This story is strong stuff. Please be warned.
My first time, it was for money. I was twenty years old. I made minimum wage as a part-time waitress in a seedy bar full of seedy people. One of them offered me $100 to titfight his girlfriend when he was drunk and I said yes. We went out back and I peeled off my T-shirt. So did his girlfriend.
He came in his jeans as she and I rammed our tits together. She was a little older, a little bigger. She liked it, having him watch. She pinned me against the outside wall and drove her tits into mine like fists. It … awakened something in me. Something very sexual and very primitive. It turned me into an animal. I beat her tits with mine. I didn’t even hear her quit. One of her nipples was bleeding when he pulled me off of her. Mine were harder than I’ve ever felt them. She sagged to the ground sobbing. He gave me the money and took her home.
God, how I masturbated that night. I kept seeing her face crumple in pain. I kept feeling my nipples jabbed so deep into hers; how my breasts kept their shape as hers were crushed.
I wanted more.
He came back the next night, without her. His eyes were hungry. “I know a place,” he said. I guess my eyes were hungry too. The place was the back room of a bar not all that different from the one where I worked. The prize was a thousand dollars. The walls were ringed by men like him. The other woman was a Latina, heavy with milk and tattoos. She cursed at me in Spanish as we stripped to the waist.
She beat me far worse than I had beaten that first girl. My breasts were swollen red bags of fire when her milk let down. The men roared as she spurted over me, as she used her nipples to twist and bend mine. I couldn’t stop myself from using my hands. Her eyes went wide with fury for trying and she head butted me in the face then spat into my eyes as the crowd booed me. She spat on me again later, on my chest as I lay sobbing on my back, my nose bleeding, my beaten breasts slick with her milk.
“Not so tough after all, huh?” said my new acquaintance, my guide. He smirked and went home to his girlfriend, I’m sure telling her of my humiliation. Eventually I made it back to my feet. There was no money for the loser, but the owner gave me a bag of ice. I slept on my back that night, fitfully, my swollen breasts packed in ice. The bed was damp when I awoke, with melted ice and my tears of fury.
But I was hooked. That was five years ago.
I have implants now. All the top women do. To fight at this level without them would be suicidal. But they are a double-edged sword; weapons that are also weaknesses. Every fight is a brutal war to tear them loose, to burst them. That’s the kill shot. When your tits rupture hers.
I’m one of the best, and it’s happened to me twice. Both times I immediately screamed submission. Both times, the rules ended the fight on the spot. Both times, I endured the surgery and returned.
But I’ve done it to an opponent five times. Five times my breasts have torn another woman’s implants open. Every time, the feeling of her tits imploding, and her scream of submission, made me climax. It was a feeling of such dominant power, I can’t begin to describe it. I live for that feeling now.
And so…it has come to this.
I have accepted the most brutal fight of my life. The prize is one million dollars; winner take all. My opponent is an Asian girl with a scar-twisted lip and small black nipples that jut like thorns. Her name is Pura. We haven’t fought before but we are well-known to each other. We face each other and join hands, fingers intertwined. Two men step forward and begin to wrap them, taping them together, encasing them into inseparable blocks. Once joined, we will fight with our breasts, but not only that. Headbutts are allowed. Face biting is allowed. Knees to the legs and body are allowed. And, for the coup de grace, the fight doesn’t end when one of us is ruptured.
For a million dollars, our sponsor wants a titfight to the death.
Pura stares impassively at me as the tape wraps around our hands. When one of us is dead, they’ll cut us apart, the winner and the loser. I stare back into her glittering dark eyes, at my reflection. A third man oils our breasts with something that stiffens our nipples even more.
“You die with tits torn open,” she said, suddenly but softly. She drags her nipples over mine. They feel like steel.
“Not yet!” snapped the video director. Our sponsor wasn’t there, not in person. The camera crew is set to capture us from all angles. We will be live-streamed. He will watch in comfort, and it occurs to me that he will watch again and again as many times as he likes. One of us will die a thousand times; one of us will be rich and live to fight again. Because it’s no longer about money, not for any of us. I blow a stray strand of my hair away from my face.
I can barely feel my hands now, only Pura’s forearms against mine. But the oil…I let my head loll back for a moment. My nipples are incredibly hard, and incredibly sensitive. Every nerve is alert and on the edge of raw before we even begin. My breathing matches hers, both of us drawing deep droughts of oxygen. I bring my face back level with hers. She purses her lips in a kiss.
They paste small microphones to our bodies and near our mouths, tiny wireless patches. I notice they almost perfectly match our skin. Custom made. Nothing but the best.
“How long?” she whispers to me. “How long you live with your tits ruptured and my tits still pounding them? How much pain you take, white girl?”
“Fuck you,” I hiss back.
“I take all you give,” she says. “I make you beg for death.”
She presses her hot blades into me again, and again our handlers separate us. She smiles, or at least pulls her lips back from her gleaming white teeth. I smile too, as the syringe pricks my neck and the serum flows into my blood.
God.
Our hands are finished.
One of the handlers speaks. Our names and ages, weight and breast measurements.
My mind is clear, but altered. I was told in advance. I agreed.
Nothing remains but the fight. Our smiles are frozen into snarls. Our bodies are rigid, loaded springs. Waiting.
“Fight.”
A single staccato syllable.
Pura and I slam our chests together. Our nipples meet head on, stones striking and slipping to the side, gouging deep into soft flesh. Her dark head snaps back, then forward. Her breasts are full and heavy, but I hurt her. Her torso coils back and slams forward again. My breasts are driven apart as hers shove them outward. Her sternum crunches into mine. Our hearts beat wildly only inches apart.
We draw back and slam together. My nipples stab into the underside of hers, like spades into the earth. I can feel her milk glands and her implants as our breasts compress. Our senses are heightened to an unreal plane by the oil and the serum. She draws back and twists, driving her right breast into my left. The one last ruptured in a fight two years ago. Of course she knows that. I moan as scar tissue stretches.
She drags our hands up. Now it is her dark nipples plunging into the roots of mine, into the nerve bundle there. She is so engorged with blood. Her nipples are stone. Mine give under her assault and she feels them shudder. I know her history too. This is her signature - long stiff nipples that she wields to injure her opponent’s, to gouge them open, to turn them to raw weeping meat. Her back arches as she forces her nipples deep. Simple wedges.
But this will be a war of pain and attrition, not of lightning, not yet, not while we are both whole.
I arch into her. We both totter slightly on our heels, the only clothing left to us. The motion parries her black thorns, bends them sideways like prying fingers from a throat, then stabs mine where hers were: her nerve roots. She cannot suppress a moan as I press in. I drag her hands back down, my shoulders aching, forcing them behind her to the small of her back.
A bear hug. Not with the power that I could apply with free hands, but with enough to fold her nipples inward, to roll them against her milk glands, to use their hardness against her. Her breathing is ragged with pain. Her teeth are clenched.
With a feral snarl, she snaps her head forward, aiming for my nose. I turn into it and take the shock against my cheekbone.
“Whore,” I hiss, and wish there were worse words for her, this cold-blooded snake. My face aches. I feel the flesh under my eye begin to puff. Pura’s head lolls back, and snaps forward again. My head is driven back, the fresh mouse on my cheekbone split open as neatly as any scalpel could cut.
I stagger badly but to go to my knees in front of her would be disastrous. I keep my balance barely but I lose my hard-gained leverage as her arms push mine back. She pulls her torso back and drives it forward into me. The sheet of muscle at our stomachs slap. Our breasts collide with breathtaking force. Our nipples are the tips of battering rams. Our implants distort and bulge.
We both scream. In this fight, there are few ways to hurt the opponent without the same hurt to yourself.
One way: I piston my knee up into her body. I want her belly but blind luck guides me between her cocoa thighs and my kneecap splits her silky-smooth pussy. She’s wet. I feel her juices spatter on me. Wet at the thought of killing me. I know.
She surges into me, her breath sobbing. I want more than anything to have a free hand, to have a claw to sink into her wounded clit. I try to knee her again but her lean-muscled thigh deflects it.
“You do that because your tits are weak,” Pura snarls. She surges again, deep into me. She shifts and wrenches herself and hammers her left breast into my right. There is scar tissue there too, adhesions from surgery. I try desperately not to let her see that her blow tore them slightly. But she knows. And so she hits me again, and again. Like a boxer trapping her opponent in a corner. She grunts with the effort. My back hits a wall and her arms pin mine and her breast pounds into mine like a fist.
I scream, and I hate myself for screaming.
I surge off the wall and my hair flies across her face as my face plunges under her jawline. The burning ache in my breasts is unrelenting but the serum in my bloodstream sings as I taste her blood. I bite into the side of her neck, not like a snake that strikes and withdraws but like a panther seeking a kill. I yearn for fangs long enough to hit vitals. I bite, and twist.
It is Pura’s turn to scream, and her turn to drive her knee into my pussy. A sledgehammer to my clit, breaking my bite into an agonized sob. I bite afresh, this time her face, her cheek below her almond eye. She screams and slams me back against the wall. One of the cameramen intrudes, a close-up of our suffering, our blood. Of our breasts crushed together, sweat-slick and swelling.
Pura’s knee knifes into my guts.
My legs buckle as I dry-retch in pain. I drag her down with me, to our knees. My mouth is a bloody slash. Her blood. I headbutt her and the countershock rips through my skull. We sag together.
“Another dose.” The bee-sting again. The artificial venom. Pura stiffens against me. Her sobbing breath slows. Her breasts pulse against mine. I feel her nipples harden into mine. “Get up.” It is the same voice, close, and a thousand miles away. We stand, shaking.
“Fight.”
We are both simply snarling animals now. We ram our breasts together like they are unfeeling appendages, bags of sand. Every blow is agony but the agony is life. Her thorns do their damage, dark flesh ripping pink pale until it bleeds, until I bleed. We bite each other, again and again, our faces and our necks. We were both beautiful when we began, when our hands were free. Now blood is soaking through the tape around our clenched hands. Now our beauty is ruined.
Pura is relentless. Both of my nipples are open, draining blood and lymph and milk. She hammers my breasts, pumping this tortured mix from them. The cameras linger on my chest and my face. She controls my arms now, my muscles useless. She holds them out, parallel to the floor. My head lolls back, gazing sightlessly at heaven.
She bursts my left implant first, grinding it against my ribs, emptying it. I scream, but it is a meaningless, empty sound, background for Pura’s orgasm and presumably our sponsor’s. My ruined breast sags as she turns her full attention to my other breast. She drops her dark head and bites deeply. By now, she is no more human than I am. The wreckage of my nipple is for her to claim. She burrows in, opening her jaws and closing them, shaking her head.
She was right. I did beg her. And she was merciful.
