked bodies, and the parking lot turned zoo. One might easily mistake the dressing boxes for port-o-potty, as they looked almost no different from the outside. Blue rubber/plastic. Moveable from one spot to the other, in that they were not nailed down in any way. But within them sat no toilet or seat of any kind, only space enough for one to stand uncomfortably - meant for beachgoers to use, when they needed to change in and out of their beach attire.

Into said constricting space the two warring beauties scurried, each terrified of not just being caught in their disheveled and unclothed state, and but also of being stopped from waging their woman-to-woman battle, one which both rivals so desperately wanted to continue. Jasmine being the last into the blue box, turned and locked the door, looking out the dressing box's only vent, a metal device with a handle placed about shoulder level in the door. The box was hot, having sat all day in the sun, baking at the intersection of asphalt, gravel, and beach. It was stuffy, and small. Uncomfortable and suffocating. But such as it was, and such as it wasn't, it remained their new battleground..

Taking for granted that she would be allowed to do so, the Latina went to turn around, to once again re-engage her rival tit to tit, but found the ebony girl's breasts suddenly slam into her back, and a hand with no more of a delay, slide around her stomach and into her bikini bottoms. There she was trapped, face and upper body shoved into the rubber door, which began to bend just slightly under the pressure. Jasmine quickly came to realize that despite her efforts, she could not escape in such narrow confines, from a hold applied by such an equal match to her in terms of strength. Knowing and sensing that dilemma, Darrisha's hand seized, with her middle and ring fingers digging right into the center the brunette's clit. Jasmine went to scream out in pain, but no sooner did the urge hit, than did the black girl's free hand seal itself around the Latina's mouth.

"No, bitch. Don't scream. Just submit to me." Darrisha's voice came in the form of a whisper, her lips not centimeters away from Jasmine's ear. The instructions elicited no such submission, and served only to drive the Latina to scream louder, and struggle harder, threatening to not only be heard by those persons who had begun walking by the dressing boxes, but also to tip over the poorly secured box in which the women writhed. Finding that her tactic threatened to bring about danger, before victory, the young black girl decided to change tactics, and release her vicious claw of Jasmine's clit. The cessation of pain slowed Jasmine's struggle, and silenced her attempts at screaming. In that moment, she tried to gather herself, her body still pressed roughly against the awkwardly bending door of the dressing box. Despite the release of her clit, the Latina continued to try to push off, putting even more pressure on the door, desperate to turn herself and battle her opponent face-to-face. But as she did, Darrisha's fingers went to work again, this time: lovingly. This time: softly. No longer were they digging or clawing. No, this time they were fingering. The ebony seductress hoping to draw an orgasm from her rival, then another, until finally the Latina would be so exhausted, and spent, that she would be unable to resist when finally Ronaldo became the prey.

Slowly Darrisha went at first. Lightly. Intending to work out any residual anger and adrenaline from the Latina's gradually calming muscles. For her part, Jasmine kept trying, kept struggling to to push herself off of the door, whilst also trying to resist the feelings of sexual pleasure that began to radiate outward from between her thighs. And though she did so bravely, clinging to not just her love for precious Renaldo, but also her hate for the bitch who had her trapped, she slowly began to succumb to her touch, one moan after another coming from her still palm-smothered mouth.

"That's right. I'm sorry. Just cum for mama. Just let it go." As the Ebony girl whispered, she took her hand away from Jasmine's mouth, and brought it too into the bikini bottoms of her rival, thereafter using all ten of her fingers to massage, stroke, and finger the Latina trapped between her body and the door.

No longer able to resist, Jasmine brought her own hands down from her failed attempts at pushing herself off the door, and instead, without meaning to, began to guide her enemy's hands to just the right places, and just the right spots. All of that, and such signs only a woman would know, led Darrisha to believe that her victory was imminent, she having worked her foe until she was mere moments of cuming. But just as those orgasmic waves began to build, a voice broke through the moment like a sledge hammer.

"Hello!?" The voice was unfamiliar and prying, no doubt coming from one of the many people who had suddenly descended upon the beach like locusts. "Anyone in there?!" They asked again, just before they ventured to look in through the only air vent on the dressing box, one placed not centimeters away from Jasmine's sweating and pleasure-etched face. Quickly, the Latina realized what was happening, and what she needed to do. That plan in mind, she again tried to push herself back and away from the door, and though Darrisha wanted nothing more than to keep her rival stuck there, face pressed against the door, she knew that she had to allow space, or both would find themselves caught by this gawking Tom, and his vent peering. That reality known, the black seductress took a single step back, and pulled her tits from Jasmine's back, just in time for the Latina to reach up and slam the vent closed, doing so forcefully enough to break off the handle to the vent accidentally.

The momentary attempt at cooperation was taken as opportunity by the Hispanic hottie, who now free, pushed herself back again, this time with violence, slamming her body into her ebony rival's. The blow sent knocked said rival back, until her back unceremoniously crashed into the rear wall of the dressing box. There, momentarily stunned, Darrisha leaned against the featureless wall, until Jasmine turned and slammed her tits against her.

It only took a second for the Latina to strike, acting without a moment of hesitation or single thought of mercy. Then with a similar speed and focus, she went to work, smashing her tits into her enemy's, wanting to return in-kind every ounce of pain and pleasure forced upon her by her rival. Sweat-covered chest into to sweat-covered chest she rammed, backed up, and rammed again, her arms placed to either side of Darrisha, wanting to keep her trapped and unable to escape, just as had been done to her against the door.

The suddenness of the turn had left the black girl lost in shock and thought, even as she desperately tried to fight back, not only against her caramel rival, but also against her own growing exhaustion and the increasing temperature of the box. At first, she thrust her tits out as before, expecting that they would be as equally matched as they were when they two engaged on the gravel. And yet, despite that expectation, she found that being pinned against the wall limited her ability to not only match press for press, but also to maneuver her tits into better angles. That discovery, that belief, real or not, robbed the young black girl of her confidence and fire, resulting in her pushes being made with less and less effort, having allowed herself to turn her attention to hope of escape, rather than victory, and the allowance of slight moans to escape her lips unrestrained. Despite the obviousness of Darrisha's fading resistance, and her inability to fight back as before, Jasmine continued harshly, smashing her breasts against her rival's time and time again, slowing her pace only to whisper into her enemy's ear.

"Puta de mierda." "Mis tetas son mejores" Jasmine's momentary superiority was unquestionable, a point made clear when both women began to realize that on every meeting of their erect nipples, Darrisha's were being pushed back entirely into her own body by Jasmine's. The Latina was driven by the sight of such utter sexual dominance to slow her presses, making sure that black seductress watched in horror as her seemingly rock-hard nipples were inverted. The gambit was made less to drag a submission from her opponent, and more to torture her - to impress upon her the strength of Jasmine's tits, scenario-dependant or not. And though that was the intent behind her slowing, it merely had the illusion of choice, as she was slowing - weakening. For it was too hot. Too hard to breathe. The oppressiveness of the sun-baked box was beginning to overwhelm her, even now in her moment of victory. And though she could feel her energy quickly sapping, she continued to fight through that exhaustion and building sweat - slowly bludgeoning her opponent's breasts - clinging to the hope that her ebony rival would soon give in...