Chapter 6: Volleyball Vengeance
The taste lingered on his tongue, sweet and faintly metallic, like the memory of a childhood treat. Alfredo stayed on his knees, his forehead pressed against the warm skin of Samari’s belly, the world reduced to the sound of his own ragged breath and the slow, returning lap of the pool water. His body felt hollowed out, light and used.
Samari’s fingers untangled from his hair, the gesture almost tender. Maria released him, wiping her hand on the discarded beach towel with a brisk, practical motion.
“Well,” Maria said, her voice slicing through the humid silence. “That was efficiently handled.” She bent, a smooth arch, and picked up his swim shorts, tossing them onto his bare thigh. “Cover up, soldier. The wildlife show is over.”
He fumbled with the fabric, his limbs loose and uncoordinated. As he stood, the world tilted slightly. Samari had already tied her robe, cinching it tight. She wouldn’t look at him directly, but a faint, pink flush colored her neck. Maria, having pulled her tube top back on, was collecting the volleyball, her movements crisp.
“I need to move,” Samari announced, her voice a little too bright. “My ducts feel… looser. Better.” She rotated her shoulders. “Game’s still tied, isn’t it?”
Maria caught the ball, her palm slapping against the leather. A slow smile spread. “It is. And I think we left the equipment in a state of distress.” She nodded toward the sagging net.
What followed was a silent, mutual agreement to burn the strange energy in the air through physical exertion. They took positions without another word. Alfredo sank back into the cracked plastic of the lounge chair, a spectator once more, his body a repository of fading tremors and new, confused exhaustion.
The first volleys were cautious, lazy arcs over the net. The rhythmic thump-thump of the ball was hypnotic. Samari’s robe, while tied, gaped with each reach, offering flashes of heavy, swaying flesh. Maria’s top contained her, but the outline was a perfect, defiant sculpture against the dusk sky.
The civility lasted four minutes.
It was Samari who broke it. Maria served a gentle, high ball. Samari leaped, not to set it, but to spike. She came down on it with a vicious, overhand slam. The ball didn’t aim for the open court. It was a line drive, direct and brutal, and it struck Maria directly on the left side of her chest with a sound like a wet melon hitting concrete.
THWACK.
Maria stumbled back a step, a sharp gasp ripped from her. Her hand flew to the impact site, her knuckles white. “Jesus, Sam!”
“Oh, sorry!” Samari called, not sounding sorry at all. She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Forgot those fancy new tits might be a little tender. All that silicone… does it bruise?”
Alfredo sat up. The air crackled.
Maria recovered, her eyes narrowing. She scooped the ball, her expression cool. “Not at all. They’re very durable. Unlike naturally overinflated assets.” She served. Not a lob. A low, hard, underhand rocket.
It whistled across the net and connected with the underside of Samari’s right breast with a sickening, meaty thud.
“Ow! Fuck!” Samari doubled over, clutching herself. The engorged flesh had jiggled violently on impact. “You bitch!”
“My turn to apologize,” Maria said, her voice sweet as poison. “I forgot lactating tits are basically water balloons. Must be so… sensitive.”
The game dissolved. It was no longer volleyball. It was a duel. The rules evaporated. The only objective was to strike the other’s breasts. Serve, return, smack. They didn’t try to keep it in play. They aimed.
Thump. A red bloom on Maria’s sternum.
Slap. A welt forming on Samari’s ribcage.Crack. The ball grazing a swollen nipple, making Samari hiss.
Whump. A direct hit on Maria’s implant, the solid thunk echoing.
Back and forth. They grunted with effort, with pain. Sweat gleamed on their skin. Samari’s breasts swung and slapped against her own body with each frantic movement, leaving pink marks on themselves. Maria’s remained high and firm, but the skin across them grew angrily flushed, the perfect canvases now mottled with trauma.
After a dozen brutal exchanges, they were heaving, standing ten feet apart, chests rising and falling. The ball lay forgotten between them. Both women had their hands on their knees, wincing with each breath.
“Truce,” Samari panted, a strand of sweat-damp hair stuck to her cheek.
“Truce,” Maria agreed, her voice ragged. She straightened slowly, probing the edge of her left breast with careful fingers. “Christ. That’s going to be a masterpiece of a bruise.”
“Mine feel like they’ve been used as punching bags. By a heavyweight.”
They limped over to the lounge chairs, collapsing on either side of Alfredo. The scent of their exertion—salty sweat, heated skin, the faint chlorine—filled his nostrils. Samari untied her robe, letting it fall open to the cool evening air. “God, they’re throbbing.”
Maria peeled off her tube top with a pained wince. The contrast was stark. Samari’s heavy breasts bore angry red splotches and the beginning of deep, mauve bruises, the veins standing out in vivid relief. Maria’s implants were untroubled beneath the skin, but the surface was a landscape of scarlet impact marks, the edges already purpling.
“Aloe,” Maria muttered, gesturing weakly toward the house. “In the fridge. The blue tub. Get it.”
He moved as if in a dream, retrieving the large tub of cooling gel. When he returned, they were both waiting, eyes closed, heads back.
“You do it,” Samari said, not opening her eyes. “Your hands are already acquainted.”
“Be gentle,” Maria added. “But thorough.”
He knelt on the concrete between them. The tub opened with a pop, releasing a clean, medicinal smell. He scooped a generous mound of the clear gel, its chill sharp against his fingers.
He started with Samari, as seemed expected. His left hand, trembling slightly, cupped the heavy, warm weight of her injured right breast. He applied the gel, spreading it over the heated skin. A sharp intake of breath from her. He worked it in with slow, circular motions, his palm sliding over the incredible softness, his fingers tracing the tender curve. Her nipple, large and dark, hardened almost instantly under his passing thumb. He could feel the deeper ache in the tissue, the fullness that had nothing to do with the game. He massaged the bruise on the side, his touch firm enough to press into the soreness. She moaned, a low, ragged sound, her head rolling to the side.
“Yeah… right there. That’s the spot.”
He switched to her left breast, repeating the process, worshiping the injury, feeling the life in it, the sheer mammalian reality. She was all give, all vulnerable response.
Then he turned to Maria. He scooped fresh gel. His right hand settled on the smooth, burning curve of her left implant. The difference was profound. There was no yield. His fingers glided over a surface as firm as a polished gourd, yet warm with borrowed blood. The skin was hotter than Samari’s, the inflammation sitting on top of the immutable silicone. He worked the gel into the scarlet patch, feeling the unyielding wall beneath. There was no deep tissue to soothe, only surface damage. It was like applying balm to a statue left in the sun.
Yet her reaction was just as visceral. A long, shuddering sigh escaped her. Her back arched slightly, pushing her chest into his hand. “Mmmm. The cold is perfect. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He ministered to each red mark on her perfect topography, a careful cartographer of pain. Her nipples, small and precise, pebbled under his attention, but the flesh around them didn’t jiggle or settle. It was geometry, thermodynamics. His thumb passed over a permanent idea of a breast.
He served them both, his hands moving in tandem, a minister tending to two截然不同的 altars.
Under his touch, the competitive fury evaporated, replaced by a shared, breathy immersion in sensation. Samari’s hand came up, covering his on her breast, pressing his fingers deeper into the softness. Maria’s leg shifted, her foot brushing his thigh.
He was painfully hard again, his swim trunks straining. The earlier release felt like a distant memory, overwritten by the immediacy of this: his palms on their bare, damaged flesh, their sighs harmonizing in the darkening air.
Samari opened her eyes, her gaze hazy with pain and pleasure. She looked past him at Maria. “Still think yours are better?”
Maria kept her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. “They don’t ache like yours do. They just… exist. Perfectly.”
“This isn’t an ache,” Samari murmured, her voice thick. She guided Alfredo’s hand in a slow, milking motion against her bruise. “It’s a reminder. It’s proof of something real.” Her other hand drifted down, finding the prominent bulge in his shorts. She palmed him through the fabric, a slow, knowing squeeze. “See? He knows the difference.”
Maria’s eyes snapped open. She watched Samari’s hand on him. Her own hand came down, not to his lap, but to cover his hand on her own breast, mimicking Samari’s possessive grip. “He knows a novelty when he feels one. Something soft and available. But what does he dream about? What does he fixate on in his lonely, sexless bed?” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper aimed at Alfredo’s ear. “Do you dream of pillows, Fredo? Or do you dream of monuments?”
He was trapped between their words, between their hands. Samari’s fingers worked him through the fabric, a rough, demanding friction. Maria’s grip on his hand forced him to knead her unyielding flesh.
“I think,” Samari said, her breath coming faster, “he needs a clearer demonstration. Of utility.” She tugged at his waistband. “Get these off. Again.”
He was beyond resisting. He pushed the trunks down, his erection springing free. The evening air was a cool shock against his feverish skin.
But Samari didn’t take him in her hand. Instead, she shifted on the lounge chair, spreading her legs. She guided his head, not toward her breast, but downward, between her thighs. The robe fell away completely. The scent here was different—musky, primal, utterly female. “You said you wanted the garden,” she breathed, her fingers tightening in his hair. “So tend to it. All of it.”
He needed no further urging. He buried his face in the coarse, wet curls, his tongue finding her slit. She was already swollen, slick. He lapped at her, a starving man at a feast. She tasted of salt and deep, hidden warmth. Her hips lifted off the chair to meet his mouth.
Above him, Maria watched for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she stood. She walked around behind Samari’s lounge chair, looking down at the scene: Alfredo’s head buried between Samari’s thighs, his body crouched, his ass in the air, his hard cock bobbing uselessly.
“A monument,” Maria said quietly, “isn’t just for looking at.” She positioned herself behind him. He felt her cool, gel-slick hands grip his hips. Her perfect, augmented chest pressed against his back, the hard curves a bizarre contrast to the soft, wet heat his face was buried in.
She guided the head of his cock, not inside her, but between the firm, massive swell of her own breasts. She squeezed them together around his shaft, creating a tight, slick channel of silicone and skin.
“There,” she murmured into his ear, her voice vibrating through his skull as she began to move her upper body, rocking her breasts up and down his length. “Now you have both. The garden in your mouth. The monument on your cock. Let’s see which one makes you break.”
It was an impossible sensory overload. Samari bucked against his tongue, her moans escalating into sharp, broken cries, her hands forcing his face deeper. Maria’s artificial cleavage was a cool, constricting vise around his dick, the rhythm of her movement deliberate and relentless. The world vanished into a tunnel of taste and pressure and heat.
Samari came first, a muffled scream tearing from her as her back arched off the chair, her thighs clamping around his head. The convulsive pulsing against his tongue was the trigger. The coiling tension in his gut, wound tight by the dual stimuli, snapped.
He ripped his mouth from Samari with a gasping sob as his own orgasm exploded. He fucked upward, mindlessly, into the tight, smooth channel of Maria’s chest. Thick, pearlescent streaks shot across her collarbone, over the slope of one perfect, silicone mound, and onto Samari’s trembling, sweat-sheened belly below.
The aftermath was a tangle of panting breath and dripping silence. Maria released him, looking down at the mess splashed across her skin and Samari’s with a curious detachment. Samari lay boneless, one arm flung over her eyes.
Alfredo slumped forward onto his elbows, his face resting on Samari’s inner thigh, his body utterly spent. The blue tub of aloe lay tipped over on its side, a slow, clear gel spreading across the cracked concrete like a benediction no one had asked for.
From inside the house, muted by glass, a phone began to ring. It was Maria’s landline, the old-fashioned trill persistent and sharp. It rang once, twice, three times.
None of them moved to answer it.
The phone’s insistent ringing cut off on the fourth trill, leaving a silence that was heavier than before, filled only with the wet sounds of their breathing and the distant filter hum.
Samari lifted her arm from her eyes. She stared at the white streaks drying across her stomach, then at Maria’s glistening chest. A slow, incredulous laugh bubbled out of her, husky and drained. “Jesus. Look at us.”
Maria looked down. She swiped a finger through the spend on her collarbone, examining it. “Efficient,” she said again, but her voice lacked its earlier crispness. It was worn at the edges.
Alfredo couldn’t move. The chemical smell of the aloe mixed with the salt of sweat and the pungent, intimate musk on his face. His knees ached against the concrete. His dick, soft and spent, hung limp between his legs. He felt flayed open, every nerve ending scorched.
Samari shifted, wincing as her bruised breasts moved. She pushed at his shoulder. “Sit up. You’re crushing my leg.”
He managed to push himself back onto his haunches, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste of her was embedded in him.
Maria fetched a towel, wiping herself clean with methodical strokes before tossing it to Samari. They cleaned up in silence, a strange, domestic ritual after the carnage. The aloe had done its work; the angry red on their skin had faded to a pink glow. But the application, his thorough kneading, had left their nipples in a state of tight, hyper-aware erection. Samari’s were large and dark, jutting from the soft mounds like thumbs. Maria’s were smaller, but just as rigid, precise points on the smooth curves.
Samari caught Maria’s eye, then looked pointedly at Alfredo, who was trying, and failing, to will some strength back into his legs. A new, speculative glint appeared in her gaze.
“You know,” Samari said, her voice conversational. “We never really settled the earlier bet. About which of us… caused that.” She nodded toward the towel.
“We got distracted,” Maria replied, folding her arms beneath her breasts, which only pushed them up and highlighted their stiffened peaks. “By therapeutic massage and subsequent activities.”
“Right. So the core question remains.” Samari leaned forward, her eyes locked on Alfredo. “You got your release. Twice, actually. But it was a service. A treatment. It wasn’t a choice.” She paused, letting the words hang. “What if you earned it?”
Alfredo looked up, wary.
“Look at us,” Samari continued, a smile playing on her lips. She flicked a nail over her own erect nipple, making it bounce. “We’re both on fire from your little rub-down. Tuned up. Sensitive as hell.” She glanced at Maria. “I propose a game. A test of your legendary willpower, Fredo.”
Maria’s eyebrow arched. “I’m listening.”
“We each use one hand. We both rub that one stupid, sensitive spot you love so much. The tip. Just the very head of your cock.” Samari’s voice dropped to a low, challenging murmur. “We do it together. Relentlessly. For ten minutes straight. No stopping, no matter what you say.”
“And if he comes?” Maria asked.
“Then he loses. He gets nothing but the mess on his own stomach,” Samari said. “But if he can make it to ten minutes… if he can just take it… then he gets to choose. He can fuck whichever one of us he wants. Properly. Anyway he likes.”
The proposition slithered into the space between them, toxic and irresistible. It was a trap dressed as a prize. Alfredo felt a dull throb in his groin, a pathetic echo of interest. His body was exhausted, but the desperation, the years of want, were a deeper current.
“Ten minutes on that spot is an eternity,” Maria mused, a cruel smile finally touching her lips. She understood the mechanics of torture. “He’ll break.”
“Probably,” Samari agreed. She stood, walking over to him. She looked down at his softness. “But think of the motivation. You get to decide. The garden…” She cupped her own breast, weighing it in her hand. “…or the monument.” She nodded toward Maria. “You just have to endure a little hell to get to heaven.”
Maria came to stand on his other side. “We should talk while we do it. To keep his mind occupied.”
“Oh, we’ll talk,” Samari said, her eyes gleaming. She knelt in front of him. “Get him hard first. That’s part of the clock.”
Maria knelt behind him, her front against his back. Her hands snaked around his waist. Samari’s hands took him front and center. Their four hands were on him, not gentle, not teasing. They were efficient. Samari’s palms worked his shaft, pulling blood back into the soft tissue. Maria’s nails scraped lightly over his balls. It was clinical and brutal, and in moments, he was rigid again, throbbing in the cool air.
“Clock starts… now,” Maria whispered. She brought her right hand around, her index finger locating the hyper-sensitive frenulum on the underside of his glans. Samari’s left thumb settled on the very crown, over the slit.
They began.
A synchronized, relentless, circular rubbing on that one small, devastating area. It was not a stroke. It was a focused abrasion, a precise assault on the epicenter of his pleasure. The sensation was instant and electric, a jolt that shot straight up his spine.
“So, Fredo,” Samari said, her voice a conversational purr right in front of his face. “Think about it. My cunt is still dripping from your mouth. It’s all warmed up for you. It’s so fucking wet and soft. You could just sink into that, couldn’t you? Just push all that thickness into that tight, messy heat.”
Her thumb pressed harder, rotating.
Maria’s breath was hot in his ear. “But mine hasn’t been touched tonight. It’s pristine. It’s tight in a different way. Surgeons did a great job on the exterior, but they left the interior just as nature intended. Untouched. You’d be the first in a long, long time. Breaking a fresh seal. How’s that thumb feel, baby? Imagine it’s the head of your dick rubbing right against my cervix.”
Alfredo gritted his teeth. A whimper escaped. The dual sensation was monstrous. The filth pouring from their mouths painted vivid, brutal pictures that his brain couldn’t shut out.
“Three minutes,” Maria announced coolly, glancing at her wristwatch.
“Feeling that build already?” Samari crooned. She leaned closer, her swollen nipples brushing his knees. “I can feel your dick jumping under my thumb. It wants to spill. You want to pump a load into my fertile pussy, don’t you? Imagine it. Shooting deep, where it could actually take root. Where it’s meant to go.”
“He’d never risk it,” Maria countered, her finger working faster. “He’s a careful man. He’d want the safety of silicone. Nothing real. No consequences. Just a tight, sterile fuck. My tits bouncing in your face while you pound away, knowing they’ll never sag, never change.”
Five minutes. The pleasure was a white-hot coil, screwed tighter and tighter with each rotation. His hips began to jerk involuntarily. He was sweating, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“God, you’re leaking so much pre-come,” Samari laughed, smearing the slippery fluid with her thumb. “It’s like you’re already crying because you know you can’t hold out. You’re going to lose. You’re going to spurt all over nothing and then go home to your cold wife with empty balls and nothing to show for it.”
“Seven minutes,” Maria sang. Her voice was calm, almost lyrical. “Think of her, Fredo. Think of her back in your sterile bed. Would she ever talk to you like this? Would she ever get this dirty? Would she ever let you taste her, let you paint her tits? No. You get silence. You get neglect. This is all you’ll ever have. This memory. Of my perfect tits and her fertile cunt, and you, failing between them.”
The cruelty was exquisite. It tapped directly into the shameful, hidden core of his loneliness. The coil was at its breaking point. His breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps. His vision swam.
“Eight minutes,” Maria said. “Almost there. Just think of the prize. Which hole do you want to ruin?”
“Mine’s waiting,” Samari whispered, her eyes blazing. “It’s clenching right now, thinking about that fat cock.”
“Mine is tight and hungry,” Maria breathed.
Nine minutes and thirty seconds. Alfredo was shaking violently. A high, keening sound was trapped in his throat. The urge to erupt was a physical pain, a tsunami behind a dam of sheer, screaming will.
“Ten seconds!” Maria’s voice cut through the haze. “Five!Four! Three! Two… ONE!”
Their hands stopped.
The sudden absence of the sensation was almost as shocking as the sensation itself. He shuddered, whole body convulsing. He had not come. The orgasm hovered, a trapped, agonizing pressure just behind the brink. He swayed on his knees, dizzy, drenched in sweat, his cock pulsing angrily, dripping a steady stream of clear fluid.
Samari sat back on her heels, impressed. “Holy shit. You did it.”
Maria removed her hands, a look of genuine surprise on her face. “Well. There you go. The floor is yours, Alfredo. Choose.”
He could barely speak. His voice was a shredded rasp. “You… said… anyway I like.”
“That was the deal,” Samari said, her body already moving, anticipating.
He looked at Samari, at the lush, bruised reality of her. He looked at Maria, at her impeccable, heartless perfection. The choice wasn’t about preference. It was about need. It was about the deepest, oldest hunger.
He lifted a trembling hand. He pointed.
“Her,” he gasped. “But… from behind. And you…” His eyes, clouded with pain and triumph, shifted to the other. “You. In front. I want to see them. I want them in my face.”
He had not chosen one. He had demanded both.
A slow smile spread across Maria’s face. Samari’s eyes widened, then darkened with a fierce heat. They exchanged a glance. The rules of their game had just been rewritten by the winner.
“Greedy boy,” Maria murmured, but she was already moving, lying back on the lounge chair, her perfect breasts aimed at the sky.
“You earned it,” Samari said, her voice thick. She got on her hands and knees on the cracked concrete, presenting herself to him. “Now take it. Fuck the garden. Worship the monument. Let’s see if you can still move.”
Alfredo crawled forward, his body screaming in protest and anticipation. He positioned himself behind Samari, the head of his throbbing cock nudging against her slick, swollen entrance. He leaned forward, over her back, his face hovering above Maria’s chest.
He pushed into Samari’s heat in one deep, claiming stroke. She cried out, her back arching. At the same moment, he buried his face between Maria’s augmented breasts, his mouth searching for and finding a hard nipple.
He began to move, a broken, rhythmic grinding. Fucking one, sucking the other. The world dissolved into a symphony of slap of skin, muffled cries, and the raw, ragged sound of his own weeping breath as he finally took, without permission, what he had been starving for.