pt 2The following is a non-canon Breast Battles story featuring a rivalry between myself and one of my favorite writers on the site. I appreciate her permission to post this scene, and I encourage anyone with serious writing chops to look her up. Sorry for the wait for Breast Battles ch 4, I hope this piece reawakens an interest in the characters.
Sophie's page~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Biting my lip, I rehearse the plan in my head for the hundredth time, praying everyone remembers their timings. Securing their help was a herculean task, but through patience and persistence I found them and worked out a deal. I check my phone nervously until the confirmation texts come in: they're in position. Pulling my thick white velvet robe tightly around me, I exit my car and start to walk on an intercept path toward the gym entrance, intent on cutting off one particularly curvy figure headed toward the doors.
“Sophie!” my calm, friendly voice belies the pounding in my chest; this is the riskiest step in the plan, and my racing heart knows it. You know the voice instantly, and even with your head turned I can see the disbelief that must be on your face as you stop cold. “Sophie! It’s me, Jess!” Just your head turns, and for the first time in ages we meet eye to eye. I put all my effort into the lie and keep my eyes as clear and bright as possible, but the blaze I see in your own makes it much harder.
“Jessica,” you say in a low, ominous tone. I wave cheerfully at you and tilt my head. “I’m here!” I reply. “Jessica. You are here…” you slowly turn your body as you speak, and I continue to hold your gaze for the moment although I badly want to do a rack-check. “… nine months late.” The conversation isn’t off to a great start, so despite my intentions I feel my eyes flick down… and my racing heart nearly stops at the sight of the sheer breadth of the immense whoppers bulging the blue-grey sports bra below your angry face.
“Nine. Months. Late.” Your gym bags are on the ground, dropped without a second though as each word brings you a step closer. Deep breath. Steady voice. “Hey, I said I’m here didn’t I? No need to rush, I didn’t come to play cards! Let’s go to the rin-” The word dies in my throat as you never slow down, and now I’m nervously backpedaling… but not as fast as you’re walking. “Sophie not here, we need-”
“You’re here, Jess. Now. You might run away.” Your arms reach out and grab the soft shoulders of my velvet robe, holding me in place as you step into my space. A massive lump forms in my throat as your twins press against mine, stopping at a light but insistent pressure. These do NOT feel like the same knockers I once submitted in a dingy motel room on spring break. “Sophie, the ring, there’s c-” I start trying to back up again despite your tight grip on my shoulders, accomplishing nothing as you’re just pulled along with me. “Take it like a woman, Jessica Singer,” you instruct in a slow, satisfied tone as you patiently stalk me down, staying in contact and letting me back up until…
CLAAANG My blood turns to ice as my retreat is cut off by the unforgiving metal pole of a lamp post. With my spine pressed against the steel, the momentum of your advances goes straight into my F cups just as you pull my robe open to reveal my tight black bra. Eyes bulge and melons swell as I try to suppress the panic of the moment; my plan is perilously close to spiraling out of control. Worse, my legendary firmness is already strained, your steady approach building the pressure quickly as I’m mushroomed by your immense size.
“Bigger than you remember, Jess?” you ask in a threateningly quiet voice. Your words are impossible to dismiss as they echo my unspoken thoughts. My heart pounds like a piston as I try to object, but my throat is suddenly dry and your distinctive voice obscures my raspy stuttering. “Would you care to guess what cup I’m filling these days?”
I wouldn’t. I would love to get a word in, but I’m struggling to fill my lungs with the short gasps I’m forced to take. “This is sooo close to how I pictured it,” you continue languidly as I start to rise to my toes, desperate for space for my collapsed cans. I try to interrupt you but my wheezing is lost in your gleeful crowing. “The ooonly regret I have,” you continue at a punishingly ponderous pace, “is that nooo one will witness the fall of the great Jessic-”
“THERE’S CAMERAS IN THE RING!” The cry takes a huge toll on me as my suddenly empty lungs struggle to expand against my pancaked pair, but for the first time the pressure stops increasing. Your eyebrows rise as your words clip the air with menacing tones. “Are you lying to me, Jessica?”
“Nhhh… nhhhh...” I shake my head vigorously since my body can’t get the word out. Staring intensely at me for an agonizing moment, you finally pull your shoulders away from mine slowly and liberate my aching pillows. “I see,” you murmur. The temptation to grab my well-whipped chest and run is strong; the sight of your monsters peeling off my flattened airbags nearly drives all memory of the plan from my mind. You clearly anticipate such thoughts as you pointedly pull me from the pole by the shoulders, then position yourself behind me like a hostage taker. “After you, please!” you say pleasantly.
My hands are still trembling as we begin our somber procession toward the gym, but my heartrate is actually falling as my composure begins to stabilize. While the most precarious part is in the past, there’s still plenty that could go wrong, but I force myself to breathe smoothly and not provoke your already-high suspicions any further. As we pass the through the first set of doors and approach the second I hear no noise. It’s exactly what I’m supposed to hear, yet my anxiety still skyrockets; I can only pray her assessment of her stealth abilities was not overstated. As we reach the ringside, you stop in your tracks and wave your left arm invitingly, nearly causing a collision with the figure tailing silently behind you. I tilt my head a keep a smile as I try to put the plan back on track without indicating anything has gone wrong.
“Doesn’t the challenger enter second? Surely you’re the higher ranked between us, I bet mine has degraded all the way t-” You move a step closer as you brusquely inform me that you are not interested in that rule and you would like me to enter first. I know which rule you
are interested in, and it’s the same mechanism I need to exploit for myself. The risk is extreme; I have a dicey gambit in mind to avoid your trap, but I can’t communicate with my associate. Thinking frantically, I make my best effort at a coded message disguised as stalling. “Don’t you trust me? I trust you”
The question seems to stir a hostility in you as you again step toward me aggressively, this time giving me a solid chest bump as you speak. “I do NOT trust you, Jessica. In fact, I’m just about certain you’re lying about something. No, listen,” you begin over my stuttered objections, “I know in your head we were once competitive. But we just got very close out there in that parking lot,” you continue as you lean forward trying to get me to press into you, forcing me to shuffle back toward the ring. “It sure didn’t feel like your firmness was a problem for me anymore. You were just holding back, right? Pretending I’m not
way too big for you now?”
Each punctuated word comes with another tittyshove, but as I’m stumbling back a third time I see a lifeline as a thin white hand flashes above your left shoulder in a ‘thumbs up’ position.
She understands! Elated but suddenly concerned, I disguise my suddenly darting eyes by averting them further to the left, selling the idea that you’ve shamed me with your comparison-taunting. Backing up until I hit the edge of the ring, I cock my head at you and thrust my chest up proudly. “Oh yeah? Well I’ve beaten you before, and I’m getting in the ring, so you can take your theories and shove them into your overly-padded bras bitch!” With that, I drop my robe and ascend the raised ring so I can slip between the middle and top ropes, then pop up with a gymnast’s dismount as I jiggle and stare at you. As you start to follow I hold up a finger in admonishment, keeping the terror out of my voice as I raise a procedural point.
“Umm can we not look like a shitshow? You wanted the cameras, enter the ring on your own side!” You sneer at me but start walking. I lean back casually on the ropes from the side I entered, not looking away for a second as my heart pounds. “Introduce yourself, Miss Too Big!” I hoot as you reach a position directly across from me and looked like you were going to quick-dive into the ring. The timing is crucial because of one of the club’s most important rules; once two full-members are in a ring together, they are required to battle until a submission is accepted by the victor or the loser is knocked out. You rise to rope-level but pause grudgingly, looking around and seeing there really are tripod mounts all over the room. Smiling maliciously at me, you look a camera right in the lens and bounce once, putting your HH’s in jiggle mode as you put one foot over the middle rope and speak as you make a low, dramatic swoop that shows off the outrageous cleavage you’re getting even in that sports bra. “I’m Sophie,”
My hands have been gripping the top rope with white knuckles as you started your entrance, and just as you’re about to pick up your trailing foot I make my move, praying her timing is perfect. I fire my tense legs and spring as high and hard as I can, flipping right over the top rope and out of the ring. As I land on the edge of the raised portion, I hear her before I see her and I know she did her job. “And I’m Phoebe!”
Phoebe Reynolds leaps up from the prone position in which she shot under the bottom rope, landing deftly on her feet with the slickness of a seasoned Tittyball backer. Her cute brown ponytail and startlingly perky F cups bounced in unison as she glared at you, her tall body tightly hugged by her robins’ egg blue bikini. Having stared you down enough to establish her intentions, she now whips her head around and gives me one of her classic Phoebe scowls. “She’s bigger than you said she’d be,” she snaps.
I give her a big thumbs up and a fake smile, not wanting to trigger the Chicagoan’s legendary temper right when I need her. “She’s all cup size, you’ve totally got this! Make her work!” Phoebe is clearly not pleased but she returns her attention to you, face blank and businesslike as she adopts a forward-loaded crouch and rapidly approaches with the low shuffling motion of her sport. Testing you immediately, she rudely slaps your cheek with her leading right hand then disappears as your arms flail out to catch her, reappearing less than an inch from your outstretched fingers. You and I both blink in surprise at the speed, precision, and audacity, while Phoebe’s stony expression becomes ever so slightly more raptorial.
You square your shoulders with her and surprisingly she does the same, but as you both move forward she somehow wisps to your right side, grabbing your right wrist as she moves and JERKING your arm down roughly. As your shoulder dips and your posture breaks, her rock-hard rack crashes into your right orb. Her firm, well-supported two easily overpower your bigger but unprepared one, and the sight of you tumbling back has me slapping the edge of the ring in support from my standing position beside the apron. Keeping mental pressure, Phoebe feints a follow up attack but aborts it just as you’re flinching. I shake my head in amazement, knowing full well I’d have no more ability to predict her than you do; Phoebe’s movements are a class above either of us. That can’t stop me from being a bitch about it though, and I whistle jeeringly as your attempted countercharge whiffs through the air.
“Pick it up fatty! She’s over there now,” I offer helpfully as Phoebe teleports behind your left shoulder and gives your ass a tremendous SMACK. As you turn furiously, she ducks your grasping arms and propels her lithe body upward in an explosive titty uppercut that rattles your spinning body and punishes your lower tissues. Her movements are impossibly fluid, it truly looks balletic as she assaults you; the instant her uppercut connected, her hands were already pulling your shoulders to force you to absorb a quick grind with your underboob positioned right against the firm meat of her melons, then shoving you away and out of danger to herself. “Hah! She was about to grind those flabbers right over the top of that sports bra!” I cackle.
“Shut up!!” you growl, obviously tilted. I can see you trying to piece together a solution in your mind, some snare to force this apparition into direct combat. You patiently move toward her, trying to cut off the ring for her, but every time you reach to get a grip on anything she swats you away with ninja-like reflexes. Suddenly Phoebe’s circling stops abruptly and she takes a hugely committal forward step, loading her shoulders for a huge thrust. My breath catches as I see your eyes narrow with the glint of opportunity and you brace yourself to absorb her boobyslam and catch her elusive body. I can’t speak fast enough to protest; all I get out is “NUHH!” before the moment of truth.
… Only it doesn’t happen. Phoebe’s brakes are so abrupt that my brain can’t process them in time, and apparently neither can yours as you sway on your feet, balance prepared for an impact that never came. As you now reach for the girl who’s literally an inch in front of you, I feel dread in my belly as it’s clear no physical being can escape being grabbed here… but yet again, I have no comprehension of Phoebe’s plans or abilities. Just as you’re recovering your balance and shifting momentum, Phoebe
recommits and follows through with a nasty rising boobyslam, her pure technique putting all her momentum into the blow as your body and brain are overwhelmed by all the miscalculations.
THUDDD Your butt hits the mats heavily, jiggling your pumpkins intensely as you reach back to catch yourself. You’ve got your battle-face on as best you can, but it’s clear as you hesitate to rise that you’re intimidated. I whistle softly and address you in my most conversational tone, letting the circumstances carry all the derision.
“Woow, isn’t this amazing? She’s just like from the stories!” Your hair whips as you snap an irritated look in my direction, but quickly your eyes are back on your opponent and I suddenly understand your skittish behavior; Phoebe is using her light, bouncy footwork to ruthlessly invade your space repeatedly and from varying angles, constantly putting you in position to be rushed and leveraged if you try to stand. You shuffle around again and again trying to square yourself with her so your bigger body can meet any incoming charge, but she’s like a darting dragonfly you can never catch.
“Geez, isn’t there some kind of 10 count for this? These mats looked a lot better without your ass glued to them!” I know the stress you must be under from the pressure Phoebe’s putting on you, and I’m eager to provide what accelerant I can to that flame. Your position at this point isn’t particularly better than it has been this whole time, but whether it’s my taunting or mere coincidence you choose this moment to try to scramble up.
SLAPPPPP Phoebe’s left hand catches your right cheek so sharply and abruptly you put your own hand over the affected area, squealing from the spank you received and failing to stand. For the first time, Phoebe seems to have some reaction to the success she’s having. There’s a cockiness to the way she flicks her ponytail back, and her normally impassive combat stare has taken on supercilious shades. You pull yourself to your right knee but with one big feint she freezes you, then briefly stops bouncing and flops her hands to her sides in a ‘come onnn!’ motion. “Hey she’s trying her best Phoebs. You’re just faster, smarter, and more coordinated than her,” I offer helpfully in your defense.
Phoebe sniffs dismissively. “Stronger, too,” she speculates in a voice that sounds unsettlingly sensitive. I have a sudden unnerving insight into Phoebe’s mind state as I see her moving toward your kneeling body. So much of Phoebe’s competitive identity is tied to the physical differences between she and her sister; lacking Tessa’s size, Phoebe learned from an early age to excel in agility, tactics, and grit. While someone with the skill of her sister still represents an extreme threat to her, Phoebe has become so accustom to overwhelming oafish brawlers that she’s become too quick to lose her fear of her enemy.
“Wait!” I cry as she bounces toward you, intent on proving a point. She doesn’t slow down or reply, but I get a nasty squint directed at me as she locks you in a right side headlock, her firm sideboob squashing your cheek as she tightens it. I want to warn her about the experience you have, about the lift-fight you nearly won against me, about your proven ability to reverse a fight’s momentum, but there’s no time and I can’t get the words out efficiently enough. “You really shouldn’t,” I begin, but already you’re rotating around to get ahold of the slippery Illinois beauty. As your arms seek her, Phoebe steps into you and cranks the headlock harder, mashing her swell even tighter against your cheek as she defensively taunts both of us. “Or what?!”
Phoebe’s positioning relative to your kneeling body is clever in that it keeps you from fully rotating to grab her; if she were on the right side of you, you could easily drag her down. She clearly believes this distinction gives you no path to a takedown, and she continues milking the headlock even as I warn sternly. “She’s really strong!”
At that moment you change tactics and my mouth goes dry as I see the domino effect; rather than trying to turn and pull her waist toward you, you drop your left arm and wrap it right around her right thigh, holding it tightly as your hands clasp. Phoebe squints as she processes your plan and deems you incapable of it, but as you tense your legs and start to rise, her mouth and eyes go wide with the disbelief of a girl who has dearly fucked up.
Exploding upward, you rip the ground from her feet in a heartbreaking instant, holding her in place like a trophy as she kicks and squirms pointlessly. “Why thank you,” you say to me, and I bite my lip as I realize you heard my compliment and are prepared to rub it in my face. “Put me down you stupid pig!” screams a suddenly very self-conscious Phoebe, crumbling from the familiar burden of being helpless against a bigger girl. You slowly look up and make eye contact with her, an impactful power move considering how high you have to look.
Phoebe retains enough composure to glare back at you defiantly, but it’s not a position that offers her much dignity, and tactically there’s little she can do other than wait for your inevitable follow-up. Annoyed by how foolish she was making you look, you take your time and carry her to the nearest camera first, giving your biggest Hollywood smile as you pose with your catch. I grind my teeth as I too am forced to wait, struggling with the decision on whether to leave her in there. Finally you carry her to the center of the ropes on the side nearest you, which fortunately for me is the side across from where I’m watching. I start fumbling around under the ring apron looking for something, increasingly certain you’re about to end the fight in one move.
“Does Phoebe want down?” you ask in a cooing voice, but Phoebe just snarls at you, unwilling to beg when it’s clear there’s a slam coming anyway. Shrugging, you proceed and aim your shoulders carefully, then THROW the poor girl down like a sack of flour. Her back hits the ropes which strain visibly from the momentum, but just as she’s about to get the rebound effect you execute your finisher. There’s a sickening
SPLAAATTTT as your giant gazongas land on her proudest assets, instantly swallowing most of her titflesh before the grinding even begins. I cover my gaping mouth with one hand as the punishment starts; in one direction, the ropes strive to push Phoebe away, and in the other, gravity and a heavier body convert your HH cups into steamrollers.
Phoebe’s face turns a frightening shade of deep red as she struggles not to give you her cries, but you just increase your dominance – the ropes now audibly creak as you start
bouncing your thick body up and down on her trapped tatas. “OHHHHHFUUUUUUUCK!” wails Phoebe in her Midwest accent as her once steely udders simply disappear as a tsunami of boobage breaks against her chest over and over. My hands find the flashlight I’ve been scrambling for – but in my haste I drop it! To my immense relief, you don’t hear the clatter over the noise Phoebe is making, but it’s increasingly clear I need to hurry. I drop to my knees to retrieve the light and I hear the despair go up as she feels abandoned.
“JESSINEEDYOU….NEEDYOURIGHTNOW….ICAN’TJESSPLEASE…” Your relentless vertical thumping gives a rhythm to her begging, and as I grab the flashlight and stand up I can see her hand twitching worryingly. The timing of events is important – Phoebe isn’t a full Club member, meaning she has an exception to the ‘locked in the ring’ rule; guest members are allowed to tag out, but if they tag a full member, the locked in rule now applies. If Phoebe tags me, I have to fight. If she submits, you’ll be free to leave the ring and drag me into in, where I’ll have to fight. I aim the flashlight back toward the main doors and flicker it three times, grateful you pinned Phoebe in a spot that won’t let you see the signal. I see a curvy figure creep out of the darkness toward the ring, but I turn my attention back to the match as I now need some compliance from you. Putting the light back and climbing the raised platform, I extend an arm over the ropes and make a request.
“Let me tag in, Sophie,” I offer in what I hope is a nervous voice, though you don’t slow your assault down one bit so I can tell I have some selling to do. “She was just trying to help me, it’s not fair to her to put her through this. I’m ready to-” My words are cut short as you move without warning, trying to outthink my possible deceptions. The Irish Whip sends a broken Phoebe flying toward me extremely fast; solely on my own reactions, I may not have avoided the unwanted tag. Fortunately for me, a strong pair of hands grabs my waist from behind, lifting me clean off the ring and putting me down beside it, letting Phoebe land harmlessly on the ropes. My cheeks are red from being lifted but it’s much better than being tagged in against you, so I turn to address my rescuer as she climbs up to tag Phoebe. “Thanks Ri-”
The name trails off as my brain adjusts to what I’m seeing. “Yeah, she couldn’t make it,” explains Sophie Knight in her unintelligibly thick british accent. “Got tied up, see,” She slaps Phoebe’s limp hand and swings her short thick body under the middle rope, her famously heavy G cups taxing her tight white bra to its limit. I stamp my foot in impatience; this was
my plan, and I don’t like improvisers. “What do you mean, tied up? She promised to come!” I have to struggle against my rising rage as Sophie K rolls her eyes condescendingly.
“Lit’rally tied up, cupcake. I beat her in a titfight and tied her up,” She grabs her globes and presses them up making her cleavage swell to terrifying fullness. “Caught her reading the note you sent, see. Sounded like you were in a spot, needed a big girl’s help. One round of boob sumo proved who that is!” Sophie K squints as she sees displeasure in my eyes, grabbing the top rope and bouncing her boulders threateningly. “Problem with that, D cup?” she asks me rudely. I’m seething and plotting but for the moment there’s nothing I can do – having tagged in and entered the ring, Sophie K is now my horse. I shake my head meekly to get her focus off of me, and sure enough she gives me a ‘know your place’ nod and then turns to face you.
“Wheeew, proper tits, those,” she whistles and observes, apparently oblivious to the exasperation I see on your face at being deprived of your chance to face me, then ignored by your new opponent. “Your note said she was about your size!” Both Sophies look at me contemptuously and I feel my face going red again. “Can you beat her or not?!” I reply spitefully. Sophie K looks you up and down, still unresponsive as you walk toward her.
“It’s a cert!” With that prediction, her stocky body comes to life, and the hands that you’ve extended to grab her are met and intertwined with as she braces her thick legs for a lockup position. “Should have sent a real woman in the first place!” Phoebe, who has slinked over to a ringside chair, eyes daggers at Sophie K but offers no verbal defense of herself. Though considerably taller, your churning legs fail to move the boat anchor of a lower body that keeps Sophie K in place, and though she hasn’t driven you back either there’s noticeably louder breathing coming from your half of the ring.
“Hah! That your full strength, is it?” she asks mockingly as you grunt especially loudly. Sophie K puts out her own burst of effort and drives you back several inches. It’s enough to widen my eyes, but it clearly isn’t enough for her as she “hmmphhh!”s in frustration. “Well built, she is” comments Sophie K as she tries to get you moving again. “I can see why … gggnnnnhhhh… you’re afraid of her”
My eyes narrow as my voice gets defensively shrill. “I’ve beaten her before!” I snap. Both Sophies snort-laugh and start to speak, but as usual Sophie K tramples the conversation. Your voice dies out as you refocus your efforts, still struggling to move this British boulder.
“Oy, and I used to lose to me Aunt Martha. ‘Cept it hasn’t happened since me first double D, so she don’t run her gob about it!” With her air supply powering her trash talking, Sophie K finally gives a little ground as you’re able to reclaim the space you lost. Furious, she dips her knees and tries to surge through you, but the battle returns to an impasse. With a cruel smirk, Sophie K twists both hands outward in a sudden violent motion, making you gasp from the sharp pain that comes before you can react and brace your wrists. You quickly do so, but the momentary discomfort she caused creates the window Sophie K is looking for; with a giant right step she gets you moving backward, and this time you’re unable to stop sliding as she takes another stride.
There’s irritation and concern on your face as the ropes approach and your momentum remains constant. I recognize your decision a split second before you make it, and I kick myself for not being quicker; if I’d had the time, I would have pre-taunted you for being the girl who breaks the lockup. Twisting your hands free just before your jutting butt hits the ropes, you bend your knees and aim your right shoulder for her belly as you clasp your arms around her waist. Sophie K’s lower body promptly defends from a shoulder lift as she stiffens her trunk-like thighs, but she takes no immediate retaliatory action, folding her arms in disgust as you start straining your legs trying to stand.
“Are you having a laugh? You pick up a wee lass and now you’re Wonder Woman?!” You give a burst of effort but it doesn’t even bring her to her toes, and she responds by leaning over to slap your ass. Even with her upper body compromised, you can’t find the strength to wrest her off her feet. “Right, you’ve had long enough,” she announces, and with her bulky bazookas still resting on your back she reaches down to wrap up your right thigh. Sensing trouble, you try to straighten your leg and break her grip, but she pulls sharply and twists to her right, forcing your foot off the ground. Getting you to break contact with the mats was clearly a toil, but once you’re on one leg she’s able to take complete control. Dragging your right leg toward your left shoulder, she’s able to rotate your hips and force you to release her waist as you brace for impact, unable to balance on your hopping left foot. Having spun you almost 90 degrees Sophie K finally executes the takedown, aligning her belly with yours in a nearly perpendicular position and letting her mass crush the resistance of your one leg.
