From the night’s start, from its very beginning, the atmosphere was surreal. The tight security in the building lobby lent an air of danger. The men and women who gathered, along with me, dressed expensively, even formally, for an atmosphere of opulence. The private key-coded express elevator could have been in any high-end apartment building, except tonight its back-wall video screen was showing on a loop the two women we were all there to see. The lighting in the penthouse suite itself, the shadows and the glass wall overlooking the city. The starkness of the room. The air was tense and anticipatory, a straight razor pressed to a jugular. I imagined eyes on me, as I shifted nervously from foot to foot, but of course no one looked at me at all.
The two women when they entered, to subdued applause, were everything promised. One black, one white; opposites of sleekly fair and stunning darkness. They were a contrast in beauty, and alike in erotic appeal. The white woman wore black lingerie. Her hair was golden, shoulder-length, a stray lock teasingly across her left eye. The black woman wore white lingerie. Her hair was a thick short Afro-sphere of tight curls. They both walked imperiously, like royalty, backs arched, shoulders back, legs flashing. They only had eyes for each other, but they wanted us all there. They wanted drama, theater, witnesses to their smoldering sexuality, to their glowing heat.
In the center of the room, spot-lit, lay the whip. Gleaming, oiled leather, coiled like a snake. It wasn’t long; It was a close-quarters weapon, not a remote, impersonal one. We ringed the room, my fellow watchers and I. We were silent as they stalked each other. Stiletto heels clicked in counterpoint rhythm, ominous syncopation.
They were breathing hard as they circled the whip, watching each other. Their breasts swelled in the lace cradles of their bras. The black woman’s dark nipples rose and sank at the edge of her demi-cups, half-exposed. The white woman’s legs were accentuated by the cut of her panties, high on her hips, a narrow panel diving down to cover her pussy. Her abs were a flat slab. The black woman had a slight softness to her stomach where her white panties dug into her flesh at its lowest boundary. It was unbearably sexy. I could picture my cock against either belly so easily. I realized in surprise that I was holding my breath.
Then the white woman removed her bra. The motion was smooth and graceful and economical, reaching behind herself, sliding the lace down her arms and flicking it away. A man bent and picked it up. She glanced at him and smiled, a predator smirk. Her breasts were perfect, full and firm, a hint of bikini tan in paler triangles around her nipples, which were small in circumference but jutted high and thick, as hard as my erection. The crowd murmured as she bared herself. The black woman followed her, slightly sneering. Her bra fell away from dark areolae the size of demitasse saucers. I caught it as she tossed it aside and her dark eyes marked me. Thus were we chosen, two men. The murmur rose, then fell again to silence.
Their shadows circled, a slow inward spiral. Both converged on the leather lash, the waiting asp, the scorpion’s tail. The muscles of their backs were tensed and bunched. Their legs moved in slow, precise steps. The anticipation in the room thickened, reality slowed to a snail’s pace.
What choices would they make?
The white woman lunged for the whip.
The black woman lunged for her.
A dark knee smashed into pale ribs. The brutal crunch and strangled cry brought a soft gasp from the watchers.
The whip waited, patiently. It knew its time would come.
The black woman’s breasts bounced wildly as she drove her fists into the white woman’s taut core. Right. Right. Left. Her target twisted as the blows landed, forced to retreat, staggering, driven to the wall of glass that looked out over the city and the night.
The black woman hit the white woman in the face, full force, with her closed fist. She was wrenched sideways and blood from her mouth skimmed in a streak along the glass. One of us who watched moaned, out loud. Two black hands in golden hair gripped and pulled back and slammed her skull against the windows. The same hands still in hair flung her pinwheeling to the floor in the center of the room.
The white woman landed hard but crawled on her belly and reached for the whip. She screamed as a white stiletto heel drove into the back of her hand, her scream cut off when the black woman kicked her in the face. Her blood spattered on the floor, that last few drops landed on my shoe. The black woman’s eyes lifted to mine. My cock ached.
The white woman lay on her side, her hip in landscape, her perfect breasts slumped sideways. The black woman circled her, luxuriating in the moment. Their harsh breathing was the only sound, until the black woman drove another kick into the white woman, into the meat of her ass. She arched, turning to her back, teeth clenched against the pain. The black woman stomped her chest, stiletto like a shiv into her nipple. She clutched her breast, blood on her fingers. This was what we had been promised: cruelty.
The black woman walked away and retrieved the whip undisturbed, uncoiled it, and waited. The watchers shifted, restlessly. The white woman pushed to her hands and knees, her head down, her golden hair cascading to the floor.
The black woman whipped her across the center of her back.
The sound … the hiss, the impact, her scream … God. A watcher spoke, a male voice, hoarse and as thick with blood as its owner’s cock: “Fuck her up.” The black woman nodded without looking away from the white woman. The whip came down again, across her back and ribs, a livid red line. She didn’t scream, but the sound she made was that of a trapped beast in agony, a wolf with its paw bleeding in jagged steel jaws.
The back woman circled her, whip dragging, heels clicking. The white woman’s head stayed down, her hair masking her face.
“You’re no match for me,” the black woman said. “You’re my bitch. I own you. Fucking cxnt.” The white woman shook her head without lifting it. The black woman’s full lips drew back from her teeth. I wondered if others wondered if there was history, a personal animus, or if simply the vicious competition of an arranged fight for money before an audience could animate such hate.
The whip lashed across the white woman’s ass, tearing her lace panties. Her head came up, her face a rictus of pain. Her mouth was bleeding down her chin. The black woman buried a hand in her hair at the back of her skull and dragged back her head. She was lifted to her knees, her back arched, her breasts displayed. Her tormenter dragged the leather braid across her nipples.
“Do it,” said an oddly-strained voice. “Whip her tits.” I wasn’t sure whose voice it was this time. Perhaps it was even my own. In any event, dark eyes met mine again.
She wrapped the whip around the white woman’s neck instead, and led her around the room on her hands and knees like a dog. She took her to the man who had caught the black bra. He still held it like a talisman. “Do you want to fuck her?” the black woman purred as she unzipped him and took out his cock, her fingers gliding along its erect shaft. He nodded. “Maybe I will give her to you, then, when I’m done with her,” she said. She dropped to a deep crouch and took him into her mouth for a brief moment, jerking the white woman’s head to her knee as she did. Dominance. Look how I take the cock that desires you.
Then she stood, and dragged the white woman to me. The whip cut cruelly into her neck. Her mouth was open. Her lips slightly bluish. Her breasts shuddered as she breathed with rasping, laboring difficulty.
“Who do you want to fuck?” she asked me. Her hair gleamed, backlit by the glass wall. Her lips were full. Her dark eyes danced. Her dark nipples were gorgeously engorged, the texture of her flesh thickened. Unthinkingly, instinctively, my hands lifted to her breasts and she arched her back welcomingly. Her skin was hot and slick with a sheen of sweat. She took my cock out, as she had the other man, and purred from her throat. “Do you want me now, or after I finish her?”
“After.” I whispered. She nodded.
And without warning, she screamed.
The white woman’s hand was pushed through the leg hole of her white lace panties and was buried in her pussy. Her body went rigid. Her dark eyes changed, now panicked, then closed.
“Fucking whore!” the white woman snarled. The black woman sank to her knees, the whip slipping from her nerveless fingers. Her hands clutched at the wrist between her thighs. The white woman surged and snarled again and shoved her hand deeper, four fingers, nails curled like fishhooks. Her cocked thumbnail dug like a scarlet spade into the pink roots of the black woman’s clit.
Then blonde hair whipped as she headbutted the black woman in her face. The crunch was a boot in gravel. The dark head snapped back, spurting blood from her crushed nose. Five free fingers sank into her dusky breast, and ripped her skin. The white woman drove her to the floor with this torture-grip on her pussy and breast. She hissed and spat in the black woman’s face and twisted her breast.
The black woman writhed in pain, her early dominance dissipated, gone like smoke, the bloody saliva of her foe trickling down her cheeks. The white woman ripped away the white panties, shredding the lace, and forced her hand even deeper. The black woman was wrenched onto her side, her knee up, her back bowed, her body quivering. She screamed as if Hell had opened, and the white woman laughed cruelly. She dragged her claw out, clenched her fist, and pounded it into the black woman’s bared pussy. Again, and again, and again. Short, brutal punches that shuddered through the black body. Her dark head lolled against the floor.
The white woman stood. She split brown legs, gripping ankles, and stabbed a gleaming black stiletto into the black woman’s torn and battered pussy. She spat again, this time on her pulsing belly. “No one will be fucking you,” she said. “Not after I ruin your cxnt. Maybe someone here will fuck your ass. You like that, bitch?”
She turned, and walked, and fetched the whip. The black woman crawled, blindly trying to escape, without any route to do so. The whip hissed, and bit. Its tip wrapped around her ribs and tore a piece of flesh from her dangling breast. The white woman jerked the whip back, and lashed again. The muscles in her arm and back and core were rigidly taut. Her bloody mouth was cruel. The black woman screamed, the agony that she had dealt before now given back to her. She dropped to the floor, curled into a ball.
A white hand twisted into her tight curls, and lifted her to her knees. The other white hand forced the whip’s handle into her mouth. Tears ran down her cheeks as she gagged, her breasts heaving. “You like to suck cock?” the white woman snarled. “You think you are so fucking tough? You think you are better than me?” The whip handle was deep now, in the black woman’s throat. She strangled slowly on it. Saliva dripped from the corners of her lips down her chin to spatter on her breasts. The white woman pulled the whip handle back, finally, turned it in her hand, and hammered it into the black woman’s face as she held her head by the death grip in her hair.
We all watched. It was savage and dominant. The black woman could do nothing but accept the pain and endure it. Blood ran down her face and throat and separated into streams on her chest like a river delta between and over her breasts.
“She’s killing her,” someone said. No one moved. The white woman laughed, a mad, cruel laugh. She let the black woman sag, an empty shell, dazed, clinging to consciousness. She stepped to the man who had her black bra still and crouched before him and claimed the cock the black woman had first bared. “You saw me beat her,” she said, her voice thick. “Now give it to me. The better woman.” His fingers opened and her black lace fell to the floor as her head bobbed with his cock in her mouth. I watched, and ached, even more, a dull throb.
The black woman stirred, and pushed to her hands and knees. We were silent. She lifted her face, and crawled. Whatever soft sounds she made went unheard by the white woman as she furiously fellated him. I saw dark nipples harden again as the black woman reached the discarded bra. She wrapped it around the white woman’s throat as cum spurted into her mouth. The last, pumping, arc of thick jizz spattered on her half-tanned breasts as the black woman garroted her with lace.
It wasn’t over, no, not at all. The unreality of the scene continued to deepen. The absence of norms, the reversal of civilization, the descent into the most primal, animalistic behavior, the indulgence of base lusts. I marveled at the hate that drove these two to fight on, to the end of physical and mental endurance. Could I ever feel so deeply, so fiercely? Cum bubbled from the white woman’s lips as the black woman strangled her. The man stepped back, emerging from a trance. I envied him his release.
“Fuckin kill you,” the blacked woman screamed, and no one doubted her, not now, not after what we’d watched. The black lace was embedded in the white woman’s throat. Her pink nipples slowly softened. Her body jerked spasmodically.
Then a white elbow smashed into a battered black face. It was enough to break the hold. The two women fell away from each other, both sobbing, gasping, snarling; any or all. They staggered to their feet, tottering on their heels. The white woman’s torn panties sagged and she ripped away the remnants herself. They faced each other as naked as God made them, wearing only the Devil’s shoes. The whip was forgotten, for now. They wanted a fight of bone and blood and meat.
With a scream they lunged together, body to body, woman to woman, a brutish, deliberate collision of breasts. My gaze was on the black woman’s ass when they hit, and the ripple through her body was evident in the quiver of her cheeks. She staggered back a step and the white woman followed. She hit her again. Breasts to breasts. Full dark breasts crushed by firmer white tit meat. The black woman mewled in pain. The white woman slammed into her a third time and crushed her against the glass. She braced her legs and pinned her rival’s wrists and ground into her rival’s breasts with her own, flattening and smearing them across her rib cage.
The black woman’s face was a study in suffering. Her head lolled to the side. Her lips were drawn back from clenched teeth. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes were closed, squeezed tightly shut. We watched and knew why she suffered. Buried together, hard pink nipples were dragging dark ones, dragging them, bending them, folding them. Inverting them and forcing them deep, the way she forced the whip handle into her mouth. Turning them raw so that every movement was agony. Using them to burst capillaries and rupture glands. Making them weapons until they softened into uselessness.
“My tits are stronger,” the white woman crowed, and we all saw that it was true. “My….tits....are….better!” Each word was punctuated with another surge, another crushing pumping push. The black woman could only sob. She had no strength to deny the obvious, no pride to summon a retort. She was pinned, her back and ass slapping the glass with every vicious thrust.
Then she screamed, and we all saw, we were all the witnesses. Her milk released from glands torn open inside her, oily and frothy, forced through raw nipples still buried between them, squeezed out into the boundary between them and running in thin streams down the sides of her breasts and over her shuddering ribs and heaving belly.
It was an incredible tableau, a denouement of viciousness. The white woman surged even harder into her victim, victory lighting her bloody face. The black woman sagged beneath her, her muscles gone, her neck corded as she screamed again. Her breasts seemed to collapse, to lose all structure, to simply fail.
“Your tits lose!” The white woman hissed truth through clenched teeth.
“Please…..” the black woman moaned brokenly. “Please…. No more. No more. Please!”
The white woman relaxed and stepped back. Black breasts sagged and spurted, their owner sobbed.
“You beg beautifully,” the white woman whispered. “I want More.” Her hands lifted, cupping what she’d destroyed, caressing them, toying with them, gripping them, then squeezing them. The black woman jerked, her head flung back to strike the glass, as blood and milk spewed from her weeping nipples across the gap between them to paint the intact breasts of her victorious enemy. Slowly and rhythmically and cruelly, the white woman milked her until only pain remained.
“Please…..” the black woman prayed again to her merciless goddess, pleading, begging, her pride as ruined as her beauty. “You win…. You’re better…..”
“Louder.” The goddess demanded more, as deities often do. She squeezed, her fingers almost invisible in dark swollen flesh.
“YOU WIN YOU WIN YOU’RE BETTER I GIVE I SUBMIT!” The black woman shrieked, her palms slapping the glass, her body slick with sweat, her tits malformed. I thought of how beautiful she had been, how erotic and strong.
The white woman grinned, again like a wolf. She nodded. “Good girl,” she said, and she squeezed. Black nipples bulged with internal pressure. She squeezed and wrung and kneaded and twisted and the black woman only fainted when blood came unadulterated, purely scarlet from the wreckage of her breasts.
My wife let her rival fall then, first to her knees, then to her face, her skull bouncing as it hit the floor. She came to me then, this time under her own glorious power. She wore the remnants of the other man’s cum on her triumphant chest, another bit of her revenge for my affair. “Still want to fuck her?” she asked me, her eyes cruel. I know better than to answer, or even to look at my mistress who lay in ruins.
There was a bedroom adjacent to this room, an antechamber to the arena. She wrapped the white bra around the black throat and dragged her, limp and unresisting, pausing only to claim the whip. She looked back at me at the door. I followed, only me, from the stunned watchers. I am the only witness to the final stanza.
