Thirty-Five Years Brings Déjà vu to Reality

By H.G. Hunt

Chapter 11

No signal was required. The recovery interlude ended by mutual consent and the ladies moved towards the center of the cove, atop the blankets that Carrie had smoothed a bit during the intermission. “Knees?” Lisa nodded towards the ground and with a confirming nod from Jean down they went to their knees, once again separated by only an inch of hot July air. A brief stare-down ensued. This time, with a bit of recent ‘history’ between them the stare down was a notch lower in bravado and a notch higher in the “I know why you’re here” look. The silent communication between them was imperceptible to the others. The spectators couldn’t read the women’s minds, but Lisa and Jean certainly had a handle on that. It seemed that their brains were now almost directly connected across the space, with only subtle facial expressions and moist daring eyes to illuminate their reciprocal feelings. It was as if they were saying to each other, “I know how much you want me. I want you just as much. I am really glad this day has arrived. I ache to touch you sexually. I can see the lust in your eyes. I want to beat you very badly. I will give my all. May the best woman win?” All that ethereal communication wasn’t part of any spoken language, but the feelings they shared were just as genuine as if they had taken ten minutes to turn it all into words.

Jean rocked forward on her knees and Lisa leaned in so their breasts, still red and nipples still hard, conformed to each other. This time the slapping was gone and the grinding began. Lisa’s nipples snuggled up against Jean’s side-by-side. Jean pressed forward, feeling both of Lisa’s marauding nipples poke into her tit-flesh as her firm nipples gouged out their own crater in Lisa’s protruding tits. Forward she went until Lisa’s equal pressure created a resistance too powerful to overcome. Lisa took so much pride in her firm boobs that she felt elated at the crushing power they showed as Jean’s tits splayed outwards and upwards to the sides, while Lisa’s heavenly orbs still looked like the tips of sidewinder missiles (to her somewhat biased eyes). Lisa reached behind Jean, one arm over the shoulder and one under. Jean reciprocated in unison and the tit-squeeze and tit-grind battle began. Fortunately there was plenty of perspiration to lubricate the juncture of their lust-inducing orbs. Jean felt Lisa’s tits boring into her own and even though Lisa’s flesh squished outwards and upwards, it clearly held its shape better than her own. But once again, Jean didn’t let the visuals persuade her to fight with less motivation or desire. She pushed hard, real hard. She squeezed Lisa close. She felt Lisa’s breath on her shoulder and she knew her own hot breath was tickling Lisa’s shoulder too. Lisa squeezed and pushed her tits deeply at an angle into Jean, gauging the impact as their boobs dueled between them. The grinding got more energetic, less controlled, less planned, and more sensational. The sensitive skin, still pink from the slapping, felt the delicious sensation of sexy tit-on-tit touch merge with the not-so-fun measure of irritation.

Back and forth they went. Up and down they ground into each other. Their knees had inched forward almost to the point of touching. The mammary protuberances kept their tummies and groins from touching, but they were close, very close. Brent, excited as could be by the erotic temptation in front of him, kept snapping pictures, getting nice close-ups of the women’s bulging tits, taut arms, perspiration soaked faces, shapely asses, and he managed to lie low to the ground and get a side view of their pelvises, just two inches apart, the hairy growth protruding outward from one pubic mound towards the other, and only a mere fraction of an inch separating Lisa’s dark fur from Jean’s lighter mat. He just about creamed his shorts. He was the only person left who wasn’t now naked and actively engaged in some sort of self-pleasuring. Robert and Bill were both stroking their hard rods, engrossed in the sexual dynamic playing out right in front of them just a few feet away. Brent’s reaction to the scene was so exciting because it brought back memories of an old Penthouse pictorial from way back that showed a couple of women, both blondes, standing in apparent confrontation with each other, naked, and their lovely bushes thrust forward, barely kept apart by an inch of air. That photo had so engrossed him that it helped form the foundation of his long-standing lust for sexual and other competitions between women. Sharing it with Jean brought great joy and sexual pleasure to Brent, and since Jean had her own ancient recollections of a college event, their mutual understanding and interest in this avenue of sexual exploration enhanced many dozens (or was it hundreds) of their lovemaking interludes. Now with the sight before him so reminiscent of his encounter with that Penthouse magazine, he just about blew his gasket. Just about. Not quite.

The women continued their pushing, grinding, bumping, titfight for at least half an hour. The spectators were enjoying the show, sometimes oohing and aaahing, sometimes shouting out (not loudly – it wasn’t needed) words of encouragement to the women. Sometimes the encouragement was directed to Lisa, sometimes Jean, and sometimes both. The women were reinforced by the encouragement and the onslaught continued. Jean pressed and pushed her tits into Lisa’s over and over, aching to force Lisa to disconnect. Lisa would have none of that. She and Jean had spat a few words of disdain and anger at each other and it continued now, well into the second half-hour. “Whatcha think of THAT?” Lisa sputtered as she gave Jean a strong thump. “Not much to think about, bitch!” Jean slammed forward in retaliation, even as her breasts continued to show less resilience than Lisa’s pair of rocket tips. “Give up slut. Your soft titties are no match for mine.” “Go fuck yourself. My tits are way better than yours.” Back and forth the nasty banter went. The two sexy women looked as if they were glued together above the waist, never separated in 35-40 minutes.

Maybe it was the lapping of the waves upon the shore. Maybe it was the rise and fall of the breeze in the trees back to the east behind the dunes. Maybe it was a natural rhythm of the heavens or earth. Whatever it was, the attending clan slowly grew sensitive to a cyclic ebb and flow of the physical and auditory patterns evident in the conflict before them. While the action wasn’t rancorous or violent, should one have happened upon the combatants mid-stream, you would knew that vast amounts of energy were being spent by the two women. As they watched Jean give off a radiance of domination, her voice louder and more commanding, her body surging forward into the space Lisa should have called her own, but then as a sine wave rises and falls according to its own periodicity, Lisa would gain all that Jean had and return the favor, pressing forward, bending her backwards towards the sand. Lisa’s commanding voice would take over, the power and compelling words bound to cause Jean to submit; so one would think, if only it weren’t for that cycle. Back and forth it went for another five, ten, fifteen, and then twenty minutes of intimate chest battles, which it now was apparent were only stand-ins for the more important duel; that of will. Whose fortitude would reign supreme? Whose mind would not bend to the will of the other? Whose fortitude would persevere through the muscular pain that was now surging through so many regions of their bodies?

The torture to Lisa’s tits was becoming excruciating. Her hip, thigh, arm, and shoulder muscles burned with the exertion. As positive as she’d remained for what had become an hour-long breast battle, the pain was taking its toll. It wasn’t a single pain, but the cumulative effects of each tiny strain, adding up to an overwhelming sum. Jean, sensing her own flaming pains surging through all her large-muscle groups, responded with every fibrous strand of muscle she could draw upon as she felt Lisa surge forward in the usual cycle. Jean willed herself forward, her tits grinding deeper and deeper into Lisa’s powerful orbs. But will is one thing, and even though Jean had plenty, Lisa kept pressing Jean backwards, backwards, backwards, and farther backwards. The cycle was broken! Down went Jean onto her back. Lisa was on top! “There you go bitch!” Lisa whispered softly into Jean’s ear, only loud enough for her to hear. Jean let out a sigh and relaxed her hug, finally after those minutes had turned into an hour, the burning in her muscles, and Lisa’s powerful tits had done their damage. Jean had quit the titfight. But she hadn’t quit “the fight.” She whispered back, “That’s only one round, bitch.”