Greta was sick of her. That was it, really. Just fucking sick of her. The models had been there a week now, constantly together day and night, long hours in the hot sun. Her nerves were on edge, and the American was standing on that edge.
“Is this a photo shoot or American flag propaganda?” she snapped.
The dark blonde in a stars-and-stripes bikini posing on the beach barely looked at her. Arrogant bitch! Greta thought. Like all of them. They considered themselves the very center of the world! This one, she clearly thought herself better than the rest of her sister models. She was getting more time with the photographer than anyone! Greta leaned back against the bar and scowled.
Annmarie cut a glance at the brunette standing at the beach-side bar. Oh, the German cxnt. Of course. Out of all the models gathered for the week-long shoot, she was the clear front-runner for Miss Uncongeniality, as far as Annmarie was concerned. Always pissed about something. What was it now, her red-white-and-blue suit? Christ.
The photographer wrapped up a few minutes later. Annmarie turned and walked to the bar.
“I’m sorry, Gertie,” she said. “Were you talking to me? I should have answered - how about Fuck You? Does that answer your question?”
The crew hanging out in the bar snorted at that. Greta shot them a look.
“So American,” she said to Annmarie. “Wrap yourself in your flag, empty patriotism! And your top is nearly empty too, with your little tits!”
“Hey hey!” said one of the photographer assistants. Catty body comments among the models were common in these group shoots; one of the things he enjoyed. Tension had been simmering all week. Now the first bubbles of the boil appeared. Annmarie sported a lovely, athletic set of 34Cs, but Greta flaunted her 36Ds, choosing that moment to arch her back until she bulged over her cups.
Annmarie chewed on her lower lip, eyes silently locked with Greta. Gradually, the crew paused their work. The chatter among the other models died out.
“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” said Annmarie. “I said Fuck You, Greta.” She moved into the German, until their breasts just brushed. “Do you need someone to translate that for you?”
Greta pushed forward. Annmarie was ready, and didn’t budge, but those watching enjoyed the way her ass tensed. The sun-streaked brunette’s breasts flattened into hers. “I think you are the one who maybe does not understand what she is saying,” Greta said coldly.
“Okay!” said the photographer. “Let’s just cool it, ladies.”
They held for a long second, then Greta stepped back.
“She is a bitch, what can I say!” she said. “She thinks she is better, better than all of us!” She waved a hand across the other models.
“Better than you, bitch,” said Annmarie.
“Okay, now I say Fuck You!” Greta swept off her sunglasses.
“Armwrestle her,” said the French girl suddenly. “There. The table. We see who is better. Stronger.” Both of these bitches had worn on her nerves - this was a chance to see one of them brought low, at least.
The bar was spotted with chest high tables and high stools. One stood only a few feet away. A round top, made to hold the few glasses of a small group, only about two feet across.
Annmarie spread her hands. “Let’s go,” she said. She bodied up to the table, elbow down, right hand up. It was the perfect height. Her breasts rested on the polished wood as she leaned forward, pushed up slightly into the vee of her bikini top.
Without hesitation, Greta stepped up. Their palms slapped together,thumbs interlocked. Their left hands met on the table top in the center of the base of the triangle, fingers intertwined.
“All the men have decided my tits are bigger, Yankee Girl,” she said.
“Come on,” said the photographer. “This is - “
“You should be quiet and use your camera,” said the French girl. Monique, her name was. She put her hand atop their gripped hands, steadied them, straight up.
Four eyes met. Four nipples pushed hard against tight fabric.
“Go,” said Moniique. Their arms locked, hard. Even harder than the assistant’s cock.
Greta immediately drove Annmarie’s hand back to the eleven o’clock position before the American braced. Their lean biceps bulged. Annmarie gasped softly. Greta smiled, showing her teeth. Below the table top, they each locked one long leg around its column. Despite their tans, their knuckles whitened. Their fingertips pressed deep into the other’s hands. Annemarie slipped another inch. She moaned. The very edge of her right areola peeked over her top.
“Does it hurt?” Greta said. Her smile was more a grimace now. Her ass was a ball of muscle. The men behind her stared, fascinated.
Annmarie didn’t answer. Her abs pulsed in and out as she breathed.
“Come on, Annmarie!” That was the British model. Alliances were forming.
Slowly, their fists came back upright. A minute had passed. Their shoulders and biceps had begun to burn. Their bodies were sweat-slick. Beads ran down their throats and upper chests, channeled into cleavage.
Greta twisted and grunted. She took Annmarie’s forearm to forty-five degrees.
“Fuck!” the blonde burst out, through gritted teeth. Her eyes closed, squeezing tears out. She dragged back an inch, then two, then three. She screamed with effort and for the first time took Greta’s arm past upright. The German’s top slipped to bare nearly her entire left nipple, a dark pink areola the size of an espresso saucer tipped with a thick stiff nub.
“Come on, Greta!” The Spanish beauty chose sides. This was real now. The two women strained with everything they had. Greta’s cool contempt was gone. Her face was contorted with effort and pain. A muscle in her back cramped, knifing her with breath-stealing jolts. Her body buckled, both breasts lifted by the table nearly out of her top. Annemarie pushed another inch. Greta held there. Both of them were panting hard, almost orgasmically. Their bikinis were soaked with sweat. Greta swore in German and screamed as she forced Annemarie back up, and past even.
All the models were screaming now. The photographer was firing shot after shot, angles of their faces, their bodies. In less than two minutes the beachside bar had switched from hangout to arena, from sarcastic sniping to siege warfare. Unbearably hard, the assistant pushed one hand down his shorts, stroking himself. No one noticed but the Japanese model, who slipped her slender hand in and took over, never taking her glowing black eyes from the two. He groaned, but never looked away either.
Greta was sobbing, harsh, ragged gasps. Her hair hung in her face, her head bowed nearly to the table top. Lactic acid burned a merry bonfire in her arm and shoulder. She took another inch. She had the American halfway, then past halfway.
“Give . . . up . . “ she groaned.
Annemarie closed her eyes against the room as it began to spin. She tried to breathe, to focus on that, just breathing, just bringing oxygen in. She felt like her shoulder was about to tear, like her elbow and wrist would snap, that her entire arm was on the verge of shattering like glass. With all that, she still pushed back.
They both were losing strength. That meant they were both still evenly matched.
The Japanese model - Keiko - half-turned into the assistant, pulling down her top with her free hand. She worked his shaft fiercely, her fingers lubricated by the thick drops of pre-cum she milked loose, and rubbed her pussy against his hip. He squeezed her breast, harder than he should, but she moaned; she wanted it hard. “Who will win?” she said, her voice erotically thick. “Who will break?” His other hand gripped her tight ass, then slipped down between her thighs. Her bikini bottom was damp. He broke his stare long enough to look at the other models. Every nipple was hard. Every eye gleamed. Oh god, he thought.
That was when Annmarie, her will still hanging by a thread, screamed as her body failed. Greta slammed her hand down on the table, with a shriek of victory. Keiko trembled with a tiny orgasm, and squeezed his cock as it erupted over her fingers.
“Yes!” Greta cried. Her face was alight with triumph, thrilled with dominance. None of that relieved-it’s-over-respect-my-opponent bullshit. “FUCK you, bitch!”
Face twisted with rage, Annemarie shoved the table as hard as she could, her body and her left arm, into Greta. The edge caught her flush in her diaphragm, sending her spinning back and to the floor.
“Now it gets interesting, I think,” said Monique, to the room at large. Her grin was wolfish.
Keiko pulled her hand out, and smoothed some of his cum over her tiny brown but enormously engorged nipple. She was so sick of that French bitch. That was it, really. Just fucking sick of her.
