Of Swords and Sex - new story by Anubisx

[Anubisx]

Hello everyone. Hope you are well!

I present you here a new story, based on one of unfinished Corrina Sexton's stories. Written by me, it has been commissioned by a person who prefers to remain anonymous. Even better: the same commissioner has paid the incredible Daniel Pascarelli to create a fabulous series of 10 illustrations for this story. During the next few days, I will be sharing the 11 chapters of the story with all of you and, when the story is finished, we will put Pascarelli's images on sale for those who want to collaborate with the financial effort of the commissioner (which has been big, I assure you).

Without further ado, the story begins. Enjoy!



OF SWORDS AND SEX


Prologue

In 1870, the winds of imminent war were blowing through Europe. By summer, the armies of the Second French Empire and the North German Confederation would clash in a conflict that would turn the tide of power on the Old Continent. The fight of steel and gunpowder would spread over land and sea, blood watering the fields of Weissenburg and Wörth, of Gravelotte and Sedan until the fall of Paris.


That is what the history books tell us. However, another war reached Paris months before Napoleon III declared war on Bismarck, a war you won’t find in any book. A war told only in whispers, in nights where only a few candles flicker; a war that men can only dream of, a secret war where two women such as there had never been in centuries in Europe fought each other out of pride, hatred and fascination.


This is the story of Dominique Beaumont and Francesca Bellini, Parisian and Florentine, redhead and brunette, the woman and the woman. This is the story that proved that, in the end, among women it’s all about pussy fighting.





Part I
The Fencing Duel

All about women being natural enemies




Chapter 1 An Angry Arousal

1870, outskirts of Paris



The thick, massive oak doors weren’t enough to muzzle the erotic sounds that emanated from the bed chamber and echoed through the hallways of the ancient villa. They were feminine sounds, deep, throaty moans of passion and excitement coming from a woman who was obviously unashamed of what she was doing, a woman who was utterly unconcerned about who might hear her. After all, her maidservants, her butler or her stable master had heard those open, lusty, uninhibited echoes on countless occasions, regardless of whether the lady was in her private quarters alone, with a man…or another woman. Inside the grand, opulently furnished chamber floor-length, gauzy-white drapes billowed and fluttered in front of the vast, open, floor- length windows which dominated the back wall and, in between the lusty groans of female arousal, the sound of the thin, silky material flapping in the warm spring breeze and the birds chirping in the trees just outside reached the woman’s ears like the calm whisper of a sunset preceding a night of passionate screams and moans.

Lying flat on her back in the huge, wooden rectangular bed located just to the right of the windows of the mansion, Dominique Beaumont’s voluptuous, exquisite nude body trembled, her shapely legs bent at the knees and spread wide out in front of her, her slender torso snaking back and forth and back and forth as her hard, plump butt slid across the silky sheets. From time to time her body would abruptly stiffen, the woman’s luscious ass rising high above the bed as her pelvis bucked powerfully up and down, up and down, over and over again, before finally settling back down on the mattress and resuming its side to side motion. Curled locks of flaming red hair brushed sensuously across her cheeks as she lifted her head and peered down between her full, rounded breasts and protruding pink nipples into the space between her legs. Jutting out from the incredibly dense and lavish mat of her bright crimson pubic hair, Dominique could see her thick, brawny, muscular labia and big and densely packed clit filling up with blood and throbbing with excitement right before her very eyes.


With an incredibly erotic combination of strain and lust on her beautiful young face and a deep, guttural groan that communicated equal parts pleasure and physical exertion, Dominique clamped down with all of her might on the freshly peeled cucumber that she held half inside of her and half out, squeezing it between her labia with all of her might. Her swollen pussy lips constricted tightly around the light green cylinder, straining and trembling as they struggled to hold it in place even the gorgeous female slowly slid in and out with her right hand. The cucumber felt cool and slippery as it scraped along the hot, peeled walls of her womanhood and, as she watched her labia molding themselves to its shape, she couldn’t help but think how closely its dimensions approximated those of her lover. A flash of malice lit up her emerald green eyes as all of the muscles of her ass and thighs snapped to attention and bulged outward, as her firm, flat stomach sunk deeply into the valley between her jutting ribcage as she once again squeezed the cucumber as hard as she possibly could, bearing down on it as if she was intending to mash it to a pulp right then and there.


While a soft, delicious breeze stirred the long drapes and kissed Dominique’s sweaty white skin, she reached down with her left hand and placed the tips of her fingers at the very bottom of the opening to her womanhood. Then, slowly, delicately, she brushed them all the way up along the rim of her outstretched labia, moistening her fingertips with her slick, syrupy essence. Gently wedging the slippery tip of her ring finger deeply into the crease between her swollen clitoris and her labia, the woman lightly ran her finger around and around the base of her big love nub, watching with fascination as her labia immediately reacted to the stimulation, involuntarily contracting around the slippery probe again and again, each powerful spasm punctuated by a loud grunt that came half from pleasure and half from anger.

Dominique masturbated the same way that she did everything else in life: with gusto. From the crazed, demonic expression on her beautiful face, she looked as if she were a woman possessed by some spirit of lust. In her bed, she was utterly engrossed in the incredible sensations that she was feeling between her legs, with every muscle, every nerve ending, every bit of her luscious skin, every particle of feminine strength, beauty and energy that she had inside of her magnificent twenty-four-year-old body pouring straight into in the deepest and most intimate regions of her womanhood, energizing her pussy and giving her the power to make it do things that other women never even imagined possible.


That was the Parisian way, after all. Every well-bred French maiden of Dominique’s social status was expected to know how to use her cunt, but there was no one to match the fiery redhead. She can remember the first time she had seen two women of the Imperial Court engaged in playful little nude wrestling match, the courtesans testing the strength of their labia directly against each other by seeing who could immobilize the other’s lips by trapping it between her own, testing the strength of their clits against each other by seeing who’s could squash the other’s and push it all the way back
up into its sheath. Even when it was all just in fun and Dominique watched the whole event with utter fascination, it was nothing compared to what she felt when she, for the first time, dared to confront in that way to another girl—Clémence Fougère, the person she most detested at the Court at the time. The fight between the two 19-year-old rookies was awkward, with both pulling each other’s hair and biting each other in front of a dozen noblewomen at the top of the highest tower of the Château de Nemours. But, as soon as the dresses were torn and the young skin uncovered, Dominique found herself instinctively thrusting her naked pussy against Clémence’s, as she had seen other women of the Court do before.


That was when Dominique understood that that form of female confrontation was much more than a simple fight. The thing that stuck in her mind the most, the thing that had more to do with making her the woman that she was than anything else in her young life, was the electrifying feeling that she got when everything became deadly serious as soon as she and that whore called Clémence found themselves settling their unfinished affairs of jealousy and courtly rivalry with their own pussies. Knowing that she was putting the bitch in her place once and for all by matching the strength of her womanhood directly against the other girl’s made Dominique understand what it really meant to be a woman. That day five years ago she also learned how addictive it was to force a rival to come against her will—an addiction that the redhead continued to feed to that day.

Dominique was the best of the best, but she was no exception among the noblewomen of Paris—and, if rumors were to be believed, among the women of the plebs as well. There was always an immense pride in every Parisian lady about her cunt’s ability to give and receive pleasure, a pride that came from a feminine determination that every man should be unable to forget the night he spent with a woman from Paris, and there was no better way to improve one’s own lovemaking skills than to pussy-fight with others. Dominique put her big cunt and even bigger pride to the test against countless French nobles and a couple of pompous prostitutes of the brothels of the north of Paris, and learned how to make her pussy come alive, how to make it get hot and wet and excited so that it would be ready to fight. She learned how to focus her minds straight into her pussy and control her lips, making them move completely on their own so that they could grip the lips of another woman and crush them with their own. She learned how to use the tiny bundle of muscles around the base of her clitoris in order to be able to move it around and jab it outward so that it could push back and mash the clit that was pressing against it, and make it come against hers. Dominique learned all that and more, and the only thing she didn’t learn was what it felt like to lose a because, to that very day, she was still undefeated.


It was no secret, especially to her opponents in the French nobility, that Dominique Beaumont was unique, exceptional. Not only did she possess an inherent sexual prowess, but also had the perfect body to get the most out of it: stiff and full boobs, long and muscular legs, firm and round butt, hard belly muscles, amazingly hairy cunt with meaty lips and a big, inflexible clitoris. There wasn’t a woman at Court—or anywhere else in France for that matter—who could match her, and she soon gained the reputation among all of the men as the most sought after lover in all of Paris, and among all women as the one to avoid if they didn’t want to end up with their pussies drained and beaten.



In the present, as the sun fell over the horizon beyond France in search of the distant lands beyond the ocean, Dominique rested her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes. As the back of her head sunk into the oversized cushions and slowly rocked back and forth, it was no secret that, from the absent, far-away look on her beautiful face, some pictures were dancing in her head—vivid, full color, life-sized pictures that she was using to stoke the fires of her burning passion, to take her to even greater and greater heights of sexual arousal. But the pictures that Dominique was conjuring up were not the usual pictures that she used when she masturbated—not the pictures of a strong, virile, chiseled young buck lying under her naked body and plunging his staff into the deepest parts of her. They were pictures of a woman, a young, beautiful, white-skinned woman with thick, red lips, wicked black eyes and wild, wavy black hair; an Italian woman from Florence with whom she had engaged in the strangest, most intense fencing duel just hours before, and with whom she had arranged to meet again when night fell right there in her own villa. They were pictures of the stunning, tempting Francesca Bellini.

Goosebumps covered her luscious skin, and a cold chill shot straight through her as Dominique replayed the scene from hours before over and over again in her mind: Francesca’s face coming right up to hers, nose to nose, her nostrils flaring, her luscious red lips curled into a vicious sneer, her wild, savage black eyes burning holes right through her, her gorgeous face so full of primitive rage and fury that she looked capable of ripping her open and devouring her insides right there on the spot. Dominique remembered how she had fought sword against sword with Francesca, but also everything that had happened afterwards without the blades—the nasty, dishonorable fight, and the climax that solved nothing. Never had the gorgeous redhead felt so challenged by the mere sight of another woman, and she already knew that she would never feel such intense rivalry for the rest of her life.


With a loud, angry roar, Dominique suddenly rammed the cucumber deeply inside of her and started driving it in and out and in and out along the walls of her pussy with frightening force and violence, faster and harder, moaning louder and louder and louder as she squeezed it over and over and over again with her powerful lips. Her entire body stiffened as she furiously exercised the muscles of her labia, tightening and constricting them, opening and closing them again and again and again, working them and straining them and pushing them to the very limit so that her proud French vaginal lips would be as strong as they could possibly be when they met the labia of a Florentine woman for the very first time. For years and years, Dominique had heard all of the whispers and rumors about how hot and savage the women of Florence were, about all of the secret things that they learned to do with their pussies, about all of the things that they knew how to do to a man’s dick…and to the pussy of another woman with their own. Things that only they knew, things that only they could do.


Now, Dominique was about to find out for herself if all of those whispers and rumors were true. As her body became more and more aroused, her pussy began to heat up and gush scented feminine sap. The Parisian beauty’s bosoms, plump and firm, bruised after what had happened earlier that morning, flushed with color as her long pink nipples stiffened, stretching into the warm air above her. Dominique’s healthy young body was reacting the same way that it always did when she was sexually stimulated, but that time there was something very, very different about it, something dangerous, something lethal. That was an angry arousal, a violent arousal, a sexual arousal of all of those very same things that a woman uses to give pleasure to a man, but which were now becoming aroused for an entirely different reason. They were becoming aroused so that she could use them to do harm to another woman; they were becoming aroused so that she could show that arrogant Florentine bitch what a French woman could do.

Dominique couldn’t wait to destroy Francesca’s pussy with her own.




Chapter 2

Riding the Stallion

As Francesca Bellini jammed the sharp point of her black leather boot into the stirrup and swung her shapely body over the saddle of the muscular white stallion, her long, flowing black dress concealed the fact that she was not wearing anything underneath. She had been restless and jittery all afternoon about everything that had happened that morning at the Château de Maisons-Laffitte but, above all, about her upcoming rendezvous with Dominique Beaumont—a reencounter the striking woman was impatiently awaiting. She could still feel the butterflies fluttering in her stomach as she steered her horse out of the stables, hoping that a nice long ride in the country would help to calm her nerves.

Galloping down the dirt road towards the clump of trees in the distance, Francesca was amazed at how nervous she was. It wasn’t like she had never fought another woman with her cunt before. Having just turned twenty-four a few weeks ago, she had already been in more pussy fights than she could even remember—and she had won every single one of them. Still, that was going to be an entirely new experience for her, since it was the first time that she had ever been to Paris, and it was going to be the first time that she ever faced a French woman. The brunette was well aware of the reputation that the women of France had, nobles and commoners, a reputation that was even greater among the Parisian females: the prestige for being the best lovers and the best pussy fighters in all of Europe. Although Francesca had always been convinced that it was nothing more than an old wives’ tale, she couldn’t help but wonder if there could really be something that French women knew that other women didn’t, if there was really something their hairy cunts could do that other women’s pussies couldn’t. That vicious thoughts hadn’t left her since the events of hours before, when Dominique had shown how fierce and tough a Parisian beauty can be.


Francesca stopped herself in mid-thought, as she just couldn’t believe how foolish she was being. After all, she had her own reputation to uphold. In Florence there had long been a female tradition of being talented lovers, and there was no greater embarrassment that any young Florentine woman could ever suffer than to hear a man publicly expressing his dissatisfaction because she didn’t know what to do in bed. Of course, that meant that women had to practice, but they didn’t practice with men; they did something even better: they practiced with each other. They learned how to pussy-fight, because the better a girl is at battling with her cunt, the better she will be at making love to a man. It was something that every young woman of Francesca’s social status was expected to learn, and something that they took particular pride in being able to do—better than any other women in Italy, or anywhere else, for that matter.



To the women of Florence, knowing how to fight with their pussies was the single most important part of being a woman, and Francesca’s real sex education had begun five years earlier during clandestine, late night meetings, when all of the curious young girls living at the newly relocated Royal Court in Florence would secretly gather together by candlelight so that they could watch the older women practice their sexual techniques with each other, and on each other, in preparation for their sex nights with men. Francesca spent hours and hours behind closed doors with other females, exploring her own body and exploring each other’s bodies, learning where everything was and what it was for and how to make it work. She learned how to arouse herself, where and how to touch herself in order to turn herself on and make her body do what she wanted it to do. She learned how to stimulate her clit, how to make it get large and full, and super-hard and super-sensitive, so that her pussy would stay excited even through all of the pain. She learned how to exercise the muscles of her vaginal lips, how to make them bigger and stronger by opening and closing them over and over again, by squeezing them around any number of foreign objects, including wooden handles and bottles and all manner of fruits and vegetables. A Florentine girl wasn’t considered to be ready for a man unless she got to the point where she could put a peeled, not-quite-ripe banana inside of her and squash it into mush using the strength of her pussy-lips alone, and Francesca had been able to do that for many, many years.



Even to her own enemies in Florence, Francesca was someone special, someone inimitable. Her innate sexual curiosity was coupled with an amazing natural equipment: big and firm breasts, strong and bulging legs, tight and plump ass, powerful stomach muscles, incredibly hairy cunt with full labia and a rock-hard solid clit. There wasn’t a woman at Court—or anywhere else in Italy for that matter—who could match her, and she soon gained the status among all of the men as the most desired lover in all of Florence, and among all women as the one to avoid if they didn’t want to end up with their pussies consumed and defeated.

As her stallion trotted, Francesca’s set of firm boobs stretched the incredibly tight material of her dress with their weight. She could feel her full, heavy breasts rolling back and forth, feeling them bruised after the dirty duel with Dominique hours earlier. It was then that she realized that she had nothing to fear from her French rival, as she had given as much as she had received that morning in the clash between the two of them. Thinking about what she would do to her nemesis when she saw her again, Francesca noticed the powerful muscles of the horse undulating against the insides of her bare thighs, so she instinctively squeezed them tightly around its flanks. All of the jumbled and chaotic swinging, all the swaying, jolting and jostling that the animal was subjecting her body was sending powerful, pleasant vibrations up into the walls of her pussy, straight up through her stomach and all the way into her thick nipples, the milk cylinders stiffening and pushing the soft fabric of the black dress away from Francesca’s torso.


The Italian beauty disappeared into the woods of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, her powerful pussy tingling and heating up. Out of sight of the men at the stable, she reigned in her stallion and brought it to a halt. Reaching down with her left hand, she gathered the cloth at the front of her dress and pulled it all the way up under her breasts. Right there, wedged between the leather saddle, which was smeared with the thick honey of her arousal, and her big, shapely, bulging thighs, Francesca’s incredibly large triangle of thick, dense, jet-black pubic hair shone wet, and looked all the more prominent as it stood out against the pure white background of the animal. Looking down, the Florentine beauty observed the slightest whisper of a black line of hair running down from her belly-button and merging into her hairy bush. She was really, really proud of her unshaven cunt because, just like a man’s beard, that incredible amount of hair was a manifest sign of strength and supremacy.

Keeping her dress bundled up around her left arm, Francesca reached down with her right hand and pulled the smooth, supple, rounded leather horn of her saddle in towards her and positioned it right at the opening of her heated pussy. Holding it in place with her fingers, she slid her ass forward along the slick, wet saddle. Immediately, a series of loud, sexy groans of pleasure echoed through the forest as Francesca shimmied right on top of the soft leather barrel, pushing it all the way up inside of her. The white stallion became visibly agitated, his nostrils flaring as he reacted to the sights, sounds and smells of scorching female arousal which were suddenly assaulting his senses.


It was Francesca’s secret way of masturbating—a way of masturbating that she was sure no other women could possibly have the vigor to do. As her horse trotted forward, she could feel the leather horn jerking around inside of her, rhythmically plunging and ramming and thrusting in and out, and in and out of her, over and over again, pushing, straining, stretching the walls of her tough cunt in every conceivable direction, even as she clamped her labia down on it with all of her might and struggled to hold herself in place. A weaker woman’s pussy would have been stretched out beyond all recognition after only a minute or two of such abuse, but Francesca’s body was able to move itself in complete harmony with the trot of the stallion. An incredible look of pleasure came over the Italian woman’s beautiful face as she had wrapped her powerful lips tightly around the leather probe, bending it to her authoritative will. As far as she was concerned, there was no better way for a woman to strengthen the muscles of her pussy.


As waves of sexual pleasure shot up through Francesca’s body and into her throbbing nipples, her mind turned towards her French rival again. Her thoughts immediately turned to the events that took place earlier that day, the clashing of swords and something more that was going to bring her and her red-haired nemesis together for their fateful rendezvous between absolutely magnificent women, and Francesca could not help but be carried away by the incredible sensations that were racing inside of her, sensations that made her feel stronger and more confident than ever before. She just knew that the stupid Parisian bitch couldn’t possibly have what it takes to do anything even close to what she was doing at that very moment. Still, there was something about Dominique Beaumont that continued to worry her, something that went much deeper than the fact that she was French, or that she was undeniably beautiful, or that she was just as big and tall as she was, or that she seemed to be just as strong as she was and just as good with a sword to boot. It was something that she had seen in her green eyes, something that she had never seen in any other woman before, something that she just couldn’t get out of her mind. She had gotten right up in Dominique’s face and looked deeply in her eyes searching for that little sign of weakness, or that flash of fear, or that tiny little trace of self-doubt that she had always found buried deep down in the secret heart of every woman that she had ever faced. But all that the appealing dark-haired Italian had seen was incredible pride, utter fearlessness and supreme self-confidence—even in the last seconds of that morning’s fight, when everything was about to be resolved. She had been able to realize firsthand that Dominique was a woman who didn’t know defeat, a woman who didn’t have even the slightest doubt in her mind that, when it was all over, she would be the one who proved to be the better female. A woman as she was herself, after all.



Francesca dug both heels deeply into the hindquarters of her horse, forcing the stallion to lurch violently forward, ramming her leather love-toy all the way up into the deepest part of her and mashing her clitoris against its base. Her entire body shuddered in delight and, at last, the orgasm she had been holding inside her for hours burst out. Roaring like a panther at the top of her lungs under the strong, overwhelming waves of pleasure and hatred that shook through her curvaceous body, the brunette bucked atop the animal, her throbbing cunt opening and closing around the horn of the saddle. As a chain of intense eruptions ravaged her, Francesca thought she heard another female scream resounding through the forest—or perhaps it was just the echo of her own shout.


The devastating carnal explosion subsided a minute later, and only then did the Italian woman manage to stop her nervous stallion. She had never had such an orgasm in her life but, far from taking pride in it, she let the hatred take her and yelled angrily again—and again the forest, or someone, shouted back. Francesca knew what the origin of the orgasm had been, who had triggered the first throbbing in her crotch in a dirty fight that very morning, so now all she could think about was on the most detestable woman in the world and how to make her pay for it all.


When Francesca finally got herself under control, she couldn’t help shaking her head in amusement, and smiling to herself. It was just so typical of her! Out of all of the French women that there were in the world, she had to find that particular one to pick on. She couldn’t have been satisfied with just any old average Parisian woman—no, not her. She had to pick on the one who was the strongest, the one who was the most beautiful, the one that just about every man in Paris would absolutely kill to get their hands on because they all knew that she could give them the best damned sex that they ever had. But Francesca was a woman from Florence and, after everything that she had been through and everything that she had learned, after all the cocky, sexy women she had beaten up pussy to pussy—Italian aristocrats, but also a pair of conceited prostitutes who thought they were up to her high standards—nobody could ever convince her that there was any woman, anywhere in the world, who knew how to use her cunt better than she did.


Francesca couldn’t wait to destroy Dominique’s pussy with her own.







Chapter 3
Sexual Instincts


Hours earlier, Château de Maisons-Laffitte


When Dominique Beaumont entered the vast guard’s room of the palace that mid-morning, instead of the habitual deafening, chaotic clatter of the fencing tournaments organized by the aristocrats, only the sound of two lonely swords echoed through the place, clanging and clanking behind a solid wall of big, burly men who had gathered around to watch. Whatever it was that they were witnessing, all of the nobles were so impressed, so hypnotized that no one had even noticed the breathtaking patch of bright, flaming red that broke through the gorgeous sea of soft light and beige as Dominique quietly walked across the room, her sword in her right hand. Leaning against a wall, the Parisian beauty crossed her arms in front of her and waited, annoyed by the unusual lack of attention. She was unable to think of two men so good at fighting as to arouse such interest.


The group of nobles then split in two to make way for the fencers, and Dominique understood everything. Francesca Bellini was there, fiercely attacking Charles de Ventadour—a losing battle for the skilled and cocky young man. The redhead had been aware of the brunette almost from the moment that the foreign beauty had arrived in Paris. The two stunning women had been introduced to each other at a party at Versailles a little over a month ago and, having moved in the same social circles, they had bumped into each other quite frequently since then. Although they never really had much of an occasion to talk to each other, it was undeniable that they had both made quite a first impression on each other, and they never missed an opportunity to discreetly keep an eye on what the other one was doing whenever they were in the same room together. Already in those first encounters, Dominique had heard that the gorgeous Florentine woman had been personally tutored by the very best fencing instructors in all of the Italian Peninsula, but what she would have never imagined was how good Francesca would be with the sword, her ability to make that long, thin piece of metal dance for her.


As Francesca kept attacking her male opponent with dexterous feints and lunges, as the attractive black-haired female fought like a panther, Dominique’s eyelids drooped down with feigned disinterest, as if that would change what she was seeing. She even said to herself that Francesca needed more practice with the sword if she wanted to be a top-notch swordswoman like she was but, deep inside of her, she knew that she was lying to herself, and she couldn’t help but feel jealous—the redhead could appreciate that Francesca was really exceptional, as excellent with the blade as she was. Seeing her up there, getting all of that attention and looking really sexy on top of that, she felt that it was just a little bit more competition than she was used to.


Everything felt even more annoying when the redhead saw the brunette penetrate Charles’s defenses and taunt him by intentionally missing his balls by very little. Dominique narrowed her green eyes: it wasn’t a secret that she just loved to see the look of surprise in a rival male’s eyes when she came right after him like a wild tigress and whipped it right up between his legs, only to mockingly avoid hitting his crotch at the last second. Somehow, Dominique felt that that was her move, so seeing it on the brunette didn’t please her at all.


As the one-sided battle continued, Dominique found herself getting angrier and angrier. Before that new Florentine sensation, she had been the only woman who had ever earned the privilege of using the guard’s room, whenever she felt like it, to train with the sword, to drill and sharp her skills right alongside the men as a complete equal. And it wasn’t like they were just putting up with her because she was really good looking, either—although that certainly didn’t hurt. Her looks wouldn’t have meant a damned thing if she didn’t know how to use a sword just as good as all of the rest of them. But seeing how the men’s eyes sparkled watching Francesca in battle, she knew that those times of exclusivity were over. She had loved seeing that look in all of the other nobles’ faces as they watched her healthy young body in action, swinging and swaying, lunging and lurching, going head to head with some tall, strong, muscular man. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows how to handle herself, as Dominique knew from experience, only now there were two skilled, seductive women to venerate, and the redhead wasn’t exactly the type who liked to share.



That chain of misfortunes against Dominique was not over, however. Her emerald green eyes perked up when she spotted Jaques Durand’s handsome face in the sea of men. He was far and away the best looking man in the place: big, strong and really handsome—and even more important: he was her lover. A couple of hours earlier she had savagely fucked the man and, although it had been delicious sex, she still had the strange feeling that some scent unrelated to the man still lingered inside her vagina. And there he was, standing all the way up in the front, right in front of the Italian newcomer, following her every move just a little bit more closely than the beautiful redhead would have liked. Dominique could notice her cheeks burning as she watched the flirtatious little interplay that was going on between him and Francesca. Every time she did something that was particularly impressive, she would look over right at him and give him a lovely, proud smile. And he would look straight into her eyes, and smile right back at her. She could see that the raven-haired beauty was attracted to him and was trying to impress him, but she really couldn’t blame her. Every woman around wanted him, and the little bastard was so egotistical that he just couldn’t help leading them on. But, observing the look in his brown eyes, the redhead knew that, right now, he was doing a lot more than just leading her on. After all, that was a look that Dominique knew all too well: Jaques wanted Francesca to fuck him.


Dominique watched the way that Francesca moved, her big, bulging hips thrusting powerfully in and out, her long, narrow waist weaving sensuously back and forth. She saw Jaques’ eyes narrowing and boring into her. She watched her moving like a tigress, so agile and graceful—yet so violent and explosive. She saw his eyes smoldering. She watched her heating up, her pretty face flushed with color, her shirt stained with sweat, her wild, tangled black hair billowing all around her, clinging to her forehead and down the sides of her cheeks. She saw his eyes burning, burning straight into her, burning straight through the clothes she was wearing, burning right into her ivory skin. She watched her beautiful black eyes, so fierce and savage, so full of energy and excitement, sparkling with a passion as fierce as the heart of the most violent volcano. Jaques was fucking her with his eyes, and she was fucking him right back with her body. Francesca Bellini, the Florentine bitch, wasn’t just more competition than Dominique was used to: she was more competition than the redhead can ever remember having in her entire life.


Suddenly, the gorgeous Parisian noble heard her own name echoing off the walls of the vast, open chamber, and it was as if she had suddenly been shaken out of a deep sleep.

“Hey, comrades, Dominique is here!” a man’s voice boomed out at the top of his lungs. “Why don’t you get your ugly asses out of there, and you let her measure herself against our dear foreigner?” Who was speaking was Armand d'Harcourt, the man that Dominique had refused to fuck several times. “I’m sure it’s more fun than seeing Charles humiliated.”


Before those words had finished bouncing around the walls of the palace room, the primitive, carnal male consciousness filled the air, transporting everybody back to the days when they were all wearing loincloths, using their bare hands to rip chunks of meat off of some dead animal that was sitting in a giant fire pit, in the middle of some big, dark cave somewhere. Both female rivals were well aware that nothing could turn a man on more than the idea of watching two beautiful women engaged in physical combat. After all, it was something that went all the way back to his deepest, darkest, most primitive sexual instincts. And now, just thinking about sizzling, hot-blooded Dominique and wild, untamed Francesca going at each other with their swords in hand was enough to make a man want to come right in his pants. None of the aristocrats present could wait to see the Parisian and the Florentine standing face to face before the start of the sexiest fencing duel in the whole of Europe.


In an instant, a whole roomful of wide, excited, hungry male eyes were riveted right on the redheaded beauty. If all of the sudden attention was making Dominique feel uncomfortable, she sure as hell didn’t show it—she just kept leaning there against the wall, as cool as can be, with her arms crossed and that characteristic amused little smile on her face, looking over the crowd of men who had suddenly gathered around her as if they were the biggest bunch of morons that she had ever seen in her entire life—Armand d'Harcourt, the man who had not forgiven her, the greatest of all. Dominique knew exactly what men wanted, as she had seen that look in their eyes before. She had been in one or two nasty, vicious, scratching, slapping, hairpulling, rolling-around-the-floor catfights in her young life, and she just couldn’t believe the hypnotic effect that it had on all of the men who were watching. There was just something about the way that they were looking at her, even as she was ripping the whore to shreds, that really turned her on, that made her feel so incredibly proud, and strong, and sexy, and beautiful as a woman. It was a look of lust, and it was directed right at her, but it was really different from the way that men usually looked at her when they just wanted to fuck her. Seeing all of those aristocratic compatriots getting so incredibly excited, looking at her in that special way just made her want to fight harder and completely dominate the Italian slut, and show all of the men what a hot, sexy woman she really was.


It was all so very, very tempting. Dominique had already felt herself becoming aroused and challenged by the sexy little performance that Francesca had been putting on, and she had been imagining what it would be like to meet her face to face with the sword that hung from her hip. She saw what it was doing to the men, just seeing her up there all by herself, and she knew that seeing the two of them up there together would drive them completely out of their minds. The idea of challenging the woman that every man in the room was just dying to have, of going up there and looking even hotter and sexier than she did so that they would all want her instead was really turning her on. The idea of proving her womanhood by defeating such a strong, passionate, desirable woman right in front of all of those men and then having them all look at her, and her alone, in that very special, sexy way was almost too much to resist. Just thinking about it made her crotch wet.


From the look of excitement in Francesca’s beautiful black eyes and the huge, wicked smile on her gorgeous face, Dominique realized that the brunette also knew exactly what the men wanted, and that she was more than happy to give it to them because she wanted it every bit as much as they did. It was undeniable that Francesca completely understood what it did to a man to watch two sexy women fighting, and that she also knew what it did to her to know that the men were watching her. The redhead knew how to read the dilated pupils of her rival, aware that for the Florentine beauty that was also a chance for her to show all of the men just how hot and sexy she really was by putting one of their local girls to shame right before their eyes.


Dominique looked over at Francesca, the gazes of both stunning aristocrats locking with each other deeply, intensely for the first time. The arrogant upper-class swordswomen connected up with one another and communicated with each other as only two females could do it: eye to eye, woman to woman, intimately and privately and secretly. In an instant, the contenders told each other everything as they exchanged naughtily little knowing smiles, each woman recognized that the other female completely understood exactly what it was that the men around wanted from them. Dominique could almost hear the words they were saying to each other just as clearly as if they had spoken the words out loud: “What do you think? Should we give these poor, hungry bastards the thrill of their lives…or not?”


As sexy as the whole idea sounded to her, Dominique finally decided against it. Whatever was to happen between two women should stay just between those two women and, except for a couple of totally spontaneous and unplanned catfights, the redhead had never let a man be a part of it. And she was not about to purposely go up there and make a public spectacle of herself by putting on a dirty little sex show just so that she could titillate a bunch of leering, drooling, gawking men. Raising her chin proudly, Dominique looked out at the crowd of men who had surrounded them and smiled suggestively before simply shook her head.


“No,” the magnificent Parisian hellcat softly said.

The disappointment flooded Francesca’s dark eyes when she saw the green-eyed beauty firmly standing her ground in the face of all of the begging and pleading, of the urging and prodding that the men were doing, and stubbornly waving them off.


“Oh, well…” the glorious Florentine woman melodiously sighed to nobody in particular. “I guess that you, French noblemen, must train your women much better. Are they all this meek and timid or did I just happen to run into the only cowardly Parisian female?”

To Dominique, that little comment was just like a slap in the face. A hush fell over the room and the crowd of men suddenly parted, opening a path directly to Francesca in an instinctive reflex to what they saw burning in the redhead’s eyes.



“The only cowardly women in Europe are Italian whores,” Dominique grunted. “From what I’ve heard, Florentine men don’t want to train with their women because you don’t have what it takes in a long, close duel.”

“I have noticed your eyes on me since you entered this room,” Francesca replied. “So I’m sure you know how good I am at dueling, no matter how long and how close it may be. I don’t think I can say the same for French bitches, from what I’ve heard people say.”



The silence of the men in the guard’s room was broken by a few whispers and gasps of surprise. Dominique knew that, at that point, there was no turning back—she didn’t want to take that way out either, anyway.


“Why don’t you and I see here and now which rumors are true?” Dominique spat out. “Your sword against mine, French bitch against Italian whore.”

“That’s all I want,” Francesca mumbled before licking her sexy lips and raising her sword to wave it through the air with a quick threatening slash. “Come here and let’s dance, Parisian.”



The French seductress began to walk ahead down the aisle that men formed to the right and left of her. Sword in hand, she headed straight for her Florentine rival, ready to do battle with the magnificent, good-looking woman who had haunted her thoughts for too many days.





Chapter 4
Clash of Blades


It was a sight to behold, an image that Cézanne would have immortalized with his small, colorful brushstrokes if someone had invited the young painter to the Château de Maisons-Laffitte that day: two strong, proud, beautiful women—one with long, wild jet-black hair; the other with thick, blazing fire-red hair—standing face to face with swords in their hands, and looking challengingly into each other’s eyes. All men in the room could see the smalls of the females’ backs arching deeply inward over their plump, tight asses and their big, round chests swelling out in front of them as Francesca and Dominique challenged each other as much with their body language as with the defiant looks in their pupils. For a full minute, the rivals stood straight and tall, majestic and fearless as they proudly held their bodies up and out towards each other, their heads high up in the air above them and their feet firmly planted on the ground beneath them.


Facing each other a little less than two meters apart, it was clearer than ever to Francesca what a perfect match both were for each other, being equally tall, equally trim, equally shapely, with strong, well developed muscles and big, solid bones. They were even dressed identically—as real rivals always did, even without knowing in advance what the other was going to wear—with big, blousy, oversized men’s white shirts held together by four big buttons down the front, and absolutely nothing underneath, so that their full-sized, heavy breasts swung freely under their tent-like covering. As always when Francesca practiced fencing, she was also wearing close-fitting, jet-black breeches that clung tightly to their bulging thighs and only came half way down below the knees, the lacy bottoms stretched to the limit by their thick, meaty calves—exactly the same breeches that the French red-haired sow was wearing in front of her. The masculine outfit, which the dazzling women had turned into pure feminine seduction, was completed with a pair of sexy little leather ankle boots and delicate, white socks sticking out a couple of inches over the tops. If it wasn’t for their starkly contrasting hair and just the slightest difference in their skin coloring—with Francesca’s flesh slightly less milky than Dominique’s—every man there would think, for all the world, that the Parisian and Florentine beauties were twins.


Francesca’s fierce pitch black eyes met Dominique’s blazing emerald green eyes even more intensely as the two attractive women raised their swords and touched the blades together, the sound of tempered steel echoing seductively off the walls of the vast opulent room. The females brought their weapons into contact twice more as a greeting and challenge before the fight, and the Italian’s heart began to race with anticipation.

“I know what kind of woman you are,” Francesca found herself saying with a whisper. “But this time, French cunt, you’ve met an even better woman…”


“You and I are the same kind of woman, you Italian bitch,” Dominique hissed back as both females dramatically crouched down into their fighting stances “The difference is that you think you’re the better woman, and I know that I am.”


The echoes of the men’s excited voices reached Francesca’s ears, but soon faded away. Suddenly, there was nothing but each other.


“En garde,” the contenders grunted at the same time and, abruptly, anxiously, the duel began.

With a certain impatience, the women swayed menacingly forward and backward, and from side to side, for two, three long minutes, their swords clashed together in aggressive attack and skillful defense. Already from the first loud clash of blades it was obvious to Francesca that she had met her nemesis in that life. Focusing wholly on each other, zeroing in on each other, she and her antagonist had already connected up with one another in such a natural and close bond that they could each sense even the smallest movement of the other’s muscles right on their skin. As if they were tied together by invisible strings, the fit, gorgeous bodies of the rivals moved in unison, in synchrony, each sexy part of their stimulating curves exactly mirroring the movement of its counterpart—their boobs rolling back and forth under shirts that warped and buckled under the weight of the generous, thick glands, their asses tightening the back of the jet-black breeches with the power of the bulging buttocks.


Another minute passed, and then another one, Francesca taking Dominique’s measure by clashing weapons together over and over again. She had heard about how good the redhead was with a sword, but the other beauty far exceeded expectations. Her thrusts were always parried by Dominique’s blade, to right and left, but Francesca took comfort in knowing that she was also deflecting all of the Parisian’s attacks with quick, deft defensive actions. To all the men around, and to Jaques himself, that the Florentine and the Parisian were equal in skill and ferocity at fencing was as undeniable as that the sun would fall in the west that night.


After a quick exchange of sword thrusts that didn’t reach the rival, Francesca and Dominique took a step back and circled each other warily, every muscle taut with anticipation. From the deadly serious looks on the faces of both beautiful female specimens, it seemed that the slightest touch of the other’s blade could draw blood, but the reality was that the swords which the two sexy women were brandishing at each other had little protective covers on their razor sharp tips—they couldn’t stick each other with them even if they had wanted to. And yet, that didn’t make the confrontation any less lethal.


“Not bad, Lady Bellini, not bad at all,” the redhead said with a half-smile flashing arrogantly on her face. “But you know you’re not going to win this, right?”


“You know how to handle a sword, Lady Beaumont, I’ll give you that,” the dark-haired panther retorted with her own smug grin. “But that’s not going to change the fact that you will lose in front of all these men.”

The swords clashed together, and the contenders found themselves engaged in battle again. That time, however, part of Francesca’s mind was on the men watching her fight with her sensual compatriot. She knew exactly what was going through the minds of all of them as they scrutinized both ferocious beauties confronting each other. By the way their feminine bodies moved and how sexy they looked when they were twisting and turning, heaving and jerking, it was no secret to the Italian noblewoman that all they must be thinking about was what it would be like to fuck them. Without needing to look at their dilated pupils or the bulge in their pants, Francesca was more than sure that every man present was already fantasizing about what it would be like to be naked in bed heaving and jerking right along with them. Watching the facial expressions and listening to the sexy sounds that both women were making in the evenly matched fencing bout, men already knew what she and Dominique looked like and sounded like when they got hot and aroused, so it must not have taken them any effort at all to imagine what it would be like to see those beautiful, excited faces and to listen to all of those erotic gasps while they had their dick right inside of them. Francesca was well aware that they were all visualizing all of those things in both women at the very same time because, locked in duel, they showed themselves side by side before all eyes, so that each and every one of the French nobles in the room could compare every little erotic detail about them directly to each other.


Parrying two quick thrusts from Dominique before counterattacking with a series of aggressive slashes that her gorgeous foe skillfully blocked, Francesca had to admit that they were fighting for the attention of all of the men just as much as they were fighting each other. Of course each woman wanted to be the one that all of the men were looking at, to be the one that was really driving them completely out of their minds, to be the one that they were all getting hard for even as they stood there watching, to be the only one that they were all dreaming about fucking, over that sexy enemy with plump breasts and long legs. But Francesca knew that all that drama was not just about men and swords, but about women and what it meant to be one of them—something that had not changed since ancient times, and that would not change in the centuries to come. As the swords engaged and disengaged in a threatening dance, the Florence-raised beauty couldn’t help but wonder which woman was sharper, quicker and more agile, which woman was stronger, healthier and more robust, which woman was more vigorous, dynamic and aggressive, which woman was more energetic, forceful and enthusiastic? When it was all over in a few minutes, which of the two women would prove to have more fire inside her, which of the two women would definitely out-fight the other, alpha against alpha until the ultimate resolution.



With every thrust of their swords and every movement of their sexy bodies, another thought assailed Francesca’s mind: which of them could out-fuck the other if they came to that. She could not deny that the idea had popped into her thoughts more than once, especially when she had met Dominique at some social event of the Parisian nobility. The mere presence of the curvaceous, seductive redhead had been enough to arouse her competitive curiosity, and she had thought she saw that same interest in Dominique’s green eyes. But, beyond some subtle hinting, neither of them had taken the step for an actual, serious confrontation…until now. Imbued with her combative feminine spirit, Francesca attacked aggressively, aware that there was no better way to prove that she could out-fuck the French beauty than by out-fighting her. She was going to show it to all those men, but mostly to herself and to that smug, hot woman named Dominique Beaumont.

For a few more minutes, the rivals fought like two caged wildcats. The young, healthy, potent ladies were locked in an unconditional battle for female supremacy, relentlessly lunging and thrusting at each other, but never managing to stab, each struggling to beat the other down, to wear her out and break her will before completely dominate her. Big and round wet spots appeared all over their pure white shirts as their big and round sweaty breasts pushed out against the material which was confining them and soaked right through it, and shiny black hair and blazing red hair billowed out into jumbled, tangled messes, making them look like two gorgeous, savage barbarians fighting to the death—although what was at stake in the contest was far more important than life itself.


Francesca had watched Dominique sparring a couple of times before—the last time a few days ago against Jaques Durand in front of the empress herself—but she was shocked at how quick and deadly she was now that she was facing a woman instead of a man. The Parisian also had a lot to prove now, and Francesca could feel her strength and intensity in every sharp whack of her sword, she could see the powerful muscles of her hips and legs rippling against the tight, black material that was covering them. Parrying a thrust launched directly against her fat boobs, Francesca knew that she was up against a real lioness and that it would take every ounce of strength and skill that she had in her body to beat her.

Covered in sweat, panting and determined, the two female rivals traded thrusts for a few more intense moments until, at last, one of them was able to get in a good, hard hit. The tip of Francesca’s blade stroke right into the side of Dominique’s ribs, and immediately the brunette’s mocking laughter echoed in the room along with the redhead’s frustrated growl.


“First blood to me, Parisian bitch,” Francesca said, beaming in proud triumph as looking around for the complicity of a particular man. Her dark eyes met Jaques’, and the Italian woman flashed him a big, satisfied smile that the handsome man returned.


“Stop looking at him, you dirty Florentine whore!” Dominique’s angry voice brought Francesca back to the reality of the fight, and suddenly she found herself defending against the redhead’s most vicious assault. The dark-haired beauty knew well that Jaques was the lover of her busty, green-eyed nemesis, so she couldn’t help thinking that, if with a simple exchange of smiles Dominique had such an attack of jealousy, when the French female discovered what had happened that very morning between her and the handsome aristocrat under the sheets of his bed, hell would break loose on earth…and she couldn’t wait to provoke that cataclysm.

But for now she had to physically stand up for herself against Dominique and try to thrust her sword into that perfect body of her enemy again. However, within seconds, the redhead got even, scoring a clean hit up around Francesca’s collarbones and pushing her back several steps. Immediately, the luscious French lips puckered up as she turned straight towards Jaques to blow him a big, sexy kiss. The cheeks of the man reddened, memories of the woman’s mouth on his manhood undeniably coming to his head.


“That’s just for you, my stallion,” Dominique stated before turning to Francesca. “After I beat you, he and I will ride to my villa…and keep riding in my bedroom, if a dumb Italian like you knows what I mean.”


Francesca’s beautiful black eyes got wider and wider and wider as Dominique spoke, and then suddenly ignited with blinding, jealous rage as she stood there and watched Jaques—the man she had been flirting with all morning long, the man that she had spent all morning teasing, and seducing, and putting under her spell with all of her sexy moves until he took her to his bed and she fucked him into a puddle of his own semen—puckering up and blowing her a kiss right back.

“Cunt!” In a flash, Francesca was on her redheaded rival like a wild animal, violently pounding on her sword and driving her backwards on her heels. Taking dead aim, she jabbed her weapon straight between her foe’s breasts and hooked the middle button of Dominique’s white shirt, its entire front being lifted all the way out as Francesca jerked her sword straight up into the air and popped the two top buttons right off of it.


Everything in the room seemed to come to a standstill, even time. The sound of the buttons of the redhead skipping across the hard wooden floor echoed in the absolute silence as everyone present, men and women, looked at the French beauty. The top of her shirt had fallen open all the way down to the front of her milky white breasts, and now the very tops of her big, round, rosy pink areola peeked up over the pure white material.


Suddenly, the deep silence was broken by a burst of shouting and roaring. The men howled like wolves, and Francesca couldn’t help but let out a long, cruel laugh as she pointed her sword at Dominique’s heavy bosoms.

“Did you like that, men of Paris?” the Italian spitfire spat out. “Do you want me to show you more?”

Francesca was really enjoying the moment of humiliation of her enemy but, hidden by the absolutely joyous look on her gorgeous face, there was actually some concern. At the very moment when she had seen the front of Dominique’s shirt falling away from her breasts, she was struck by how big and round, how full and firm they were, how they stood so incredibly high up on her chest and stuck out so far in front of her. Even aware of how impressive her own boobs were, Francesca couldn’t help but feel a little jealous—something very unusual for her when it came to comparing bodies with another female.



In front of her, Dominique looked down at her plump breasts with her emerald-green eyes wide open in shock before looking up at Francesca. Then her beautiful gaze narrowed into flaming craters of rage, and, before the raven-haired Italian could react, she charged straight up to her, slapped the palm of her left hand flat between her collarbones to take a fistful of her shirt and yanked it straight out in front of her. An anxious look appeared on Francesca’s big, black eyes as she suddenly felt the cold, hard steel of Dominique’s sword sliding up along her belly, right between her firm breasts, and coming out at the top, right along her cheek. The mighty upward thrust of the redhead’s sword flew the top three buttons of the Florentine’s shirt through the air in all different directions. With the white fabric torn and just one lone button remaining, Francesca fell to the floor right on her plump, juicy butt.

After the resounding thump of ass against wood, silence once again flooded the guards’ room. As she sat on her buttocks and gathered her wits about her, the very first thing that went through Francesca’s mind was how much of her beautiful young body was exposed to men with eyes desperate for flesh and her seductive fencing rival. Quickly looking down, she was relieved to see that even though her shirt had been unbuttoned all the way down to her navel, the opening was only about seven or eight centimeters wide, so her long, dark brown nipples and areola were still hidden underneath. The second thing that went through her mind was to understand that the female battle had completely changed. The brunette knew exactly what both of them were doing, using their swords now not to strike the hot body of the adversary, but to humiliate her by undressing her right in front of all those men. She was one button down in that competition, and all she could think of now was to get things even, at least to begin with.


Standing in front of her, Francesca saw Dominique hesitating for one split second as her eyes plunged all the way down through the opening of her shirt. She could read arrogance in the redhead’s green eyes, but also jealousy at what she was seeing. The contest of swords wasn’t over quite yet, and Francesca already knew that other fronts were opening up in that war of pride, beauty and dominance.






Chapter 5
A Secret Contest


Many thoughts and feelings were going through Dominique’s head and heart as she looked at her fallen opponent sitting on the ground, glaring back at her with burning hatred and contempt. There was a lot of pride and satisfaction running through the Parisian’s body, but also worry. She was absolutely amazed by how deep and dark, how long and bottomless the chasm between Francesca’s boobs seemed to be, by how far back in the distance her breastbone looked and how much closer to her the front of her shirt seemed to be. Dominique could tell, without a shadow of a doubt, that what was hidden inside of all of that frightening darkness just had to be something absolutely immense. Trying to hide her jealousy, the redheaded beauty turned towards the men and raised both of her arms high up over her head in triumph, just like a bare-knuckle fighter who had just delivered a knock-out punch. Again, the men turned the silence into a series of perverted howls and yells, both women giving them the lust they demanded.


“This is what you like, huh, compatriots?” the French lioness roared. “Do you want to see some more Italian meat or not?”

The whooping, hollering, cheering audience made Dominique didn’t hear Francesca get up from the floor and come up behind her. The first warning that she had that her rival was even there was when she felt her gripping the left side of her shirt with a hand and yanking it downward with all of her might. With a shout, Dominique pulled away, aware that Francesca was going after her last two buttons. The sound of a shirt tearing preceded the soft clatter of something small falling to the wooden floor. Taking several steps away from her nemesis, the redhead sighed in relief as she realized that it was only one button, not two, that Francesca had ripped off in her sneak assault.


“Is this how you Italian women fight?” Dominique grunted, glancing down for a second to make sure the last button still prevented the front opening of her white shirt from showing more of her beautiful and fat breasts. “Attacking from behind like cowards?”

“I thought French women knew that all is fair in love and war,” Francesca growled back. “And, between women, it’s always war.”


“So be it,” the redhead said as she raised her sword to point at the last button of her rival. “I’m going to humiliate you in front of all these men.”

“Well…” the brunette waved her steel weapon threateningly in the air. “I’m going to humiliate you in front of Jaques when I rip off your last button.”

“You dirty tramp,” Dominique groaned. “Stay away from him if you want to go back to Florence with those fat tits of yours intact.”


“No woman tells me what I have to do, least of all a Parisian whore,” Francesca replied. “And if I were you, I’d rather worry about your own big boobs.”

“Just shut up and fight me, bitch,” the local beauty hissed.


“Come on, let’s settle this, cunt,” the foreign beauty uttered.

The redheaded French seductress and the raven-haired Italian temptress crouched down low as they started to circle each other, her eyes burning as if they were suddenly engaged in a fight to the death. Their pearly white breastbones sparkled and glimmered in the mid-morning sun while shimmering streams of sweat poured down between their big, heavy breasts. Like cannonballs, the boobs were slowly swaying back and forth in front of the women, and each and every one of the men present could only wish that both incredible pairs would jump out of the flimsy prison of those almost completely unbuttoned white shirts.


“Come on, Dominique, make that foreign bitch show us her fat tits!” Charles de Ventadour was heard shouting—undoubtedly, still upset by the previous humiliation.

“You got that redheaded slut, Francesca!” Armand d'Harcourt yelled, showing his true colors. “We want to see her big udders!”

Dominique lunged at Francesca, and the brunette went to meet her with the same determination. Bringing their swords together again, each beauty knew they were just one button away from getting what they themselves and the men wanted. Whoever was able to pop that last little button off of her opponent’s shirt first would make her large, solid bosoms come tumbling all the way out of her shirt in plain view of all of those hot, horny, deranged aristocrats, in what would be the ultimate humiliation. The men had edged all the way up close to the two sexy combatants, forming a tight little circle around them while French and Italian moved, attacking and defending in close combat—without any doubt whatsoever, that little fencing match was turning out to be something beyond any of the men’s wildest dreams. In that unexpected end of duel, it didn’t matter to either woman that they could already see the big, tight, perfectly rounded insides of their milky white globes pushing right through the opening of their shirts with every seductive twist and turn of their voluptuous and young bodies. All they cared about was getting that last button and winning their swordfight.


“Let us all see your overrated tits!” Francesca grunted as her thrust against the last redhead’s button was deflected at the last second.

“Let’s see how your naked boobs disappoint us!” Dominique spat just after her enemy dodged the cut that was to tear off the button of her shirt.


With a fierce frontal assault, the swords clashed again. With a ringing sound of metal scraping against metal that echoed off the walls of the palatial room, the blades slid across each other and met at the handles, bringing the two sexy women right up against each other in a clinch. The men gasped in excitement at the sight of Dominique and Francesca, the Parisian lioness and the Florentine panther, coming together eye to eye, nose to nose, thick juicy red lips to thick juicy red lips—so close, that they could feel each other’s hot breath right on their beautiful faces.

“Did you really think you could come to my city and take what is mine?” Dominique whispered, her mouth brushing against her stunning adversary’s.


“It’s not yours anymore,” Francesca murmured back before bringing her lips closer to the red-haired woman’s. “Everything you had, it’s mine now. Everything and everyone.”


Dominique didn’t have time to discern what was behind the mocking tone of the Italian’s last word because her rival tried to free her sword to attack her. There was a small scuffle that separated the women’s faces, free fingers gripping the wrist of the sword hand as both young beauties circled once, twice amidst shouts of encouragement from men before stopping, unable to disengage their blades.


As the two gorgeous women stood there, right up next to each other with the handles of their swords still hooked together, trying in vain to push the foe back, something powerfully striking caught Dominique’s attention. She looked down between them…and saw it: Francesca’s dark brown left nipple. The big, thick milk rod was sticking right out at her, hidden from the men by the shirt but arrogantly, lustfully exposed to her emerald gaze. She herself had incredible nipples, longer and harder than she had ever seen on another woman in her life—and she had seen plenty of them—but what she saw right there in plain sight was a nipple that matched the ones she possessed in size and shape. There was a difference in color, with her own pair being rosy pink, but Dominique couldn’t help but wonder if there was also a difference in hardness.


“Enjoying the view?” Francesca’s haughty question made the French beauty look up. But, instead of meeting the brunette’s intense stare, she saw her rival’s dark eyes looking down. She followed Francesca’s gaze and noticed that her own thick right nipple was also uncovered, though luckily only for the other woman in the room.


“Are you enjoying it?” Dominique countered, again looking down at the Florentine’s sexy nipple. An excited impulse grew in her, one that she knew was more suited to lower-class women than to aristocrats. It wasn’t like she had planned it or anything but, seeing that defiant big nipple, so naked and vulnerable just centimeters from her own, Dominique let herself go…and reached out with her long pink nipple to give her dark brown counterpart a little nick.

It wasn’t much of a graze as the redhead barely brushed nipple tip against nipple tip, but it was more than enough to send a lightning-like shock all the way down the Parisian’s spine. But through the brief nipple connection, Dominique felt the sensation that coursed through Francesca’s body was even more intense, and the southern contender confirmed it by jumping backwards as if her nipple had just been bitten by a snake.


Only both women knew what had just happened, so the men looked at each other without understanding what had caused it all. A mischievous little smile came over Dominique’s face, the way that Francesca had reacted making her feel that she had gained some sort of advantage in that evenly matched female duel. But, seeing the outraged look and the bitten lip on the brunette’s beautiful features, she knew that she had just escalated their fight to a whole new level—a level that exists only between women, and women alone. Now there was no turning back.


“You stupid ginger,” Francesca growled, shaking her head. “I should have expected something so trashy from a Parisian woman. I knew that here there is no difference between a female commoner and a lady of the French court.”

The accusation was not misguided. In her couple of adventures in the brothels, Dominique had heard of a way in which plebeian women tried to resolve their conflicts before having to come to an intimate pussy duel. She had never witnessed one, but a prostitute had described it as a clash of hard nipples and firm breasts and referred to it as ‘titfight’—a stupid name for a stupid way of fighting, she had thought, an undignified, shameful form of female battle as opposed to the honorable encounter of pussies and clits. And yet, she had employed a lower-class technique in that upper-class shelter against the most formidable opponent she had ever known.


“I had heard that you Florentine noblewomen hang out with prostitutes and pig caretakers, so I wanted you to feel at home,” Dominique counterattacked to try to shake off the shame of what she had done. “Did it perhaps remind you of your first fights in the dirty brothels of your city?”


“You don’t know at all what my firsts fights were like,” Francesca growled as she raised her sword. “In fact, you have not the faintest idea how I usually fight and, believe me, it’s better that you keep on not knowing for your own good.”

The men were confused by the exchange of words, but Dominique had been in the female combative subculture for too many years to recognize exactly what her rival meant. Following her instinct, she looked down to find a big wet spot appearing right between Francesca’s legs, her thick, pungent womanly essence soaking straight through the material of her jet-black, knee-length breeches. Dominique was well aware of the Florentine women’s reputation on how they settled their affairs and how good they were at it, but she was still surprised to see the Italian beauty’s body instinctively getting ready for such an intimate battle so quickly after just a little nipple-to-nipple rubbing.


“I wasn’t born yesterday.” The redhead put her sword between her and her enemy’s blade. “I know exactly what you were talking about, and you are the one who should be very careful about going down that road,” she added, lowering the tip of her steel weapon slightly to point it subtly at Francesca’s wet crotch.


“That road, you mean?” The brunette also pointed her blade between Dominique’s legs without the men noticing. The French didn’t need to glance down to feel her pussy heating up and getting moist. “Don’t think I came to Paris just to attend parties and practice swordplay.”

Before Dominique could reply, Francesca came at her with long strides. Quickly, the redhead locked her sword with the brunette’s blade to defend herself, but her nemesis wasn’t going against her looking for that kind of fencing. Immediately, the green-eyed aristocrat felt the hot, sensitive rosy pink flesh of her nipple being rubbed by what could be nothing else but Francesca’s moist, tender milk shaft. The shattering sensation that undeniably coursed through both curvaceous bodies was that time more devastating on Dominique’s flesh, and it was she who jumped back away from her rival.


The men kept wondering what was going on while Dominique’s green eyes widened with contempt and Francesca’s red lips formed a cruel smile. The Parisian temptress felt that she was beginning to have absolutely no control over her nipples and crotch as her erections hardened in the center of her heavy breasts and her labia clenched violently, wetly between her strong legs.


“Nasty black-haired witch.” Furious about what the Italian beauty had just done to her, Dominique gritted her teeth as she hissed. “You’re a hypocrite, doing what you criticize.”

“You can give it but you can’t take it, huh?” the brunette mocked. “I knew you were a wimp.”

“Keep pushing, bitch, because in the end you’re going to get more than you can handle,” the French hellcat grunted, her gaze again drifting to Francesca’s breeches. The wet spot on her crotch continued to grow, and Dominique’s pupils frozen as if she were hypnotized by it. Swallowing some saliva, the redhead noticed her own dampness spreading through her proud pussy as the intimate smells of her and Jaques, and the unidentified third fragrance, intensified in her vagina.


“I can handle anything from you easily,” Francesca said. “And if you keep insisting on messing with me, you cunt, I’ll prove it to you.”

The mutual challenge hung in the air of the room as the two women cautiously approached each other with their weapons out in front of them. Dominique’s nipple was still stinging, so all she could think about was paying the Italian whore back—and she wasn’t going to wait a single second to do it. As soon as the two rivals touched swords again, the Parisian quickly leaned forward into Francesca, bringing them together in another handle to handle clinch, both blades forming a big ‘X’ right between their gorgeous faces. Dominique immediately, impatiently looked down and thrust her long and hard nipple outward in search of the dark brown cylinder which had caused her so much discomfort. Francesca showed she knew exactly what the redhead was up to, and quickly shifted her nipple to the side, just enough to avoid contact with its rose-colored adversary. Francesca’s nipple counterattack was quick and precise, but Dominique had just enough reflexes and intuition to avoid the brunette’s piercing weapon with a slight readjustment of her torso.



As all the men milled around them with confused looks on their faces, the Parisian and Florentine rivals just stood there, right up against each other, letting the fronts of their shirts touch to completely hide the narrow space between their luscious bodies from all eyes. With their swords crossed high up in the air between them, the two sexy women just kept looking down into the private battlefield formed by the sweaty white cloths, their eyes frozen on that tight little area between their hot, sticky curves as if the most fascinating thing in the world was taking place there—fascinating enough to make any man come in his pants if he saw it, because the sexy females were fencing with their nipples just as hard as they had fenced with their swords. But, from the enormous concentration on their beautiful faces, it was obvious that fight was twice as important.


For three, four minutes, Dominique’s hard, thick, rosy pink nipple and Francesca’s big, stiff dark brown nipple circled each other behind the shirts, lunging at each other, quickly stabbing out and then pulling back away from each other as each woman tried to nip the other while, at the same time, tried to avoid getting nipped. But contact still did not occur. Flaming red hair brushed sensuously across shimmering black hair as the two adversaries brought their chins all the way down against their breastbones, focusing all of their attention on the deadly dance that was taking place between their nipples. Dominique felt the wet spot between her legs getting bigger and bigger as she and her dark-haired nemesis stood there, completely motionless except for their two sexy dueling cylinders, and she found herself wishing Francesca was getting as wet or wetter than she was. In her mind, that would be a victory on par with finally catching the Italian’s elusive nipple.


When the rod-to-rod meeting finally happened, it was not the way Dominique wanted it. After a last second dodge, her right nipple managed to hit the brunette’s dark brown counterpart head-on…but her foe’s nipple rammed forward at the same time. The mutual tip-to-tip collision sent a visible shiver all the way through the women’s lascivious bodies, and the faintest little ‘owww’ escaped from their thick, juicy lips. Still, Dominique managed to keep her nipple pressed against Francesca’s, and her beautiful antagonist gave no ground either.


It was then that the spectacular redhead first noticed. Among all the male and female sexual odors that now dominated the room, a very specific blend of aromas prominently reached her nose. Unable to believe it, she leaned all the way forward and put her face right between her rival’s big breasts. As her flaming red locks brushed sensuously across Francesca’s remarkable cleavage, she took a deep breath and filled her lungs with the Italian woman’s fragrance. Her suspicions were confirmed and, in a flash, the expression on her face changed completely. None of the anger, or resentment, or ill will that she had shown towards her nemesis up to that point could even come close to the murderous, blinding hatred that suddenly filled her attractive emerald green eyes, because what she smelled on the skin of that gorgeous Florentine was the smell of Jaques’ ejaculation. Then, suddenly, her mind connected the dots, and the enigma of the strange smell that still marked her pussy was solved: it was Francesca Bellini’s sexual scent, left inside her by her lover’s traitorous cock.


“Fucking whore…and dirty bastard,” Dominique grunted before pushing Francesca back to separate their bodies. Looking around, she raised her irritated voice: “Everyone out of this room! Everyone but Jaques!”


No one dared to reply to the fierce redhead, not with that choleric look dancing on her face. As the nobles left the place, Dominique knew that her personal duel with Francesca was about to become more private. And that, between women, always meant danger.




To be continued!