It had been an interesting evening, Amy Fadhli thought as she walked through the room. She had been challenged to arm wrestle three times at this party. To her amusement, all the challenges had been from men!

She brushed back the long mane of light brown hair that she wore and smiled to herself. There wasn't a woman here who would face her, now that she had established herself as the queen of fitness. Even those fitness women who bordered on the physiques of bodybuilders were loathe to challenge her. There was an unconscious fear that if they should defeat her, people would mention the disparity in size. If they lost to her, people would mention the disparity in size. As she moved around the room and talked to people, Amy realized that she was, literally, on the top of the heap.

She enjoyed the stares of the men in the room, strutting around in her blue skintight pants with the matching lace-up halter which could barely contain her breasts. And there were the cold stares of some of the women, stares which spoke volumes about fitness and what they would do to her if they thought they stood a chance. Amy took that the way it was intended, every once in a while giving her would-be rival a challenging look and watching the weaker woman shrivel up.

Suddenly, she felt a stirring in the room, something that told her that she was losing some of the adoration of the crowd. She turned and saw another woman, with a build similar to her own, though somewhat smaller, bent over at one of the tables on the opposite side of the room. She was wearing a black bikini top, matching slacks, and black heels. Her hair was slightly shorter and much darker than Amy's. When the other woman stood up, Amy looked at Amy. The other woman was Amy Lynn, who looked over and smiled wolfishly at her fellow fitness competitor.

The Amy in blue returned the smile, measure for exact measure, and began to walk across the room. Amy Lynn glided across the room to meet her. When they met, they each slipped an arm around the other's waist. Amy Fadhli looked down at her rival's breasts, the left of which pressed firmly into the bottom of her right one. A slightly derisive expression came over her face. "Still don't quite measure up, do you?"

Amy Lynn smiled faintly in return, looking down at the other Amy's chest. "I guess height is everything, huh? More than boobs, more than muscle."

There was a flash of anger in the Queen's eyes as she asked, "What's that supposed to mean?" Amy looked down at her rival's chest again, then back into her eyes. "You really think you can take me? Either way?" Even as she said it, she felt the excitement in her start to grow.

There was a strange light in Amy Lynn's eyes. It seemed to challenge her taller rival. "Why don't we find out? I have a suite upstairs. It's big, there's lots of room for you and me. And our muscles."

Amy smiled at the smaller woman. "And our chests?"

"Absolutely. We wouldn't want to leave that out, would we?"

Amy Lynn had been right. The suite did have a lot of room. The door closed and locked and Amy Fadhli stood with her hands on her hips. "Well? What did you have in mind?" She took a step toward the other girl. "Chests and muscles?"

Amy Lynn stood in the middle of the room. "You're an inch taller than I am, but I'm really short in the lower legs. If we both kneel on the carpet, we'll be the same height."

Amy shrugged and got down on her knees, as her rival did also. They pressed together, chest to chest, which now lined up perfectly. Amy Fadhli noticed that the two sets of breasts were, surprisingly, about the same size. They interlaced their fingers high over their heads.

Amy Lynn smiled. "You never thought I'd be much of match for you, Amy, but I've wanted a test of strength with you for a long time."

"Why? I'll admit I'm excited by this, but why did you want it?"

"At first, it was because I thought that someone needs to take you down a peg or two. But the longer I thought about it, the more the reason for it seemed to go away. The whole idea of a woman to woman struggle with you seemed to take on a life of its own."

The two women began trying to bend each other's fingers back. "Keep your breasts- tight against mine," Amy Lynn hissed through her effort. "If either of us- moves our breasts back- or surrenders- to the other's strength, it's over. Agreed?"

"You wanted- a duel- with me, and- you got it."

She was amazed at the other girl's strength. Fitness and bodybuilding magazines, and connoisseurs on the Internet had called Amy Lynn a fitness wanna-be and yet, here she was, holding her own against the Queen. Soon they were drenched in sweat, grunting and gasping for oxygen to fuel their effort, which pressed chest against chest even harder. Neither woman was gaining any headway. They had no idea how long they had been at it, but both were getting tired. And yet Amy Fadhli now seemed to feel what her rival had spoke of. No longer was it just a matter of excitement, or competition. It was more primal than that, more a matter of beating a rival, one on one, where each had an equal chance - if she was strong enough.

The arms had slowly dropped from overhead to the sides, both women now needing to do that to keep their breasts together. They leaned into each other, their arms in muscular contact down their entire length. Now their shoulders came into play and the effort of each woman's arms was to press the other's straight back, while the back and abdominal muscles strained to press their chests together.

As their hands, arms, shoulders, back and abdominal muscles all came into play in their now long-running duel, tears streamed down their faces as effort became discomfort, discomfort became pain, and pain became agony.

It was a war between them, a duel of power between them. For a certain kind of woman, the breast is the source of all of her feminine powers. For such women, no other woman can be permitted to have more powerful or desirable breasts. Consequently, each of these women was putting hers fully into the contest with her rival.

Since each engaged in fitness as a profession, and since the idea of the audience in the arena of fitness for women in the nineties became strength, each had to test the other to see who possessed more strength. On the one hand, their duel was completely feminine. On the other, it was as primal as any cave dweller. And they grunted, gasped, and cried out like cave dwellers. The struggle was the most intense in which either had ever engaged.

Amy Lynn now began to take a small advantage. Looking at her from the rear, one would see the play of the knotted shoulder and back muscles, straining to overcome her rival. And, as she made headway, that rival's muscles began more and more to match her own.

Still, the duel was not over. Amy Fadhli stopped her rival's progress, but could not retake the ground she had lost. But the two women were reaching the end. The strength was being drained and each knew that the end was at most, three minutes away.

Amy Fadhli began to lose more ground. Her arms were being pressed back and her shoulder muscles screamed for release from their efforts. Her rival had pressed her back so far now that her abdominal and back muscles were being stretched too far. Yet she used the very end of her reserves to keep her breasts pressed tight against her enemy.

The pain became too much and she fell backward, pulling Amy Lynn behind her, by their still-locked hands. Her rival fell atop her and the two women were locked together, breathing heavily, both too weak to move.

After five minutes, the women managed to get their hands apart, with an effort, as the fingers would open, but not spread easily. Amy Lynn rolled off of her rival and the two women sat up, locking their eyes.

For Amy Lynn, it was a great victory. She had defeated the Queen, proving her strength greater and, to her mind, her breasts more powerful.

For Amy Fadhli, it was a devastating defeat.

But something had happened to both women, the satisfaction of a primal urge that had passed between them.

And both knew that, while the opponents would vary, each of them would yet engage in tests of strength, to the bitter end.