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Editor’s note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.
The well-aged house, one that sat at the very center of one of New York’s most prestigious and desired neighborhoods, was pristine, beautiful, and decorated in every way that a home could be decorated for the joyous December season. It was, in its lights and displays – pomp and circumstance, an absolute testament to how much planning and thought had been devoted to this day — to Christmas Day in the Budreau household.
Despite that attention to even the most minute of details and exiguous of minutia, the list of those things mother Budreau forgot to buy for this year’s legendary Christmas dinner, was… well… legendary.
Each item shouted in panic by mama, as around her rushed cousins and uncles – nephews and nieces. Each of them coming up with their own plan for the best way to get all that was needed. They, in a cacophony of unquestioned certainty and unchecked dismissiveness, squabbled in the pettiest of ways, about who should go and where – whose car should be taken, and whose black Master Card used.
To an outsider, the madness and manic of the conversation would have seemed like the summation of every terrible family event they had ever lived in real life, seen on TV, or watched on the big screen. A veritable swirl of words and wagers — offers and counters, that only ended when each and all of the spoiled and starving family Budreau ran out from their beautiful family home. The mass of them splitting up and heading to their own cars on exit. Each intending to get the brand they preferred, in the amounts they estimated, from the store they swore by, at a price they found appropriately expensive and unattainable by most. No compromise allowed. No compromise even considered.
In their exodus and haste, only two persons were left in their gleaming and glimmering home. Two women who had never met in person, or communicated in anything other than projected silence from the other side of other’s phone calls and family group texts. Two women who were known by all to dislike each other, though dislike is far too soft a word and caring a conjuration of language.
No, a better term would be hated. LOATHED. Each bristling at the very thought of being in the same house as the other, even amongst so many. And yet, at that moment, as every other soul poured out into the cold New York day to find what was forgotten, there they sat. In luxurious armchairs, painfully aimed to face one another. That positioning was only tolerable because each had been surrounded by family, with their views of one another not just obscured but blocked in its entirety.
But as moments passed painfully, in a silence only filled with the crackling of the nearby gold-gated fire in place, Victoria and Armanda sat. Each of the two thick, busty girls acutely focused on the presence of the other, even though they each pretended not to be.
Their eyes averted, and yet still affixed.
Their heeled feet extended and crossed over their own ankle, only inches from the other’s pair. Both the brunette wife of the eldest Budreau son and the raven-haired sister of the same, claiming the space between them, without engaging. Without touching. The frost-hearted sister-in-laws hoping, that just by refusing to withdraw their own powerful and skirt-exposed legs, the other would be forced to do just that. Neither willing to give the other even the slightest victory, even in a contest as petty and imagined as who controlled the space between their chairs, in a living room neither owned.
Well… neither owned, yet. That distinction being at the very heart of the two women’s feud. For though both mama and papa Budreau lived, they were both old. Both failing. Evidenced by all that had been forgotten by mama for that Christmas day’s dinner. A year prior, there was no controversy as to who would own. Not the house. Not the cars. Not the jewelry. Not the money, in its deep, deep reserves.
For all of it – every line in the ledger, would have gone to Victoria. For though she was only the second born, the first, Amil Budreau, had fallen. To drugs. To gambling. Into the gutter. And by the wayside.
That is until she found him. Until Armanda laid her hands on the lost Budreau and healed the addictions that plagued him. Not with magic or religion – medicine or machination, but with the brutally effective whip and yoke of sexual prowess. A tool she wielded well. Her impressive, and drool-worthy breasts dragging Amil back to his feet. And her round and powerful lower-half keeping him in line and on track. Back to work. Back to the family. And most importantly, back into the will. Not just as a bit player, but as one receiving one of two halves. One going to Victoria, and the other to Amil, or in reality, Armanda, as Victoria suspected.
Suspicions though they were at first and technically, Victoria was right. Armanda was in control. Full, unabated control of Amil. And though she did love him, and bahis firmaları did plan on staying with him, even when his kindly old parents died, she would be taking charge of the money but of the family business. At least, the 50% she and her husband owned. The other half, being the inheritance of Victoria.
Facts, in line and together that slowly tugged at Victoria’s soul. Pushing and pulling the black-haired Budreau’s gaze to move from the stunning 15 foot Christmas tree to the red velvet couch, then to rows of Encyclopedias lining the shelves of a master-carved Chestmont oak bookshelf, and then finally, to the arm of Armanda’s chair. It was there Victoria saw the hand of the woman who had cost her millions. A Latina woman whose outstretched fingernails flashed with Christmas-themed glory, the designs of which were laced with silver and gold paint, more expensive than most could afford – save for Victoria. Each of the two inheritors already receiving sizeable monthly stipends meant to prepare them for life at the top of the ladder.
But as infuriating as those nails and what they represented were, as Victoria’s gaze continued to move across her rival’s body, it only got worse. For apart from their separation of purpose and division of interest, Armanda’s body could not be more alike her husband’s only sister than it was. A parity of beauty and frame each had recognized and stewed over every time they had seen each other in family photos or videos. Images, both moving and still, which were posted to Facebook with such regularity, that each was convinced the other had shared them and taken them, just to drive they, in particular, insane.
Such was the intensity of their similarity. Each sharing the same curves. Same straights. Same everything(!), save for their hair, eyes, and skin tones. Victoria’s locks laid across her shoulders night sky black, whereas Armanda’s did the same, but in a light, almost golden brown, that turned brighter and blonder at its tips approached. And where Victoria’s eyes were a beautiful crystal sapphire blue, Armanda’s were a rich, chocolate-coffee brown.
It was those disparate eyes that met without intention, as each let their eyes drift too far and too close to one another. Armanda’s drawn by her keen understanding of not only what Victoria believed her to be, but what the woman behind those beliefs had hoped for Amil’s future. That he would have stayed in his gutter, drowning himself in liquor and sorrow, and draining what little humanity he had left when his Latina savior found him.
What kind of sister would want such a terrible thing, Armanda thought to herself as she and her sister-in-law’s glares met and sparked in the air between them.
What kind of woman only marries a man for his money and then takes it from him when his parents die? Victoria festered over the quandary in a rage, as her narrowed eyes bored holes in the brunette interloper across from her.
The moment could not have been more intense, nor their locked glowers any more hot or hate-filled. And yet into that moment, the two women sunk. Finally free to be as they felt. Not needing to hide their resentment or contrary intentions. They were alone together for the first time, and finally, they could bathe in it. Their hatred. Their disgust. Their need to… to… neither could speak it or give it definition, but as that need grew, Victoria finally spoke. “I don’t think you’ve had the decency to introduce yourself to me, have you?”
Before responding, Armanda chuckled to herself, both irritated and entertained by the comment. “Decency? To introduce myself? To YOU?” As Armanda spoke, her head tilted to the right, her eyes conveying how ready she was to speak her truth. “To the sister who wanted my husband to die? Who only cares about fucking money…?”
Armanda was not done, and yet Victoria was once again ready to speak, and as a result, the black-haired heir rudely interrupted the lecturing brunette. “I’m the one who only cares about money? Oh. My. God! Fuck you! You’re the one, who…”
Victoria did not pause, nor Armanda let her continue speaking, for, in a flash of their white-hot hatred being released upon each other, they each began to yell from their armchairs. Louder and louder, their words intermingling and crossing over until neither could hear the other speak or even the words they spoke themselves.
Each of the two hate-filled women leaning forward in their chairs and closer to one another. Their faces contorted with rage as they screamed at one another. Each revealing to the other in their blistering tirade, years of unspoken animosity and unsalved wounds. Until finally, the two soon to be matriarchs of the family could take not a second more. An inability which pushed them to launch from their chairs and towards each other, each bringing themselves to a stop with their ample and heaving chests only inches apart.
Yet even at that reduced, and in someways imaginary distance, each felt compelled to pull closer kaçak iddaa – push nearer. And though for a moment they resisted that urge, as their heads shifted from one side to the other, their hands raising and whipping in dramatic and threatening gestures. But then it happened. Then they heard it, as their yelling began to lessen, and their spewing of words started to slow.
“I will make your life a living hell in this family, cunt,” Victoria promised, her eyes as hard and hateful as a woman’s can be.
“The only hell I can imagine, bitch… would be if you had gotten what you wanted. Your brother dead, and out of your way…” Acidic though it was, the comment expressed exactly what Armanda believed – what she felt to her very core.
That sincerity, however, did little to lessen its effect on Victoria – whose eyes expanded from narrow to wide, just before…
“FUCK YOU, LIAR!!” They were words, but the raven-haired daughter of the most well-to-do family on the block almost spat them – as if every syllable were launched from a swirling pool of wrath in the pit of her stomach. But the words did not come alone, for as they flew from lip to ear, Victoria attacked. Reaching with both hands, as she lunged, for Armanda’s bright brown hair.
And though Armanda wanted it. Craved it. The confrontation and engagement that was finally taking shape between she and her chief rival, the Latina did not grab back. Restraining herself, even as Victoria forced her backward and into a small gap between the Christmas Tree and fireplace. Even as her husband’s sister pressed her into that space, chest-to-chest, their faces only centimeters apart. Instead, Armanda just glared in silence. Even as her breasts and Victoria’s met and molded together through their tops.
“Take it fucking back…” Victoria demanded, her eyes hyper-focused on Armanda’s every expression and movement, intentional or not. Only offering the chance at peace, because Armanda had yet to react or retaliate.
Wanting to drag the response out of her, the daughter Budreau tugged at Armanda’s hair with those grips purchased by fingers deeply laced and twisted in her rival’s silk-shimmer hair. Tugs which bent the caramel-skinned woman’s head back and to the side painfully, her lips almost losing their sneer as she tried bravely to endure the pain.
“Bitch! Take. It. BACK!” Victoria demanded again, as she pressed her body into Armanda’s. Pinning her there, in that smallest of spaces, wanting to impress upon the interloper both literally and figuratively dominance. Control. Victoria hoping that if what she had seen so far was the depth of the Latina’s reserve, she might be controlled. Controlled not just in that moment, but going forward. In life, business, and all matters in which they would have otherwise tangled.
As that hope brewed, Armanda just remained, with her hands at her sides – saying nothing – doing nothing apart from existing there between the wall and her sister-in-law. Their thick, curvy bodies locked together, and their eyes fused as if they could look nowhere else. But just as it seemed as if the two women would be stuck there together for eternity, Victoria felt a deep gouging pain in both of her blush-reddened cheeks. A pain brought upon by Armanda’s Christmas decorated nails dug in, which the Latina had finally raised and used to retaliate. Using them to not only stab in but then drag down. Amil’s wife using her sharp digit-tips to cause thin, red lines to form on her raven-haired rival’s face, and a shrill, echoing, howl of pain to rip through her lips.
Enough, such an attack wasn’t, however, for just as Victoria’s expression of confidence melted away, Armanda spit. Not figuratively, but literally, as the Latina’s saliva landed in one of the freshly created wounds on the side of her rival’s face, just as that face turned away in anguish. Fingers releasing. Hands withdrawing, and a press of bodies ending, as the daughter Budreau tried to find the room to recover, but beforehand suffer.
But as she made that attempt, the heiress quickly found herself beset, as Armanda grabbed, and secured two handfuls of Victoria’s top. A grip Amil’s wife then used to try and drag Victoria back to her. And though the pull was strong, Victoria resisted, both on purpose and in effect, as she collapsed to her knees on the carpeted floor, clutching her cheeks. A sudden giving that caused her shirt to yank up and out of her skirt, and then in half, over her shoulders.
Being both resourceful and vengeful, Armanda decided to use the unexpected partial disrobing to her advantage, clutching and wrapping the top with her right hand around Victoria’s face, just as the arms of the same pulled free. There, over her rival’s eyes and mouth, the Latina kept it, as she bent her own body over her foe, and with her left hand tore down her sister-in-law’s bra.
“You trying to dominate me…?” Armanda asked as she reached for Victoria’s now exposed left breast, though she already knew the answer. kaçak bahis “Huh, Vik-tooooooria…?” The angry wife added in taunt, as she dug her nails in deep once again — this time into much softer, more vulnerable skin.
Without even a second’s delay, the attack caused Victoria to scream out in pain. Her hands reaching not to her rival, but her own sweetheart top, which in its blinding placement, kept her from launching her own offense, or attempting escape. On it, she pulled desperately, even as her rival continued to claw at her breast.
“Owe, bitch! OOOWWWEEEE!” Victoria yelped and whined through the tightly pulled fabric of her top, as Armanda continued her vicious attack. And though she might have clung to her rival’s shirt, and its blinding and binding effects longer, the angry wife was focused. Focused not on that game of tug-of-war, but on destroying Victoria’s agonizingly similar tits. Such destruction satisfied multiple goals. Punishing the black-haired bitch for all the wrong she had done to both Armanda and Amil. Impressing upon her rival in both family and soon business that of the two of them it would be she who clawed, who controlled. Then finally, to give some distance between their bodies and breasts, and to provide some end to the comparisons they had each obsessed over.
Sensing each of those ends were near at hand, Armanda dropped to her knees, just as Victoria found success is ripping her top off and away from her face. Once there, and as she pressed her own, still-clothed bosom and body into the back of her husband’s topless sister, the Latina hellcat reached around to apply her second, now free set of claws to her rival’s right breast. It took only a crackle or two of the nearby fire for Armanda to take her target. And then, as she had with Victoria’s left breast, the enraged wife dug her nails deep, only to drag them down savagely a moment later.
As Victoria screamed in horror, and as small trickles of blood began to drip down her poor, wounded left breast, she panicked, and in desperation, slammed her head back. The rear of her skull slamming hard into her Latina tormentor’s forehead, a blow that not only forced her to retract her hands but also to collapse back onto the carpeted floor, just beneath the warm crackle of the fireplace.
At that moment Victoria could have run. Could have fled the battle, and the crazy woman who had so willingly torn at her soft, alabaster white skin. But instead driven by so many different things that she could barely understand them, let alone enumerate them. Mystery though they were, they still compelled. Still drug her, as if it were fate, to turn and dive atop her enemy — this meddler who had pried her way into the Budreau family, with illest of intentions and by the vilest of machinations. But given the thickness of body and bust each of the two women shared, when Victoria landed atop her foe, she did so in a crash. The underside of the enraged sister’s round ass and powerful legs, slamming down on Armanda’s kicked-up skirt and muscle-etched thighs.
The impact of the landing hurt both of the warring women, but more so she beneath. That being Armanda, who held her head as if it were a Qianlong Vase that had been cracked in twain. And while she groaned at the sudden and unexpected slam, Victoria endured it. She reaching and then ripping her sister-in-law’s deep V top from her skirt, and then pulling it up and over the head and shoulders of the same.
“YOU FUCKING, BITCH!” The raven-haired sister screamed, as she removed the cleavage-exposing top and tossed it away. The hands of the remover only a second thereafter moving to her rival’s bra. Wanting access. Wanting to do to Armanda what had been done so cruelly to her.
Successful though Victoria was at pulling the beautifully-laced Fox and Rose bra from her enemy’s tits, that same enemy abruptly fought back. She letting her bruised face be so that she might use her hands to reach up and take back what she had owned before – the breasts of the woman atop her.
But as the hands of one reached up, the hands of the other reached down – the latter with greater speed. A speed which meant that before Armanda could take her rival’s tauntingly abundant tit-flesh into her own hands, she found that of her own already grabbed and skewered by the nails of the same.
“AAarrrrgggghhhhh!! BITCH!” Armanda screamed in agony as her hands, which had traveled up and towards softer targets, immediately diverged to grasp at Victoria’s wrists.
“How do you fucking like it, slut? HUH!?” The daughter Budreau asked teasingly, as she twisted and drove. Using her dagger-tip sharp nails into dig into the breasts of the woman who had only moments earlier done the same.
Armanda wanted to reply. To attack. To find some escape or counter, to seize control from her rival, but instead, she did all that she could muster: pry and whimper. Her eyes welling with tears, as her own flesh began to give way to wound. A small, pool of red forming between her mountainous breasts. And though Victoria believed said river was from Armanda alone, in truth, it was from them both. Each bleeding and dripping, from the effects of the other’s hate-and-jealousy-fueled violence.
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