You can't help but raise an eyebrow as you watch your opponent enter the ring. She's definitely interesting to look at: she's a female minotaur, like you; unlike you, however, her body is feminine to the point of parody. You run your eyes over her body, a faint smile coming to your lips.
Your opponent is about your height, and in a way her appearance mirrors your own. Whereas your hair is black and straight, hers is blonde with a single silver streak going through one loose bang; just as your fur is white with black splotches, hers is a light, solid brown -- save for her stomach, which is covered in a whitish, peach-colored fur; your eyes are green, while hers are blue. Aside from your shared species and your equally toned arms, legs, and stomachs, the two of you are in sharp contrast, and this is best manifested in the difference between your busts.
Your breasts have always been a point of pride for you -- heavy and full, they're the size of medicine balls, straining the straps and metal studs (barely) containing them. Were the crowd not voicing its approval of the coming fight, you would be able to hear your milk sloshing within your breasts. You turn your thoughts to your opponent; chiefly, her chest. You've always thought of your breasts as exceptionally large, but now you have your doubts: your opponent's mammaries are absolutely enormous, easily two or three times larger than your own. How the hell can she walk with those things? you think to yourself, eyes transfixed on the cow-woman's chest. As if in response to your thought, your opponent strikes a pose for the audience, her breasts wobbling with the movement; you can hear her milk sloshing around inside of them, despite your position at the other side of the ring. The other minotaur-woman is wearing a two-piece not unlike your own, but where yours is utilitarian black-and-silver, hers is white. Her top struggles to contain her breasts; you can see her areolae peeking from beneath the straps.
It dawns on you that your opponent is aware of your staring. You look up to her face and smirk. "And just what is your name?" you ask, one eyebrow raised.
Your opponent grins. "I'm Minerva," she says, putting her hands to her hips. "Enjoy the view." You do, but you're not going to give her the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, you plant your feet on the ring and flex. You're ready for battle. Minerva realizes this and strikes a similar pose. It's time to fight!
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