Rachel vs Astrid (Patreon)

Sperm whales and Krakens have been rivals since ancient times. In this more civilized age, the two have had to set aside their relentless struggle to wipe each other out, but some enmity still remains.

It's easy for Astrid and Rachel to find some privacy for their many, many duels. Their aquatic nature allows them to find any sort of secluded island, grotto, or lagoon with the oceans, seas, and great lakes.

No blows are exchanged, nothing that would force them to receive medical attention. Most assume that each woman returns exhausted from a session of secret training, not actual one-on-one combat. And in a way, they are right.

Astrid and Rachel lock horns in a mighty full-body clinch, a grappling duel with quarter neither offered nor given, refusing to yield until at least one of them can no longer fight. Feet firmly planted, stripped of all subtlety and nuance, the two oceanic juggernauts take each other head-on, accepting the full force of each other's body with eager ferocity.

Wrestling back and forth, up and down their chosen coast, all around their private arena, lathered in saltwater and sweat, whalegirl and octogirl unknowingly reenact their ancestors' ritual combat, tribes pitting their greatest warriors against one another in vicious embrace.

In most hand-to-hand combat, the clinch is a technique meant to slow the fighting to enable some measure of recovery. Between Astrid and Rachel, their clinching becomes something else entirely, their clinching IS the fight, and there is no need nor desire to stall their match.

Instead of entangling or restricting, their arms pull each other in, enhancing the force of their thrusting and heaving. Instead of slow, grinding struggle, their movements are intense, rapid, even savage, willingly expending their stamina instead of slowly regaining it. Their meaty bodies clap and smack, exchanging short, small, powerful bodychecks at closer-than-point-blank range.

Their mighty voluptuousness becomes both sword and shield, heaving great punishment upon the opponent and absorbing great punishment from the opponent, their tits and bellies and hips slamming together like living battering rams. It is as close to equal punishment as unarmed combat can become, sharing the impact and pressure of their clash without any attempt to avoid or lessen the force of their joining.

Driving deep inside each other's guard, willingly trapped within a sweaty, meaty deadlock, panting, gasping, grunting, both combatants fight to flatten each other, to force each other onto their backs, to mount and pound each other into the sand until only the victor is left standing, is left conscious.

Their battle becomes a furious slog, their massive bosoms slowly crushing each other into milky mammary softness, their grunting and panting becoming groaning bellows and rumbling growls as they draw on deeper reserves to feed into their grappling. They wrestle at feverish pace, refusing to back down, their bountiful curves quivvering and jiggling with each collision.

The slugfest burns through minutes, then hours, Astrid and Rachel's world shrinking down to the super-heavyweight clinching duel between them. Dozens of thrusts become hundreds, hundreds of thrusts becomes thousands, thousands of thrusts become tens of thousands. The two feed body-squashing thrust after body-squashing thrust into their ravenous primal meatgrinder.

The deep meaty smacks and squelches, the intensely-paced rhythm, the full-throated animalistic noise forced out each woman's throat gives this duel the sound of mating beasts.

And perhaps this is not far from the truth.

A fire burns and swells within both women's heart and core. It is not just fed by pride and aggression.

It is fueled by lust.