La Conquista

by Belial

The room was aggressively white: white walls, white floors, white furnishings, and outside, the equatorial sun blazed with a hot white glare that seemed to wash the world colourless in its wake. The girl in the stark black bathing suit stood out in that room as if she'd been painted into the scene - a figure in acrylic, set against a watercolour backdrop.

Diane Babcock looked back over her tanned shoulder to gaze at herself in the free standing full length mirror. Those legs were national treasures - all state 100m, 200m and 4X100 relay back in high school. She'd filled out some since then, but that 22 year old ass - so tight! The hips squared off beautifully and without a trace of cellulite. The deep cut back of her black one piece revealed the taut muscle tone and broad shoulders of the natural athlete, honed by a 100 dollar an hour trainer back in Manhattan. A penchant for martinis and late nights prevented her from looking 'cut', but when she moved, you could see the strength - there above the knee, through the thigh, the bicep. And that face: classic high-browed blonde, thin sexy lips and neck length bobbing hair that came straight out of a shampoo ad. Diane smiled at her own vanity. It had become her best, perhaps her only friend.

There was a quiet, professional knock on the door to her hotel suite. "Ola." Diane said, not taking her eyes off the contours of her reflection. In the mirror she saw the door open, and a young Brazilian man dressed in the all white livery of the Hotel Tantalus entered with a bow.

"Madame." The man said, in too-perfect english. "Your oils. The sand is hot today."

"The sand is hot every day."

"But today Madame may be on the sand rather longer than she anticipates."

Diane turned and fixed her pale, stained-glass blue eyes onto the attendant, who returned her look non-commitally. He had meant no insult; he was simply delivering the body oil that would protect her flesh from the sizzling heat of the beach during La Conquista. He was only doing his job. The tray was all moorish elegance, and the elaborate bottles upon it's silver surface glittered in the sunlight from the open veranda window. Allowing her temper to subside, Diane said, "Leave it on the table," and dismissed the porter with a gesture. Alone again, she took her time preparing her body with the cool, copper coloured liquid. With a lover's touch, her hands worked the oil into her flawless, golden flesh.

The sand was indeed scorching beneath the relentless beat of the Rio De Janeiro sun. Heat distortion in the distance lent a dreamy, surrealistic atmosphere to the private beach, with its incredible bleached bone sand melting into the impossible blue water. Above, not a cloud in the sky, nor a breeze in the air disturbed the sucking swelter of high noon. As Diane approached the La Conquista 'court', she could see through squinting eyes perhaps a score of onlookers already gathered in their white beach chairs, protected by their oversized umbrellas, sipping drinks, and staring silently at her approach. They wavered insubstantially in the distance, dotting the sea-side length of the court, which was in actuality a marked off stretch of beach 100 yards by 15 yards, upon which she would contest against another woman in the sultry Brazilian tradition of La Conquista. Diane's heart throbbed in her chest at the prospect - if only daddy knew what his gold card was buying down here. Then again, the bastard probably did.

Diane recognized the woman from the previous day's contest. Wearing sunglasses and a black French cut bikini with silver between the breast cups and a gold armlet, Isabel was a prototypical, coffee coloured local girl, with long, silky black tresses and stunning Castillian features. She rose slowly from a table and strutted towards Diane with an attendant in tow. Yesterday, she had taken over an hour to push another Latin girl down the length of the beach, and had so captivated the tourists and Brazilian jet set, that Diane had known in her cells what was going to happen even before the thought had occurred. Seeing the marvelous flesh of this exotic beauty before her, feeling the threat to her own self-esteem at the sensuous strength the woman possessed, Diane felt more alive than at any time since she had quit track - and that was only a dull thrill in comparison. The memory of spiking another runner who had beaten her twice one season was closer to the mark. The feeling Diane had had when that girl had fallen hard to the track, crying and clutching at her badly bruised ankle, was something she couldn't explain, and perhaps didn't want to. Nevertheless, it, that fury within her, was something she could count on, something she needed to unleash. Something she desperately wanted to display to this Isabelle.

The dark beauty removed her glasses and came to a stop three feet in front of Diane, cocked her head to one side and brushed a hand through her thick mane of hair, exaggerating it's luster and length. Her liquid chocolate eyes challenged the blonde. She was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Diane's 5'6", but seemed taller. The judge, wearing a white cap to go with his suit smiled warmly at Diane, as if to say "we are all friends here, wealthy American tourist." What he did say was, "Miss Babcock, welcome to the beach. Are you aware of the rules?"

"Enlighten me." Diane said, her voice harsher than intended. She was feeling incredible pressure from Isabelle's near naked presence and calm demeanour. She was anxious to start.

"The course is one hundred meters in length, slightly longer than your American yards."

"I know what meters are."

"Yes. You will start at the halfway point and propel your opponent backward until her body crosses the end line under your control. You may not make any forward progress without maintaining contact with your opponent, and no blows or injurious practices will be tolerated. This is a test of strength and endurance - it is as you say, a game - not a sport. This is La Conquista."

Diane nodded. Take another woman's body and move it fifty meters down the beach, under the hottest sun on earth. Fantastic. Yesterday, she had not even known why she had come to Rio. Today, she knew. "Where do we start?" Diane asked.

"Attend me please." Said the judge, taking Diane and Isabelle by the wrists and leading them to the center of the court. Isabelle's body was languid, all loose and fluid and smooth, with more rounded limbs and breasts and a softer tummy than Diane's. Diane wasn't sure if this was an advantage for the Brazilian or not, but it certainly seemed appropriate. Isabelle was like a living extension of the sand - a part of this steamy, seductive world, and Diane was the invader. At least the woman wasn't a peasant: Diane had learned that Isabelle's father was a wealthy Brazilian industrialist, no doubt too busy tending the empire to keep tabs on his bored progeny. That much Diane could understand about her foe. Anything more was unnecessary.

Brought face to face, the judge dug his foot into the sand to delineate the start, and Isabelle leaned forward to brush Diane's cheeks with her lips - not friendly, but a courtesy nevertheless. Her scent was sweet, coconutty. And then, with a flourish from an ivory linen handkerchief, La Conquista began.

Power on power, straight up bull rush, no finesse, and Diane lay on her back, head spinning, three yards back from the start. Smiling, Isabelle rose from the blonde, insolently pushing herself up from Diane's body, her hands pushing heavily into the slick flesh of the girl's shoulder and thick upper chest. Isabelle smacked at her thighs sending a ripple through her legs, belly and breasts, and brushed her hair over her right shoulder, waiting for Diane to rise. Against her dark skin, the sun blazed in isolated highlights, giving Isabelle an incredible appearance of dense, powerful physicality. Feeling her cheeks blush with rage, Diane scrambled to her feet in a shower of sand and charged recklessly at the brunette, this time getting good purchase out of her sprinter's legs in the cloying turf. Too high: Isabelle put her shoulder to Diane's taut midriff and swung the blonde to the sand in a rugby style tackle, and from behind, rolled the blonde another 10 feet down the beach before she could react. Legs. Arms. Sand. Hair. Riding Diane's back, Isabelle lay out her hot weight upon the American's body, pushing her into the burning sand and putting a forearm across the back of Di's head to keep her face half buried. Diane did not want to make the noise she did, that high, whining sound of exertion and humiliation, but it came nevertheless. With every bit of muscle in her body, she fought against the oppression of the other woman's mass upon her.

Isabelle took her time. She scissored one of Diane's legs between her own and slid her left arm around Di's neck, just to restrain - not to choke. Diane spent over a minute thrashing until she ran out of breath - unable to do anything more than displace a good quantity of sand. Isabelle continually pulled an arm back, or dug her square chin into the crook of Diane's neck, anything to spur the blonde to waste more energy. It all worked. Diane's face twisted in impotent rage as Isabelle plied her with effortless, taunting techniques.

Sensing Diane's weakness, Isabelle went for and locked a full nelson on the blonde, and turned her another rotation down the beach before releasing her. The brunette was anaconda strong - her flesh yielding to the touch, but firmly muscled throughout. Diane's chest heaved as she lay on her back, free for the moment from further torment. Lifting her head, she could see Isabelle close by, sitting on her haunches, hands on her knees, staring in fascinated cruelty at the blonde. Waiting. Diane's pride spurred her recovery, and struggling up off her back, she put her shoulder into Isabelle's body as the Latin beauty snuggled down into the sand. Diane's powerful legs churned sand behind her as she dug in to push Isabelle back, first at the burnished shoulder, then down at the girl's sweet hip. Feeling her heart race, Diane continued to drive without success, unable to secure any real traction, and not budging the smiling brunette who had successfully starfished her limbs out into the sand to prevent any possible backwardation. Changing tactics, Diane tried to grab the slick right arm of the brunette, but the Latina writhed like a snake and seemed able to slip out of any grip. Soon she had Diane by the ankle, and had somersaulted with it out to one side. Dragging Di back by one leg, Isabelle chewed up more beach, gaining several more precious yards of real estate by walking backwards until Diane convulsively kicked free. Isabelle sat back with a plop, her hair wild about her face, in her mouth, while her dark eyes danced. She laughed, actually laughed at Diane as the blonde propped herself up on her elbows to see what could be done. The sound was worse than a fully extended slap to the face with an open palm. Trembling, Diane got to her hands and knees.

Diane had no idea how much time had passed in the smothering grip of that Spanish 'puta', but she reckoned she had given up something close to a third of her beach in losing each encounter. Instinct had betrayed her, but she had an athlete's sensibilities, and she began to adjust. On her knees, facing her foe, Diane sought out the girl's hands and looked to create an opening rather than force one. As they came to grips, the women rose up on their knees and tested each other torso to torso, clutching one another tight and extending their legs back behind them. With a mighty surge, the women strained against one another, pitting the muscle of their shining lower backs and buttocks in direct competition. Almost in slow motion, the girls slid to one side, clinging desperately to one another's bodies as they ground into the turf. Success! Di felt sure she had reclaimed a few feet with pure power, and for the first time her senses confirmed that she was indeed the stronger of the two women. Her problem had simply been leverage - not force. For the first time, she saw something less than supreme confidence in Isabelle's glistening face. Taking the moment of Diane's triumph to roll away, Isabelle got back to her feet perpendicular to the sideline rather than facing upfield. Diane got to her feet, showing her teeth with an animal smile. "I'm not giving any more ground." Diane said, not knowing if the girl could understand, and caring less. Fingers outstretched, Diane advanced, hair as soaked as if she had just stepped from the ocean itself.

Isabelle made as if to bull Diane up top, getting the blonde to straighten, then dove for the American's legs, wrapping them up tightly about the knees. Legs slightly crossed, Diane fell to the turf with a grunt, awkwardly twisted on her side, as the Brazilian corkscrewed her down the beach. "Nooo!" Diane screamed in self-betrayal - but she could no more stop the emotion than she could halt Isabelle's whirling dervish gyrations down the beach. Over and over Diane catapulted, the sun, sand and rolling movement suddenly overwhelming her in a mix of rage and nausea. Diane heard the applause from the distance, heard Isabelle's name shouted from the sidelines as the world continued to spin topsy turvy out of control. And it was just the beginning. Realizing that Diane's spirit had broken, Isabelle poured it on, smothering the blonde with her voluptuous frame, attacking the American's legs and limbs, and in a series of sideline to sideline power moves, actually lifted the blonde around her buttocks and carried her for several steps at a time, gobbling up the crucial space with a jiggling gallop. Isabelle was all smiles, teeth and hair, her lush body vibrating with energy even as Diane's seemed to slump. And she was irresistible, even with the sideline breaks - Diane was unable to gather herself to counter.

Slowly, inevitably, Diane was driven the length of the beach. Her own charges met with abject futility as she sweated and strained against the unresisting, yet unmoveable mass of her opponent's back, shoulder, buttock or belly. Diane's golden legs plowed the sand like pistons, but she had no knack for attacking Isabelle's deadweight defense. On her hands and knees, Diane was vulnerable to Isabelle's slashing tackles to her sides, designed to wrap the blonde up around the midsection and tumble her down the beach. And the laughter, that husky, coquettish laugh as Isabelle refused to moveDiane felt lashed by the insolence in the Brazilian's voice.

The scent of Isabelle and her thick flesh imposed themselves upon Diane at every turn. Over and over, Diane lay wrapped between the brunette's tireless thighs, her face pressed to her tormentress' fleshy breast, bearing the awful weight of her foe upon her. And then would come the push, and she would give, and give, and give, more ground. There was something about the actual loss of territory, that made the game so intense, so devastating in its impact. A dozen interrelated contests, pitched battles for mere inches of property, resulted in retreat after retreat as Isabelle took, and consolidated each position briefly before forcing her way onwards. The distance just to get back to the starting line began to break Diane's heart. It may as well have been the distance to Manhattan itself.

Diane lay upon her back, the searing heat of the sand bringing her around. She was dimly aware of having been tossed to the sand from another standing carry, and sitting up, she saw Isabelle taking one of her calculated breaks, stalking a little patch of beach, adjusting her suit and primping her hair. Diane looked behind herself, aware of her burning lungs and trembling skin, and saw that the end line lay not 10 more yards distant. Slowly, she rose from the sand and pulled at her grit filled suit. Her legs, her championship legs, could barely support her weight as she wobbled at the waist in front of Isabelle. The Senorita smirked, and pulled her hair once again to cascade down across her right breast. She moved in on Diane like a lioness on a wounded gazelle. Those glittering long-lashed eyes, and that parted, full mouth.

Diane moved forward, and the women fell together, as they had done all afternoon, but this time, Diane brought her right fist up low and hard into the pit of Isabelle's belly, and time stood still on the beach. Isabelle stopped in her tracks as her surprised shout gave way to a pouty-mouthed mask of agony, her body cringing and backing in on itself. As Isabelle began to tumble backward, Di slung a long underhand left home to the supple midsection of the brunette, feeling the meaty resistance, but also the softness therein. Another right missed as Isabelle tumbled onto her back, legs drawn up as she clutched at her belly. Diane stumbled to her knees, mouth open, staring at the pain on the other girl's face as she rocked gently side to side, eyes closed, mouth gasping. It was the same shocked wail of pain and outrage that Diane had heard all those years ago on the track, when her cleat had bitten into the tender flesh of that faster girl's ankle, and brought her down. Diane licked at the salt taste around her lips, going to all fours to rest.

The judge jogged onto the Conquista court and knelt at Isabelle's side, obviously concerned. Speaking gently in Spanish, the two conversed briefly, he asking questions, she whispering short answers. Eventually he looked up at Diane with reproach and more than a little disdain. "That is a foul Miss Babcock. That will not be tolerated."

"She quits then?" Diane breathed. She quit. I win.

"Isabelle has requested that the game continue."

Diane swallowed hard, her throat thick and dry. Isabelle sat up, brushing tears from her cheeks and trying to extend her ribcage. She was the very image of plucky feminine courage, with her hurt face luring in the concern of every single spectator, and Diane hated her for it. Isabelle rolled to her knees and stood, still shaky, and leaned out over her legs, sucking it up. Then, with a flounce of her hair, Isabelle was back, lips still pulling slightly at the corners, but she was ready. Diane pulled herself in exhaustion to her feet. She thought of walking off the beach. She didn't know any of these assholes. They couldn't make her stay. If she knew more of the language, she would have offered Isabelle a bribe to let her fashion the biggest comeback in the history of La Conquista. But seeing the beautiful senorita's face told Diane that there would be no escape. There was no denying the brunette's victory now.

Isabelle went belly to belly with Diane, sweeping the blonde's hands out of the way and slapping her arms in around Diane's body to put the American on her toes. Diane's mouth lolled forward onto Isabelle's shoulder as she desperately leaned into the shorter girl, but her legs were shot. Hugged and held, Diane grudgingly staggered back step by step as Isabelle took a handful of the black material at Diane's lower back to aid her advance. Like exhausted boxers in a fifteenth round clinch, Isabelle walked Diane straight back to the finish line. There, with a throaty heave, Isabelle hoisted the blonde up off her feet, lifting hard from around Diane's waist, to display her for a moment as captive upon Isabelle's full breast. With a powerful thrust upwards from her hips, Isabelle dumped Diane hard onto her side, the impact kicking up a small crater of sand as the blonde thumped to the turf. The fall knocked the wind out of Diane and she lay still for a moment, vision clouding over as she struggled to stay coherent. Opening her eyes, she realized that Isabelle was waiting for her on her hands and knees. Dazed, but comprehending, Diane rose to all fours, her butt across the finish line as she dug in.

A tense silence passed as the women summoned their reserves, and stared into one another's souls. Then, perhaps snapping under the moment, or perhaps wishing to finally have done, Diane screamed inarticulately at Isabelle, initiating the brunette's surge. Choking off Diane's defiant roar, Isabelle exploded her shoulder into the blonde's chest, rocketing the tourist onto her back in a blur of black on brown. Isabelle's luscious flanks continued to churn as she laid Diane full out, hands above her head, legs fully extended and well past the finish line. Isabelle's raven locks came to obscure Diane's face as the Brazilian shuddered to a halt face down at the girl's side, her left arm across Di's chest. Side by side, like a pair of pampered sunbathers, the women shared a moment of exquisite peace. Then, tossing her hair to one side to expose that perfect, high cheekboned profile, Isabelle rose slowly, planting her hands down upon Diane's ribcage, letting the blonde feel her weight upon her, glaring down into the American's face. Di had been knocked senseless, her fine features slack and hurting. Her cruel blue eyes now flickered pathetically in their sockets as her nimble mouth mumbled incoherently. She was fading to white, fading to white. Isabelle drank in the sight, pressing down, as behind her, one hundred meters of beach shimmered in the scalding South American heat.