Interrogation Chronicles: One-Night Shrink (Chapter 4)

I held the glass higher during the silence after, briefly allowing it and the opaque-white elixir inside to become a prism which further distorted the woman I was now viewing through wet glass. As if such a thing was possible, I suddenly saw her boobs blooming even larger, funhouse mirror-style, through the refracted view. It should’ve seemed comical to see those mammary proportions enlarged further when they were already teetering so close to the edge of over-sized, like a couple of fleshy hot air balloons hanging off an otherwise waifish rail-thin siren. Instead, it only made me hornier. The tingling was intensifying, extending to every extremity (not just the one on fuck-duty) and making me feel like a goddamned superhero. It had been a long time since I’d felt this deeply alive. Definitely before my marriage, which felt like more of a mistake than ever, as I let myself lay meekly in the naked fantastically empowered presence of what I’d been missing all this while. I polished off the last of my beverage, then set the empty glass down beside hers, once again leaving my hands and lips free for service.

“You have nice manners. Especially for a man used to seeing what he wants and taking it,” Angie purred, still wearing that look of anticipation, only now caught slightly off-guard for reasons I was too horned up to contemplate. Her hands free, she scooped both palms under her left breast and hoisted the clammy glistening brawniness of that whole gorgeously fatty mass like a soon-to-be-prize melon shown off at the carnival, which also handily demonstrated the surprising range of motion on those hefty things the higher and wider to the side she lifted. Letting it jostle back to its resting position, then, she repeated this demonstration on the right hock. “But at a certain point, I do still like a man to be a man. Are you going to touch my tits, big boy, or do I need to draw you a map?”

Only the tranquilizing effect of my buzz could keep me from lunging any faster toward Angie’s chest in the split-second after that question. I sat up high enough to reach her, but she came down to meet me halfway, bracing herself against the armchair on either side of my head while her legs re-straddled my hips. When my hands met her tits at last, minus all the pesky fabric that prevented our union earlier, I let out a mildly-embarrassing but completely unintended “uuunggh” that luckily didn’t seem to turn her off. If anything, she smiled proudly at my exploratory wonderment. To feel the pulpy sweat-lubed terrain against my palms, to acknowledge the sheer weight and momentum of those freckly white mega-sacs, to steal their pulsating heat, then squeeze and stroke and inhale their stuffy perfumed majesty as I pressed my face straight against the paunchy central sag of her cleavage line, I felt like I was ascending to some new level of yet-unachieved sensuality.

I never wanted to let go of her jugs now, and while rationally I knew I would have to at some point, the drink in my bloodstream and the encouragement from this well-endowed wild animal of an angel made me believe at the same time that maybe I wouldn’t have to. Granted, I must’ve looked like a chimp rubbing sticks together and discovering fire for the first time right then, pinching and poking and tinkering with her bulbous gifts in a bug-eyed jaw-hanging manner that might’ve put most other women off. But Angie was just a different breed, as I’d learned well before finally getting to knead my fingers over the jello-jiggly heft of her absurdly touchable udders. This was what she lived for, and now I knew it was the kind of thrill I’d been chasing all along, every time I took some co-ed stranger back to my hotel for a night of briefly satisfying but ultimately vanilla fun.

Angie’s legs closed even tighter around mine. She let her posture hang deeper, using the encroaching mass of her slowly-descending tits to push me flat into the armchair again, and I certainly wasn’t about to resist or complain, just as long as she remained in my reach. Hell, at this point, I was touching even more of her than when she invited me to reach out, while surplus puff from her chest seemed to expand around my hands until my knuckles were pinned down to the nape of my neck, and my face was immersed fully in the upper shelf of her glimmering twin hills. The woman didn’t release her grip on the back of the chair, as she gradually slunk to the lowest position of bodily embrace on top of me I could probably handle without losing access to oxygen, though even then I had to sniff up trace wisps of air that could penetrate the seal of her wonderfully suffocating flesh bulging around my cheeks and forehead.

It became harder for my hands to actually sample the plump contours of her blimpy pecs the harder she came down on me with those things like a set of iron ball-and-chains weighing a prisoner to the ocean floor. The pressure, though fantastic and welcome, was becoming so great that I just had to make do with clenching my overheated fingers around whatever floppy region of breast enormity happened to be pinning my arms down. At the center of each of my palms, though, I could feel her nipples hardening yet, standing stiff as frozen-solid cherries that dug comfortably against my skin. They felt wet, enough so that I had to wonder if it was all from sweaty constriction. With some real muscular effort, more in fact than I guessed I’d need to use, I just managed to close my hands enough to wrap my fingertips around those perky mounds of beefy arousal and twiddle them exactly as Angie deserved. And of course my mouth, still salivating from that remarkably tasty mixed drink she’d served me, was showing the pudgy division between her boobs my humbled gratitude with urgent kisses. My moaning pecks probably got more slobbery than necessary, but again, I knew that the woman currently burying me alive in her rack was sated by any and all shows of all-too-deserving worship toward her girls. So I just kept doing my thing.

We carried on just like this for at least another breathless quarter-hour of lustful hype. My mind was already running rampant with the possibilities involving these talented globes of hers, for when we finally got more serious in the bedroom. That was, if we even managed to reach the other room before we started screwing on top of every piece of furniture between here and there. She was just a thong shy of naked already, after all, and I’d happily shred through the garments on my own back as soon as I had enough freedom of motion to do so. We were pretty damn close. I was already so enjoying having my hands and face pressed into these bongos like a runt-of-the-litter calf trying to nurse off its mother, that I could only imagine the sensations which would shoot through me when I was almost-inevitably allowed to ram my painfully-ready dick into that squishy under-boob slit like a jumbo scale fleshlight. Not to mention every opening on her body, just so long as some part of me was allowed access to those knockers during every moment of extended orgasm.

Luckily, I wasn’t the only one beginning to think of the night’s next stage. To my serious elation, I felt Angie’s broad burly booty dipping low over my raging hard-on, which was officially now incarcerated by my pants, and taking bouncy swipes at its arisen shape like a door stopper by shimmying those essentially-bare cheeks to and fro across the clothed tip. I might’ve begun dry-humping up to her in response, if the top half of my body wasn’t so completely subdued under the grandest assets I’d ever seen, touched, or licked on any anonymous female form. When the evening began, I set out with the goal to leave an experienced unknown lady in charge tonight, and I was definitely getting my wish right now, so I again consciously opted to let go of my usual leadership instincts and just let her keep cock-teasing me with that backside cake while her roly-poly sandbag chest wobbled atop my windpipe.

The longer I gingerly tweaked her teats under the boob avalanche, too, the greater volume of moisture I felt collecting on my fingertips, sticky and warm to the touch as that sugary liquor had been on my palate before. At some vague point during our penultimate warm-up activities, I became aware and simply accepted that it was milk. She was lactating. Such a thought might’ve made me turn up my nose before, if not entirely stunted my full-mast’s vibrating need, but in this moment, I only desired to continue primping her spouts, no matter how much milk was spilled. In fact, that creamy dribble gradually filling my breast-cupping palms and spilling out between my splayed fingers only added to the complicated menagerie of amazing sensations both heavy and delicate taking place all over my body, and so in an odd way, I loved the trickling tingle of white dairy raining down my wrists just as much as the metronome-like bump as her derriere provocatively brushed my mini-me.

“Oh, yeah. I had a feeling you were going to feel good under there. From the first minute I saw you,” Angie said, breaking the silence, when at last she hoisted her spongy boulders just high enough overhead again to let me hear her and then articulate a response. “Now be honest, and don’t feel like you have to lie to save my feelings. That wifey-kins back home has never even come close to getting you this riled before, has she?”

“Fuck, no…” I grunted at length, and indeed didn’t have to massage the truth for her. “Angie, I… want you. So bad. Y-You’re not just better than her. I’ve… never met anyone like you. You’re incredible. These… are… fucking… incredible. G-Goddamn it, where have you been my whole life?”

“Just waiting for you back at that bar, of course,” she teased in a husky murmur, while looking down at me through the narrow three-inch window to my face between the chair and the wide-set double curvature of her bosom. The room’s dim lighting made it tough for me to confirm, but since I’d been collecting a puddle of her milk in each of my palms for the past several minutes, now that I could just barely see again, the horny goose-pimpled stumps of those nips were not only much damper than the rest of her spherical surfaces, but plainly gelled over with a pearl-white liquid hue like miniature dabs of whipped cream. “Before we take this to the next level, there’s… something I want from you. It’s a little different, but-”

“Anything,” I interrupted, even though in the back of my mind I expected the next words from her lips to be ‘pegging.’ That was how hooked she had me now. “I’ll do anything you want me to, Angie.”

“Then take a drink of me.”

My already-racing heart fluttered as the woman’s languid fingers clasped wide over the apex hump of her left breast, first just squeezing and petting her own extremely malleable chest, then more specifically contorting that milk-dewed nipple spout between her long digits until it was made to protrude even further while the pale flesh around it puffed and stretched toward my face like heated putty. That pre-formed bead of resting lactate over the mound’s tip became a perfect sphere, then, dangled from her bumpy spigot in defiance of physics and somehow shining like an alabaster jewel still despite the darkness caused by our closely-huddled bodies piled atop one another in her dark penthouse. Somehow I hadn’t anticipated this specific request, even though the proof was literally ready to drip right over my eyes. No power on Earth could’ve stopped me from tasting this savage-minded lady’s breast milk, though, if that was indeed what she desired of me.

“Open your mouth, John,” she hushed.