MILK UDDERS, part 26 (Patreon)

“You wish.” Melania pushed forward with her fat breasts, and the pressure caused a few more drops of fresh milk to soak both shirts. “I still have plenty left to give. From my size, you should be able to imagine how much…”

“Oh, please.” Bianka rolled her eyes just before pressing her own big bust against Melania’s—the fight of boobs slowly resuming under the spark of the words of challenge and comparation, regardless of the recent mutual humiliation. “Deal with it, you black cow. If it’s about size, I have much more milk to offer than you.”

“This has always been about size, white cow,” the Italian beauty grunted, her heavy glands pushing against Bianka’s as the two girls tried to control their breaths against each other with each.

“Agree,” the Austrian added as she returned every chest pressure and rub. “But also about milk.”

As if her own bosoms were listening to her rival’s words, Melania noticed how the harsh and increasing compression from Bianka’s breasts forced a little more milk from her nipples. It was as if her best virtues were already so battered that they could no longer stop secreting little drops of disgrace, even with no more stimulation on her hard nipples than the firm orbs of the white-haired woman rubbing through shirts against them. But, as both of them squeezed their DD-cup boobs together, Melania could somehow feel that the wet fabrics separating the massive weapons were becoming stained with more milk than just hers. The delicious, unmistakable sensation of Bianka’s milk spilling drop by drop onto her white T-shirt accelerated the brunette’s offensive, and soon the two opposing milkmaids found themselves slapping their engorged breasts face to face with momentum and hunger.

The heat of midday coupled with the physical and mental fatigue accumulated by the girls since the morning to turn the female duel into a war of carnal and liquid attrition, fought against a surge of dirty sensations, with blows through shirts that sought to crush and drain. The large globes met over and over again, with Melania eager to push Bianka’s pair beyond the limit before it was her own mammary glands which were overwhelmed first. The exchange of impacts between the most belligerent boobs in a continent forged in warfare soon intensified, the sound of the fleshy masses echoing in the air so loudly that Melania seriously believed that someone would hear the rumble from miles away like the drums of an army.

But what really worried the Italian beauty wasn’t that they would suddenly be caught in the act by a hiker or mountain biker, but the milk that her sexy bosoms kept spitting out. Bust thrust after bust thrust, she gave in more and more milk against her will—sometimes a few drops, sometimes a shameful squirt, but the loss was constant. It was an involuntary response, an extremely embarrassing reminder of her own dirty vulnerability and, for the first time, she really felt like the black cow her nemesis insultingly claimed she was.

“You won’t tame me as if I were a farm animal.” Melania thought she hissed, but quickly realized that it was Bianka’s irritated voice and not her own that was spitting out such words. “I’m not going to let you milk me.”

“You think you can handle me as if I were one of your cows, but you are very wrong,” Melania replied with a mixture of resentment and determination, grasping at the desperation she felt in her busty opponent to overcome the constant and despairing loss of milk to which she was being forced. “You’re not going to pump my milk out.”

“You’re nothing more than a stubborn cow,” her white-haired foe grunted. “It’s impossible for you to be so blinded by your own arrogance that you don’t realize how much milk I’m pumping out of you.”

“You can say all the shit you want, but that won’t make it real.” Melania’s dark eyes blazed with hatred, her retort sharp and loaded with contempt. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how your own tits betray your cocky words!”

“Look who’s talking!” Bianka spat out. “Talk about your own tits, girl!”

“Your milk is leaking out, just like mine!” the brunette found herself confessing. “The difference is that yours comes out faster and harder than mine!”

“I highly doubt that!” the Austrian woman retorted.

Melania’s teeth clenched as her breaths growing heavier, as her breasts pushed forward with even more purpose. The tension between the petite milkmaids escalated, fueled by their mutual observation of each other’s nasty vulnerability, and each attack of their fat bosoms was accompanied by a mix of defiance and discomfort, an ongoing clash that left no room for respite. Melania soon felt the weight of her black shirt getting soaked with her own and other’s milk, and wondered how much more her prominent glands could give.

With nature as the only witness, the Italian beauty continued to struggle fiercely, her milk squirting and her skin sweaty under the sun in a competition for a breast supremacy that she had taken for granted since her teenage years. The ample boobs of the smug blue-eyed milkmaid who had unexpectedly appeared in her life kept getting in her way, blow after blow, spurt of milk after spurt of milk, in a haughty lack of submission, and Melania could only close her eyes to keep pounding until some kind of resolution came.

Melania’s thoughts and desires seemed to be answered immediately. The sexy brunette immediately picked up a subtle shift in the cadence of Bianka’s irregular gasps—a short moan preceding a quickening breath barely imperceptible except to the one who longed to hear it. As both impressive chests collided once again, Melania realized that Bianka’s breasts were somehow yielding, even if only slightly, to the relentless onslaught. With her heart racing and her milk-stained boobs pounding with a sense of urgency, the assault of the young southern woman gained determination. Just then, when the competing large orbs met with an almost magnetic force, it finally happened.

Bianka Lautermilch, the woman who had turned Melania’s unworried, satisfactory life into a mess of hesitation and madness in just two days, let out such a piercing cry—a mixture of anguish and incredulity—that the brunette thought it would have been heard all over the valleys of the mountain pass. Against her breasts, Melania felt Bianka shaking vigorously, just before the Austrian pushed herself apart and, staggering three, four steps back, landed on her ass on the soft grass with a thud. With a decadent but pleasurable victorious feeling flooding through her, Melania watched as Bianka took her hands where her white shirt was most drenched. Her adversary’s fingers grasped both dense breasts as her ragged breathing quickened, and the Italian could perceive beyond the fabric the Austrian’s swollen nipples throbbing in what was undeniably a humiliating and generous milk expulsion.

Drenched in sweat and milk, panting and exhausted, Melania felt on cloud nine after having milked her buxom nemesis like never before to finally tip the scales in her favor in her unconventional rivalry with Bianka. Instinctively, she brought her own fingers to her victorious bust, and moaned at the wave of contradictory sensations that flooded her victorious flesh—it had been hard fought and evenly matched, a dirty duel unlike anything she had ever experienced, but it was worth it now that an immeasurable sense of raw pride was coursing through her body and mind.

Time seemed to stand still in the isolation bubble of the old train station. The distant sound of the cattle fair and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze mingled with the ragged breathing of the two busty women, their DD-cup bosoms heaving with exertion from the relentless conflict as they moved weightily in unison up and down on their torsos.

“Tamed.” With weariness weighing on her voice, Melania’s word broke the silence to soar into the air like a hymn to supreme arrogance. Then, she added another word, one that she knew would be even more painful to hear: “Milked.”

Bianka’s beautiful face contorted with resentment, her unwavering gaze locked on Melania as if attempting to convey a message of defiance through sheer willpower alone—the brunette saw an intense fire in her blue eyes, one that only a humiliating and surely unanticipated defeat could ignite.

“Neither one nor the other,” Bianka hissed, her fingers still not moving away from a pair of breasts that, in spite of everyone, still looked incredibly large and firm.

“Deny what you want, but it’s obvious you got what you deserved,” Melania said.

“You may have had your moment by sheer luck, but I’m not done with you. Far from it,” the Austrian retorted. “So don’t get ahead of yourself because this doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh, I know that if you’re anything like me you won’t be the type to give up so easily.” Melania’s full lips curled into a taunting smile as she leaned forward slightly, the fatigue in her body momentarily forgotten. “But remember this, you white cow: I have proven my point. I have shown you that you were living on illusions believing that you could milk me or that you had better tits than me.”

Something flashed in Bianka’s intense gaze, though it lasted only an instant. Melania didn’t know if it had been a moment of hesitation, but now there was only vanity in the other milkmaid’s blue eyes.

“Listen to me, black cow.” Bianka’s voice was dripping with venom. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re somehow better endowed than me just because now you’ve gotten a little more out of me than I’ve gotten out of you.”

“That’s preciselywhat I’m thinking,” Melania replied. “This has been a milking contest between us since this morning, so my tits win, and yours lose, with all that that implies.”

Bianka’s beautiful lips pressed into a tight line, her anger palpable even as she held her retort. Her defiant posture remained unchanged, and her blue eyes kept locked onto Melania’s dark ones with an intensity that spoke volumes. In that moment, the Italian beauty realized that she had silenced her mortal enemy, leaving her without a valid argument to counter the vicious humiliation of defeat.

“Yeah, I thought so…” Melania said arrogantly before rocking her long black hair in the electrified air. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with your dear Francesco. I promised him the best day of his life, remember?” She leaned forward again a little. “And as you well know, I always keep my promises, you black cow. So give me her address so I can show her what a real woman feels like.”

“Find out for yourself, you bitch,” Bianka grunted. Then, with a sudden surge of strength, the northern woman rose to her feet.

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Words: 1814