mephistopheles6
Virgin
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2012
- Posts
- 1
Mombasa Showdown (for lovers of lactation).
I’d been in Mombasa for two months, trawling the bars to find the right combination of girls. In a place like this, there’s no shortage of willing combatants; but, as I said, the right combination – that was proving elusive. Two young women of equal height, similar weight and endowment, both of them post-natal and still lactating; the holy grail of nipple duelling. As soon as I met Wangari I knew she was perfect. The problem was that she was so awesomely well-endowed, how did I find a worthy opponent for such a living embodiment of a Venus figurine. I searched my memory of the girls I’d seen previously, some could have been considered almost in her league, but none could match up to her. Wangari herself seemed quite enthusiastic about my proposal and offered a potential candidate, whom she really wanted to take on. The problem was that Wangari and Fatima hated each other and it was going to cost much more than I had expected to get them together on film; still, what price perfection.
So there I was, pacing the floor of the Castle Hotel in eager anticipation, and sweating profusely, due to the tropical humidity, while the ceiling fan creaks and whirrs above me. Constantly glancing at one’s watch doesn’t make the time pass any faster, but I gave it a good try, willing the hands to move round faster. I forced myself to relax and took a seat by the open window, lighting a reefer in the hope that it would calm my nerves. Pulsating bass lines made the speakers of the stereo vibrate, courtesy of the Sundowner reggae show being broadcast from Nairobi. My palpitating heart was beating in rhythm with the dance beat of “Slick Chick” by the Meditations, drowning out the hustle and bustle of the street below.
Then it happened, a light rapping on the door. I jumped up, as though startled, and grabbed the deodorant can to spray the armpits of my T-shirt, slicked back my hair and tentatively approached the door. Wangari’s cute, rounded face greeted me with a cheeky grin. Standing behind her was Fatima, whom I hadn’t actually met, yet; she looked a bit sour-faced but very attractive. Rolling their full, rounded hips, the nymphs sidled into the room and stood together beneath the fan, hands on hips, each girl resting her weight on one leg; they were both wearing floral-patterned dresses. Despite the blouson style of the garments upper bodies, both girls bra-busting womanliness strained at the thin material, as though dying to be unleashed. The draught from the fan teased and fluttered the hems of their skirts. Their summer dresses were low-cut enough to reveal just a hint of the deep valleys of their amazing cleavage, but what caught my attention the most was the faint damp stains in the centre of their breasts, where freakishly proportioned nipples threatened to poke through the flimsy material, more obvious on Fatima’s dress than Wangari’s. My nipples throbbed in anticipation of the dairy delights to come.”
“Sasa,” said Wangari, “have you forgotten how to speak?”
“Oh, yeah… Right, Can you just stand like that, while I get you on film?”
Fumbling like a nervous schoolgirl, I retrieved the camcorder. After adjusting the curtains to allow in the maximum available natural light, and switching on all the lights, I set about capturing the pre-fight frames. Wangari was about 5” 5’ I’d guess, Fatima slightly shorter. To be honest, I was more interested in measuring their breasts than anything else. Wangari’s complexion was a deep brown, whilst Fatima was quite dark. They both had short-shorn peppercorn hair, with light down above the temples. The lighter girl was incredibly cute looking with faint freckles either side of her infantile nose. Fatima possessed a more womanly visage, reminding me of Iman Bowie in her youth, she was slightly the sexier-looking of the two, though it was very close and a matter of individual taste. I couldn’t wait to compare their heavenly bodies.
I asked the ebonite nymphs to face off for the camera and they obliged. As their wide, dark eyes met, I couldn’t mistake the flash of mutual spite passing between them, that primal challenge, belying the instinctive female desire to sexually dominate all competitors. According to the rumours, these girls had clashed bitterly over some rich German, who had a holiday cottage just outside the town. But Wangari had assured me that they’d never fought yet, at least, not sexually. It was so important to me that I be the first to witness their initial test of womanliness.
“That’ll do for now girls.” Reluctantly, I put aside the camera and picked up the tape measure.
I turned round to find that no further bidding was necessary; both nymphs were almost out of their dresses. There were no additional garments to discard. The girls stood side by side in their full natural glory, dusky skins coated in light perspiration that reflected the light. I was awestruck to be quite frank. I’d seen numerous videos and photos of babes, but never had I witnessed bodies so specifically designed to intimidate other hot women. Fair enough, they were not technically in the league of long-legged, silken-haired super models, but nevertheless, I doubt many models would have wished to stand next to them naked; aesthetics and no-nonsense sexiness are different things. Both girls possessed that perfect balance between slimness and curvature, at once slender but full-bodied, with hour glass figures in the extreme, the exceptional slimness of their wastes contrasting with the voluptuousness of their hips. Although both girls were relatively petite, their extreme buxomness did not appear out of balance with their generously proportioned hips.
The girls had faced off and pressed their tits together. They were conversing in Swahili, most of which I couldn’t understand. While their tone of voice was seductive, their demeanour implied that an erotically-charged argument was taking place. I found it all extremely enigmatic; my ignorance engendering a sense of frustration.
“Can you speak only in English,” I appealed. “It’s so important for the film I’m paying you for.” I realise I was being a bit hoighty-toighty, but it was my hard-earned money being spent. For anyone who may be thinking that the girls were being exploited, let me assure you that they entered into the spirit of the thing as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It’s my contention that they were both designed to go at it with each other, simple evolutionary programming. From the point of view of physics, it was the inevitable collision between two equal, intercepting forces; like heavenly orbs colliding. There was nothing exploitative in my intentions; in fact, I was thinking: why should two such women be arguing over a man when they should be together and going at it every night.
The nymphs abandoned their embrace to turn and face me. I begged their indulgence and patience, as I compared and measured the objects of their contention. Seemingly instinctively, they placed an arm over each others shoulders, bringing Wangari’s left tit and Fatima’s right tit nestling and pressing together in what seemed like an inadvertent disputation – that was probably intentional. I was gratified to witness that neither ebon orb gave unduly to the protestation of the other. Despite the artificial breeze produced by the fan, rivulets of glistening perspiration streamed through the valleys of their breasts to roll down their abdomens. I gazed in awe upon their swollen, milk-engorged nipples, intermittently dripping dispensed breast milk on to my bare feet.
I can assure you emphatically that I gave their breasts as methodical and thorough an examination as was within my power. Wangari’s seemed a little less broad at the base but stuck out that bit further in profile. The first half of her breasts, as connected to her rib cage, were rounded, then it was as though a second pair of breasts were growing out of them, in a conical fashion, still broad and only slightly tapered, but nonetheless distinct. Her gravity defying breasts were crowned with equally distinct and tapered areolae of a milk chocolate hue, tipped with thick pencil type nipples. They proved to be eighteen millimetres in length and eleven millimetres in width. The definition of her nipples was awesome, straight and completely flat at the ends, with a smooth texture. Despite the fact that she’d recently given birth to her first child, there was no fold whatsoever between the bottom of her breasts and rib cage, though I could discern some slight traces of stretch marks, as with her thighs. But then, she was very young. As with her rival, Wangari’s otherwise flat stomach was slightly indented and creased from the effects of child birth, her bush sparse and dappled with tiny peppercorn clumps of pubic hair. Her derriere – like her rivals – was akin to the perfect European equivalent, only exaggeratedly so, but a little less full than Fatima’s. Their exquisite thighs engaged in a dispute that I couldn’t possibly have judged one way or the other.
Fatima’s breasts were less shapely but no less awesome, seeming to have grown out of the rib cage in absolute definition, the first three quarters were round and broad but then tapered conically in a less exaggerated fashion to her rivals. The mound-like areolae stood out in even greater distinction, crowned with nipples fifteen millimetres in length and twelve in width. The texture of her pap flesh was less smooth, though not exceedingly so. I’m no expert at measuring breasts and fumbled through to the conclusion that they were both somewhere around an F cup, with exceedingly narrow backs for such a size, although they carried them well and gracefully with no indication of stoop. My double D’s seemed diminutive in comparison.
“What exactly do you want us to do?” said Wangari.
“Well,” I said, “rubbing my hands together.
The rules were soon settled: an erotic nipple and breast contest to begin with, followed by a test of strength, but nothing more than wrestling. I got the impression that Fatima would have welcomed something more violent. Accordingly, Wangari insisted that Fatima’s nails were trimmed, so I ended up playing manicurist. We sat on the bed while I trimmed and filed their nails. Afterwards, I couldn’t resist cupping their breasts and weighing them against one another. Fatima spoke for the first time, making me blush. “You Europeans love tits; Africans think they’re just for feeding babies.”
It was very difficult to arrive at a conclusive decision, but I was slightly in favour of Fatima, as far as weight was concerned.
I collected their nail trimmings with the obsession of a voodoo priestess, before asking them to toe the line beneath the fan. At that point, nothing in the world mattered to me except discovering which nymph would prove to have the better breasts.
The incessant yet sporadic leakage dripping from their nipples seemed to increase in regularity as they prepared to do battle. I just had to have a taste and was called a baby by both of them. The whitish viscous liquid was thin and sticky. It tasted a little salty and sour, but it was difficult to differentiate between the two samples on offer. As I drew back my head and zoomed in with the camera, the nymphs cupped their weighty breasts and carefully lined up their milk-swollen paps, aiming them at each other. First contact between the opposing tips produced an even greater swelling of their already impressive nipples, slightly more so in Wangari’s; my money was on hers. Their spent milk merged as one to drip from the engaged nipple tips. Initially, they were content with gentle teasing, testing one another’s stiffness with subtle poking, followed by pressing the sides together. So far so good, they were equals and it would come down simply to nipple virility – who could sustain the erection the longest. Perspiration began to roll down their breasts and collect on the ends of their nipples, diluting the leaking milk and causing it to drip more freely. The lack of give in either pair was impressive; they bent only slightly and in equal degree.
Both girls’ faces seemed frozen in a permanent scowl as they watched their duelling nipples with the same fascination as I did. Wangari upped the pace, applying greater pressure and encouraging her opponent to go with her. Fatima obliged, responding enthusiastically. The opposing nipples began to give more, but still in equal measure, creasing at the base as they pressured each other. As the nymphs began to side-swipe their nipples together, they sprayed droplets of pale milk across each others dark breasts. Some of the spray splattered across the camera lens and my face. I licked the droplets from my lips.
It was tempting to allow them to continue with the duel until it reached a conclusion, but I wanted to draw-out and savour the experience. Calling a halt to the swiping and prodding, I asked them to simply spray milk at each others nipples. They lined-up their right breasts; each nymph began working on the end of her tit, massaging the gland to milk their own teat. As their fingers kneaded the swollen tit flesh, the milk began to drip in much greater volume, streaming through their fingers and along the undersides of their breasts. Fatima’s began to squirt first, initially in a few sporadic bursts, before the stream formed a continuous jet. The darker girl’s jet stream hit Wangari’s nipple tip, battering the opposing liquid as it dripped copiously, attempting to form a jet. Wangari kneaded her tit desperately, till her milk began to sputter, before streaming forcefully in response. The parallel jets of milk streamed past each other to splash against the opposing puffed up areola. Rivulets of spent milk were now streaming down each nymphs stomach, collecting in their navels before running down to the groin and dripping between their nubile thighs.
I snapped out of my reverie and found enough power of speech to encourage them in lining up the jets as best they could. A little adjustment brought the streams into alignment and they met in the middle of the short space between their nipples, spraying wildly in all directions from the force and mutual resistance, like two power hoses attempting to beat one another back. The sense of excitement was almost unbearable as all three of us carefully scrutinised the opposing streams to find out whose would overpower the other. Several times the alignment failed, as each nymph adjusted grip to manipulate their gland into providing more spray, before bringing the streams together once more in disputation of the same space.
Gradually, I began to perceive a lessening in pressure from Fatima’s stream; it began to struggle in holding back the relentless flow of milk spurting from Wangari’s tit. Slowly, yet inevitably, the darker girl’s jet was being beaten back by her opponents, until it became spent and reduced to dripping once more. Wangari’s milk sprayed against Fatima’s nipple without reply. Fatima frantically squeezed her tit, only to produce some sporadic bursts. Wangari had a gleeful look in her eye as her nipple soaked Fatima’s tit without answer. With a groan of frustration, Fatima began to poke her dried-up nipple into Wangari’s, seeking to resume the nipple duel.
Both girls pinched the flesh above their areolae and started to nipple fight in earnest, relentlessly poking their milk-drenched stubs together, forcing them to yield and crumple as one.
“Hang on,” I said. “What about the other tit?”
They seemed a bit irritated by my interruption but did as bid, lining up their left tits, their angry nipples pointing at one another accusingly, while the dribbling milk dripped onto the floor tiles. This time, only a small amount of kneading was required before the opposing nipples spontaneously produced a powerful jet of liquid. Fatima’s stream seemed somewhat more forceful from the start, beating back her rival’s to within a few centimetres of its nipple. Seemingly unperturbed, Wangari kept squeezing her tit to produce a consistent stream, in contrast, Fatima’s occasionally faded and sputtered fitfully, before resuming full pressure and regaining lost ground. Then Fatima’s pressure failed once more, so that she was only able to produce intermittent bursts that fell short of reaching Wangari’s nipple. The steady stream issuing from Wangari’s teat drenched her rival’s nipple, drowning the minimal amount of milk it was managing to sporadically produce.
This time it was Wangari who went on the offensive, jabbing her triumphant nipples at her frustrated opponents and continuing to soak them. Fatima’s shorter stubs lost their temper and fought back furiously in an attempt to exact vengeance for the humiliation suffered. There was nothing for it but to let them sort it out, nipple to nipple. The problem with such full-on nipple crunching is that it’s difficult to see who’s winning. It’s also all adrenalin and lacks the psychological element I craved. At my suggestion, they calmed down and lined them up, almost touching; the engorged paps facing off and dripping like leaky taps. Methodically and with rhythmic precision, they began to poke the ends together with calm regularity. Despite their unusual hardness, neither set of nips could resist the pressure that buckled and concertinaed them together, but as they drew back from each jab, the nipples recoiling and springing back erect, we could see that they were both still full-on hard and throbbing. Fatima’s stubs seemed to gain a new lease of life and swelled so much that they lost their definition, becoming misshapen and almost round. As the relentless jabbing duel continued, Wangari’s extra length and lesser girth seemed to become disadvantageous, evidenced by a slight loss in pressure. Sensing weakness, Fatima eased back her upper body further to gain greater momentum, before thrusting her incredibly engorged nipples against her rival’s. The force of the impacts caused both nymphs milk to leak profusely once more, though it was difficult to discern which girl’s glands were proving the more productive at that stage. Their dark nipples and breasts glistened from the coating of tacky, drying milk, making their areolae wish to stick together, faint strands of congealed lactose connecting them. Unbridled groans of pleasure accompanied each collision between their incredible paps.
As Fatima’s stubs seemed to swell even further, Wangari’s chocolate-brown nipples became spent and began to crumple against her opponents darker, bulbous paps, all resistance gone. Fatima moaned so loudly she must have been having an orgasm. Wangari’s awesome nipples looked deflated and vulnerable as they were crushed relentlessly against their own tit. For some reason, the defeated nipples seemed even sexier in my eyes. In frustrated desperation, Wangari turned the fight back to an erratic swiping match. Seemingly content with her opponents move, Fatima responded enthusiastically.
After a few minutes of side-swiping cones together, Wangari lost spirit and backed off, with a sulky expression on her cute face. Fatima followed up but had her wrists grabbed by her rival. As they stood with elbows bent and hands at shoulder level, an argument broke out that was beyond my comprehension. Fatima was obviously desperate for the fight to continue. Whilst still gripping her rival’s wrists, Wangari backed off, so that they both ended up moving around the centre of the room in a circular motion. Rather than sounding angry, their tone of voice seemed sort of petulant and seductive. Fatima attempted to continue the nipple duel without hands, seeking to poke her nipples into Wangari’s. In response, Wangari began swinging her tits at her assailant’s, provoking a tit-fight. Saying something that must have meant “Come on!” Fatima swung her tits in response and the sound of wet tit flesh smacking together reverberated around the room. As the nymphs awesome udders swung through the air to thud into one another, mixed droplets of perspiration and milk sprayed away from their upper bodies.
For the best part of fifteen minutes, breasts slapped breasts in a frantic explosion of tit-to-tit action, both nymphs grunting and groaning at the effort. It seemed as though the equal combat would go on all night, that was until the knockout blow was thrown. Fatima stooped suddenly and backed off, causing Wangari’s tits to swing through thin air. Then the darker girl brought her tits up to crash them into the undersides of her opponents. Wangari was evidently winded as her tits absorbed the force of the impact and were forced upwards towards her face, the flesh quivering. Once more, she tried to back off, releasing the hold on Fatima’s wrists. Fatima went after her, seizing her upper arms and forcing Wangari to continue the tit-fight. With a cry of frustration, Wangari tried to fight back, swinging her tits to meet Fatima’s, but with a pained expression on her face.
The sound of breasts smacking together ceased abruptly and the girls began to wrestle. They clinched, milk-stained tits squashing together as they bear-hugged. The combined overflow of their tits bulging at the sides seemed enormous. While they engaged in their tit-crushing embrace, Fatima shuffled her feet, working them both over towards the bed. As Wangari’s legs came up against the edge of the bed, she toppled backwards with Fatima on top of her. The nymphs’ slender but shapely legs locked and became intertwined for a while, Wangari desperately attempting to avoid Fatima’s efforts at pinning her wrists to the mattress. Once she’d accomplished her goal, Fatima disentangled her legs and adjusted position, so that she was straddling Wangari’s groin. Releasing Wangari’s wrists, Fatima grabbed her tits and started to knead them energetically. Wangari tried to respond in kind but Fatima kept slapping her hands away and warning her to desist.
Wangari had no choice but to lay back, helpless, as her rival milked her tits with evident relish. The milk began to flow and squirt copiously, staining my bedding. I watched in utter fascination as Fatima’s slender fingers expertly worked her opponent’s tits, massaging upwards from the base to pinch Wangari’s areolae and produce twin fountains of milk. Wangari sobbed miserably, until her supply of breast milk was exhausted. Unrelenting, Fatima kept kneading away until the last feeble bursts dried up. The victor then began to work on her own tits, squirting her milk all over Wangari’s spent and deflated udders. Fatima clearly didn’t wish to use up all her milk just yet but saved some, so that she could rub her lactating tits all over her defeated opponents. For twenty minutes she rubbed in her superiority, dominating Wangari’s tits with her own. Utterly fascinated and as horny as a devil, I reclined beside them to get a close-up of Fatima’s bulbous nipples steam rolling over Wangari’s pencil-like stubs, over and again, drenching them with milk. Wangari’s breathing became erratic; she sucked in air in short succession, panting her enforced lust as the breast-sex made her climax and reinforced her defeat. Fatima rubbed noses with Wangari, repeatedly teasing her in their own language.
Fatima turned her sultry gaze on me. “Is what you wanted?”
I lowered the camera and nodded – mouth agape.
I willl resist the urge to tell you about the rest of that humid tropical night. Suffice to say that when I awoke in the morning, it was to find both girls gone, along with my camera – but as I said earlier, what price perfection?
I’d been in Mombasa for two months, trawling the bars to find the right combination of girls. In a place like this, there’s no shortage of willing combatants; but, as I said, the right combination – that was proving elusive. Two young women of equal height, similar weight and endowment, both of them post-natal and still lactating; the holy grail of nipple duelling. As soon as I met Wangari I knew she was perfect. The problem was that she was so awesomely well-endowed, how did I find a worthy opponent for such a living embodiment of a Venus figurine. I searched my memory of the girls I’d seen previously, some could have been considered almost in her league, but none could match up to her. Wangari herself seemed quite enthusiastic about my proposal and offered a potential candidate, whom she really wanted to take on. The problem was that Wangari and Fatima hated each other and it was going to cost much more than I had expected to get them together on film; still, what price perfection.
So there I was, pacing the floor of the Castle Hotel in eager anticipation, and sweating profusely, due to the tropical humidity, while the ceiling fan creaks and whirrs above me. Constantly glancing at one’s watch doesn’t make the time pass any faster, but I gave it a good try, willing the hands to move round faster. I forced myself to relax and took a seat by the open window, lighting a reefer in the hope that it would calm my nerves. Pulsating bass lines made the speakers of the stereo vibrate, courtesy of the Sundowner reggae show being broadcast from Nairobi. My palpitating heart was beating in rhythm with the dance beat of “Slick Chick” by the Meditations, drowning out the hustle and bustle of the street below.
Then it happened, a light rapping on the door. I jumped up, as though startled, and grabbed the deodorant can to spray the armpits of my T-shirt, slicked back my hair and tentatively approached the door. Wangari’s cute, rounded face greeted me with a cheeky grin. Standing behind her was Fatima, whom I hadn’t actually met, yet; she looked a bit sour-faced but very attractive. Rolling their full, rounded hips, the nymphs sidled into the room and stood together beneath the fan, hands on hips, each girl resting her weight on one leg; they were both wearing floral-patterned dresses. Despite the blouson style of the garments upper bodies, both girls bra-busting womanliness strained at the thin material, as though dying to be unleashed. The draught from the fan teased and fluttered the hems of their skirts. Their summer dresses were low-cut enough to reveal just a hint of the deep valleys of their amazing cleavage, but what caught my attention the most was the faint damp stains in the centre of their breasts, where freakishly proportioned nipples threatened to poke through the flimsy material, more obvious on Fatima’s dress than Wangari’s. My nipples throbbed in anticipation of the dairy delights to come.”
“Sasa,” said Wangari, “have you forgotten how to speak?”
“Oh, yeah… Right, Can you just stand like that, while I get you on film?”
Fumbling like a nervous schoolgirl, I retrieved the camcorder. After adjusting the curtains to allow in the maximum available natural light, and switching on all the lights, I set about capturing the pre-fight frames. Wangari was about 5” 5’ I’d guess, Fatima slightly shorter. To be honest, I was more interested in measuring their breasts than anything else. Wangari’s complexion was a deep brown, whilst Fatima was quite dark. They both had short-shorn peppercorn hair, with light down above the temples. The lighter girl was incredibly cute looking with faint freckles either side of her infantile nose. Fatima possessed a more womanly visage, reminding me of Iman Bowie in her youth, she was slightly the sexier-looking of the two, though it was very close and a matter of individual taste. I couldn’t wait to compare their heavenly bodies.
I asked the ebonite nymphs to face off for the camera and they obliged. As their wide, dark eyes met, I couldn’t mistake the flash of mutual spite passing between them, that primal challenge, belying the instinctive female desire to sexually dominate all competitors. According to the rumours, these girls had clashed bitterly over some rich German, who had a holiday cottage just outside the town. But Wangari had assured me that they’d never fought yet, at least, not sexually. It was so important to me that I be the first to witness their initial test of womanliness.
“That’ll do for now girls.” Reluctantly, I put aside the camera and picked up the tape measure.
I turned round to find that no further bidding was necessary; both nymphs were almost out of their dresses. There were no additional garments to discard. The girls stood side by side in their full natural glory, dusky skins coated in light perspiration that reflected the light. I was awestruck to be quite frank. I’d seen numerous videos and photos of babes, but never had I witnessed bodies so specifically designed to intimidate other hot women. Fair enough, they were not technically in the league of long-legged, silken-haired super models, but nevertheless, I doubt many models would have wished to stand next to them naked; aesthetics and no-nonsense sexiness are different things. Both girls possessed that perfect balance between slimness and curvature, at once slender but full-bodied, with hour glass figures in the extreme, the exceptional slimness of their wastes contrasting with the voluptuousness of their hips. Although both girls were relatively petite, their extreme buxomness did not appear out of balance with their generously proportioned hips.
The girls had faced off and pressed their tits together. They were conversing in Swahili, most of which I couldn’t understand. While their tone of voice was seductive, their demeanour implied that an erotically-charged argument was taking place. I found it all extremely enigmatic; my ignorance engendering a sense of frustration.
“Can you speak only in English,” I appealed. “It’s so important for the film I’m paying you for.” I realise I was being a bit hoighty-toighty, but it was my hard-earned money being spent. For anyone who may be thinking that the girls were being exploited, let me assure you that they entered into the spirit of the thing as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It’s my contention that they were both designed to go at it with each other, simple evolutionary programming. From the point of view of physics, it was the inevitable collision between two equal, intercepting forces; like heavenly orbs colliding. There was nothing exploitative in my intentions; in fact, I was thinking: why should two such women be arguing over a man when they should be together and going at it every night.
The nymphs abandoned their embrace to turn and face me. I begged their indulgence and patience, as I compared and measured the objects of their contention. Seemingly instinctively, they placed an arm over each others shoulders, bringing Wangari’s left tit and Fatima’s right tit nestling and pressing together in what seemed like an inadvertent disputation – that was probably intentional. I was gratified to witness that neither ebon orb gave unduly to the protestation of the other. Despite the artificial breeze produced by the fan, rivulets of glistening perspiration streamed through the valleys of their breasts to roll down their abdomens. I gazed in awe upon their swollen, milk-engorged nipples, intermittently dripping dispensed breast milk on to my bare feet.
I can assure you emphatically that I gave their breasts as methodical and thorough an examination as was within my power. Wangari’s seemed a little less broad at the base but stuck out that bit further in profile. The first half of her breasts, as connected to her rib cage, were rounded, then it was as though a second pair of breasts were growing out of them, in a conical fashion, still broad and only slightly tapered, but nonetheless distinct. Her gravity defying breasts were crowned with equally distinct and tapered areolae of a milk chocolate hue, tipped with thick pencil type nipples. They proved to be eighteen millimetres in length and eleven millimetres in width. The definition of her nipples was awesome, straight and completely flat at the ends, with a smooth texture. Despite the fact that she’d recently given birth to her first child, there was no fold whatsoever between the bottom of her breasts and rib cage, though I could discern some slight traces of stretch marks, as with her thighs. But then, she was very young. As with her rival, Wangari’s otherwise flat stomach was slightly indented and creased from the effects of child birth, her bush sparse and dappled with tiny peppercorn clumps of pubic hair. Her derriere – like her rivals – was akin to the perfect European equivalent, only exaggeratedly so, but a little less full than Fatima’s. Their exquisite thighs engaged in a dispute that I couldn’t possibly have judged one way or the other.
Fatima’s breasts were less shapely but no less awesome, seeming to have grown out of the rib cage in absolute definition, the first three quarters were round and broad but then tapered conically in a less exaggerated fashion to her rivals. The mound-like areolae stood out in even greater distinction, crowned with nipples fifteen millimetres in length and twelve in width. The texture of her pap flesh was less smooth, though not exceedingly so. I’m no expert at measuring breasts and fumbled through to the conclusion that they were both somewhere around an F cup, with exceedingly narrow backs for such a size, although they carried them well and gracefully with no indication of stoop. My double D’s seemed diminutive in comparison.
“What exactly do you want us to do?” said Wangari.
“Well,” I said, “rubbing my hands together.
The rules were soon settled: an erotic nipple and breast contest to begin with, followed by a test of strength, but nothing more than wrestling. I got the impression that Fatima would have welcomed something more violent. Accordingly, Wangari insisted that Fatima’s nails were trimmed, so I ended up playing manicurist. We sat on the bed while I trimmed and filed their nails. Afterwards, I couldn’t resist cupping their breasts and weighing them against one another. Fatima spoke for the first time, making me blush. “You Europeans love tits; Africans think they’re just for feeding babies.”
It was very difficult to arrive at a conclusive decision, but I was slightly in favour of Fatima, as far as weight was concerned.
I collected their nail trimmings with the obsession of a voodoo priestess, before asking them to toe the line beneath the fan. At that point, nothing in the world mattered to me except discovering which nymph would prove to have the better breasts.
The incessant yet sporadic leakage dripping from their nipples seemed to increase in regularity as they prepared to do battle. I just had to have a taste and was called a baby by both of them. The whitish viscous liquid was thin and sticky. It tasted a little salty and sour, but it was difficult to differentiate between the two samples on offer. As I drew back my head and zoomed in with the camera, the nymphs cupped their weighty breasts and carefully lined up their milk-swollen paps, aiming them at each other. First contact between the opposing tips produced an even greater swelling of their already impressive nipples, slightly more so in Wangari’s; my money was on hers. Their spent milk merged as one to drip from the engaged nipple tips. Initially, they were content with gentle teasing, testing one another’s stiffness with subtle poking, followed by pressing the sides together. So far so good, they were equals and it would come down simply to nipple virility – who could sustain the erection the longest. Perspiration began to roll down their breasts and collect on the ends of their nipples, diluting the leaking milk and causing it to drip more freely. The lack of give in either pair was impressive; they bent only slightly and in equal degree.
Both girls’ faces seemed frozen in a permanent scowl as they watched their duelling nipples with the same fascination as I did. Wangari upped the pace, applying greater pressure and encouraging her opponent to go with her. Fatima obliged, responding enthusiastically. The opposing nipples began to give more, but still in equal measure, creasing at the base as they pressured each other. As the nymphs began to side-swipe their nipples together, they sprayed droplets of pale milk across each others dark breasts. Some of the spray splattered across the camera lens and my face. I licked the droplets from my lips.
It was tempting to allow them to continue with the duel until it reached a conclusion, but I wanted to draw-out and savour the experience. Calling a halt to the swiping and prodding, I asked them to simply spray milk at each others nipples. They lined-up their right breasts; each nymph began working on the end of her tit, massaging the gland to milk their own teat. As their fingers kneaded the swollen tit flesh, the milk began to drip in much greater volume, streaming through their fingers and along the undersides of their breasts. Fatima’s began to squirt first, initially in a few sporadic bursts, before the stream formed a continuous jet. The darker girl’s jet stream hit Wangari’s nipple tip, battering the opposing liquid as it dripped copiously, attempting to form a jet. Wangari kneaded her tit desperately, till her milk began to sputter, before streaming forcefully in response. The parallel jets of milk streamed past each other to splash against the opposing puffed up areola. Rivulets of spent milk were now streaming down each nymphs stomach, collecting in their navels before running down to the groin and dripping between their nubile thighs.
I snapped out of my reverie and found enough power of speech to encourage them in lining up the jets as best they could. A little adjustment brought the streams into alignment and they met in the middle of the short space between their nipples, spraying wildly in all directions from the force and mutual resistance, like two power hoses attempting to beat one another back. The sense of excitement was almost unbearable as all three of us carefully scrutinised the opposing streams to find out whose would overpower the other. Several times the alignment failed, as each nymph adjusted grip to manipulate their gland into providing more spray, before bringing the streams together once more in disputation of the same space.
Gradually, I began to perceive a lessening in pressure from Fatima’s stream; it began to struggle in holding back the relentless flow of milk spurting from Wangari’s tit. Slowly, yet inevitably, the darker girl’s jet was being beaten back by her opponents, until it became spent and reduced to dripping once more. Wangari’s milk sprayed against Fatima’s nipple without reply. Fatima frantically squeezed her tit, only to produce some sporadic bursts. Wangari had a gleeful look in her eye as her nipple soaked Fatima’s tit without answer. With a groan of frustration, Fatima began to poke her dried-up nipple into Wangari’s, seeking to resume the nipple duel.
Both girls pinched the flesh above their areolae and started to nipple fight in earnest, relentlessly poking their milk-drenched stubs together, forcing them to yield and crumple as one.
“Hang on,” I said. “What about the other tit?”
They seemed a bit irritated by my interruption but did as bid, lining up their left tits, their angry nipples pointing at one another accusingly, while the dribbling milk dripped onto the floor tiles. This time, only a small amount of kneading was required before the opposing nipples spontaneously produced a powerful jet of liquid. Fatima’s stream seemed somewhat more forceful from the start, beating back her rival’s to within a few centimetres of its nipple. Seemingly unperturbed, Wangari kept squeezing her tit to produce a consistent stream, in contrast, Fatima’s occasionally faded and sputtered fitfully, before resuming full pressure and regaining lost ground. Then Fatima’s pressure failed once more, so that she was only able to produce intermittent bursts that fell short of reaching Wangari’s nipple. The steady stream issuing from Wangari’s teat drenched her rival’s nipple, drowning the minimal amount of milk it was managing to sporadically produce.
This time it was Wangari who went on the offensive, jabbing her triumphant nipples at her frustrated opponents and continuing to soak them. Fatima’s shorter stubs lost their temper and fought back furiously in an attempt to exact vengeance for the humiliation suffered. There was nothing for it but to let them sort it out, nipple to nipple. The problem with such full-on nipple crunching is that it’s difficult to see who’s winning. It’s also all adrenalin and lacks the psychological element I craved. At my suggestion, they calmed down and lined them up, almost touching; the engorged paps facing off and dripping like leaky taps. Methodically and with rhythmic precision, they began to poke the ends together with calm regularity. Despite their unusual hardness, neither set of nips could resist the pressure that buckled and concertinaed them together, but as they drew back from each jab, the nipples recoiling and springing back erect, we could see that they were both still full-on hard and throbbing. Fatima’s stubs seemed to gain a new lease of life and swelled so much that they lost their definition, becoming misshapen and almost round. As the relentless jabbing duel continued, Wangari’s extra length and lesser girth seemed to become disadvantageous, evidenced by a slight loss in pressure. Sensing weakness, Fatima eased back her upper body further to gain greater momentum, before thrusting her incredibly engorged nipples against her rival’s. The force of the impacts caused both nymphs milk to leak profusely once more, though it was difficult to discern which girl’s glands were proving the more productive at that stage. Their dark nipples and breasts glistened from the coating of tacky, drying milk, making their areolae wish to stick together, faint strands of congealed lactose connecting them. Unbridled groans of pleasure accompanied each collision between their incredible paps.
As Fatima’s stubs seemed to swell even further, Wangari’s chocolate-brown nipples became spent and began to crumple against her opponents darker, bulbous paps, all resistance gone. Fatima moaned so loudly she must have been having an orgasm. Wangari’s awesome nipples looked deflated and vulnerable as they were crushed relentlessly against their own tit. For some reason, the defeated nipples seemed even sexier in my eyes. In frustrated desperation, Wangari turned the fight back to an erratic swiping match. Seemingly content with her opponents move, Fatima responded enthusiastically.
After a few minutes of side-swiping cones together, Wangari lost spirit and backed off, with a sulky expression on her cute face. Fatima followed up but had her wrists grabbed by her rival. As they stood with elbows bent and hands at shoulder level, an argument broke out that was beyond my comprehension. Fatima was obviously desperate for the fight to continue. Whilst still gripping her rival’s wrists, Wangari backed off, so that they both ended up moving around the centre of the room in a circular motion. Rather than sounding angry, their tone of voice seemed sort of petulant and seductive. Fatima attempted to continue the nipple duel without hands, seeking to poke her nipples into Wangari’s. In response, Wangari began swinging her tits at her assailant’s, provoking a tit-fight. Saying something that must have meant “Come on!” Fatima swung her tits in response and the sound of wet tit flesh smacking together reverberated around the room. As the nymphs awesome udders swung through the air to thud into one another, mixed droplets of perspiration and milk sprayed away from their upper bodies.
For the best part of fifteen minutes, breasts slapped breasts in a frantic explosion of tit-to-tit action, both nymphs grunting and groaning at the effort. It seemed as though the equal combat would go on all night, that was until the knockout blow was thrown. Fatima stooped suddenly and backed off, causing Wangari’s tits to swing through thin air. Then the darker girl brought her tits up to crash them into the undersides of her opponents. Wangari was evidently winded as her tits absorbed the force of the impact and were forced upwards towards her face, the flesh quivering. Once more, she tried to back off, releasing the hold on Fatima’s wrists. Fatima went after her, seizing her upper arms and forcing Wangari to continue the tit-fight. With a cry of frustration, Wangari tried to fight back, swinging her tits to meet Fatima’s, but with a pained expression on her face.
The sound of breasts smacking together ceased abruptly and the girls began to wrestle. They clinched, milk-stained tits squashing together as they bear-hugged. The combined overflow of their tits bulging at the sides seemed enormous. While they engaged in their tit-crushing embrace, Fatima shuffled her feet, working them both over towards the bed. As Wangari’s legs came up against the edge of the bed, she toppled backwards with Fatima on top of her. The nymphs’ slender but shapely legs locked and became intertwined for a while, Wangari desperately attempting to avoid Fatima’s efforts at pinning her wrists to the mattress. Once she’d accomplished her goal, Fatima disentangled her legs and adjusted position, so that she was straddling Wangari’s groin. Releasing Wangari’s wrists, Fatima grabbed her tits and started to knead them energetically. Wangari tried to respond in kind but Fatima kept slapping her hands away and warning her to desist.
Wangari had no choice but to lay back, helpless, as her rival milked her tits with evident relish. The milk began to flow and squirt copiously, staining my bedding. I watched in utter fascination as Fatima’s slender fingers expertly worked her opponent’s tits, massaging upwards from the base to pinch Wangari’s areolae and produce twin fountains of milk. Wangari sobbed miserably, until her supply of breast milk was exhausted. Unrelenting, Fatima kept kneading away until the last feeble bursts dried up. The victor then began to work on her own tits, squirting her milk all over Wangari’s spent and deflated udders. Fatima clearly didn’t wish to use up all her milk just yet but saved some, so that she could rub her lactating tits all over her defeated opponents. For twenty minutes she rubbed in her superiority, dominating Wangari’s tits with her own. Utterly fascinated and as horny as a devil, I reclined beside them to get a close-up of Fatima’s bulbous nipples steam rolling over Wangari’s pencil-like stubs, over and again, drenching them with milk. Wangari’s breathing became erratic; she sucked in air in short succession, panting her enforced lust as the breast-sex made her climax and reinforced her defeat. Fatima rubbed noses with Wangari, repeatedly teasing her in their own language.
Fatima turned her sultry gaze on me. “Is what you wanted?”
I lowered the camera and nodded – mouth agape.
I willl resist the urge to tell you about the rest of that humid tropical night. Suffice to say that when I awoke in the morning, it was to find both girls gone, along with my camera – but as I said earlier, what price perfection?
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