The Interrogation 4 (Chapter 17)

“What’s the point of those big scary muscles if you can’t show them in action?” she asked him. “Go on. Try to push it off. Let’s see if all those bench presses were worth it.”

Even while knowing just as well as Angelina how impossible her suggestion was, the frat boy’s pride wouldn’t flag, and he rammed his tiny fists against the homicidal spare tire of breast excess right as it coated his body up to the shoulders. With great effort, the four-inch boy could hold his quivering arms upright into the wobbly tit corpulence, slightly depressing the skin with roughly the effect of poking Angelina in the chest with a pencil eraser, but he certainly hadn’t a chance of actually lifting a single square inch of these pasty celestial bodies. Fatiguing, he let his sculpted arms rebound flush to the ground again. His air was depleting quickly, owing to the giantess’s hooter mass drooped on his torso.

“There’s one rep. Want to go for two?” she taunted.

“Fuck you,” he huffed.

“Now there’s the Logan I’ve come to be so fond of screwing with.”

“I… don’t know what… you did to us…” he snarled, now hardly able to reinflate his lungs. “…but you won’t… get away… with it.”

“I suppose that’s possible, yes,” Angelina said. “But, considering I’ve now done this to enough men to fill several party buses, and none of them have seen the light of day again, I’m starting to think maybe I will get away with it. And no one will ever miss you.”

“T-They’ll… notice. I’m… important. Not some… nobody.”

“Oh, I have no doubt they’ll notice you’re gone, especially when everyone you’ve ever met finds their quality of life drastically improving from the moment I end yours,” Angelina blithely countered. “No, I what I meant is that they won’t MISS you, as in, there will be more than a few secret smiles when they bury your empty coffin. Especially from me, when I stick around after the final benediction to spray-paint a nice big dick and balls on your tombstone. Apologies for the confusion there. I realize you’re probably having trouble getting enough oxygen to that walnut brain.”

Logan bucked and wormed with furious abandon in what little capacity he could under such immense compression, alternately roaring and squeaking like a lion and mouse at once. The tangible reaction of his sky-high pride getting burned to the ground in a matter of short minutes was almost enough to satisfy Angelina for all his crimes. But naturally, she wasn’t stopping there. She’d worked much to hard to get here. Right when she felt the fight in him dying down, she palmed the carpet and did a push-up of her own, though it took a lot of launch to alleviate the weight off the trio of boys, while her fat-stacked boobs were tensed to the floor like coiled springs. Logan was allowed to breathe first, and then Chad and Kyle the deeper in reverse Angelina’s knockers rolled, with the taller fratsters definitely the worse for wear after such a hearty smothering.

“I must say, it’s a pleasure to finally relax,” Angelina said, standing and stalking to a nearby table piled high with party paraphernalia. “It’s been such a long day for me, you understand: tracking you across a beach town, interrogating your stupid friends, making them a prettier height one by one. Oh, Randy! I almost forgot him. He’ll make for a nice little nightcap before bed when I finish up with you three. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes. The point being, it really was such a drag, having to spend half a day of precious vacation hunting you. I won’t say it wasn’t fun, because it was, but… well, THIS is the part I live for.”

She turned back to the feeble four-inch victim, who was too winded to get up and attempt a pointless flight, but he hung on her every word. Those ginormous breasts remained shining beacons even in the dim lamplight, generating more glow than the moonbathing luster through the window, the only points of duller eclipse being the matching six-inch-boy frames straddling her dairy bags like a mermaid’s starfish bikini.

With a dolphin-patterned punch bowl in hand, Angelina returned to her prey, descending much faster this time into the same boob-couched model pose. This had no effect on Logan, stranded an inch from the bowl, but it was a different story for Kyle and Chad. Rousing from their stupor just enough to notice how quickly they were dropping toward the earth, with Angelina’s nipples using their manhoods as shields, they each screamed bloody murder which, incidentally, was more-or-less the outcome of the giantess’s lazy fall. A gutsy clatter resounded from under her chest, though the boys’ final moments were largely muffled by heavy-duty sound-proof pounds of pectoral lard.

“Whoops!” Angelina gasped. Suppressing a giggle, she lifted herself just high enough from the ground again to reveal the six-inch roadkill now painted in smears over each tit, the shrunken carrions holding together with the integrity of thin-sliced pastrami. “Oh, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done that, too. You’d think from all the experience I have letting little dipshits ride around on my goods, I’d remember to go in for gentle landings, but what can you do when it’s just so easy to forget about boys who matter so little? Now, unfortunately, it was already difficult to tell them apart even before, so you may have to help me recall which one is which, especially now… oh, never mind. Not like there’s a point.”

Logan, for all his lack of compassion, mourned with a thousand-yard tear-welled grimace, though the woman couldn’t tell whether this was for himself or his lost comrades. Nor did she especially care. It was feeding time. Grabbing up the naked lone survivor, she deposited him in the basin of the deep plastic bowl.

“Don’t get too weepy for them, kiddo. They got it easy,” she said. “Trust me.”

From a seated position Angelina untied her bra twine, though once she started fidgeting it, the garment came apart when the two shrinkers slid messily down her breast slopes and plopped to the floor, leaving her nipples free once again to serve tall glasses of annihilation to all thirsty customers. Gripping portly bust terrain in both palms, Angelina hoisted a single boob into the bowl. Though the container was wide, intended to hold multiple gallons of fruity liquor for passing partiers to dip, tit brawn filled half the concave space in one floppy instant. Logan braced himself to be crushed when the bowl became a too-tight bra cup for his self-appointed nemesis. He put his hands over his head, fully expecting his body to fold like a lawn chair under a boob landslide.

Instead, though squishy sweat-greased girth thudded against both his raised palms, his skeleton didn’t snap. Daring to look upward, Logan saw only a sky of blanched tit meat, but most of all Angelina’s goosebump-rife nipple poised between his hands. Its plush vertex was aimed right for his head.

“One more exercise, you funny little shit-stain,” she boomed, her voice echoing with a godlike timbre due to the acoustics of the boob-filled bowl. “All you have to do is hold up the world. Not so hard, right? Well, yours anyway, because I am your world now. You can act tough all you want, insult me, talk trash in front of your bros and pretend you only ironically used me for a power trip, but you don’t have to pretend anymore to save face. All your friends are dead. It’s just you and me. And we both know you would’ve given anything to get close to these babies. Maybe even your life. Well, now you’ve got more of them than you can handle, and though you might find it’s a little tough to hold up a whole planet on your own shoulders, don’t worry: if it gets tough, I’ll be sure to cool you right off with some light refreshment. Feel free to drink it this time instead of taking it up the cock.”

With elegant and deadly control, Angelina began concentrating additional ounces of breast weight into the bowl, using the same slow fluidity as if she was pouring out milk from a pitcher, since an alcoholic temptation wasn’t strong enough for the lone partier below. She felt the little guy’s whole body tense like a stripped screw, his two-inch legs bending and quaking from the strain to maintain his weightlifting posture, because if any of his limbs dipped now, he would collapse flat to the bottom, followed swiftly by the uppermost cheek of her boob inflating back to its natural convex shape like a giant bike horn.

Despite this being the heaviest mass Logan had ever kept hoisted overhead, even if he was scarcely holding a decimal percent of the full weight, his determination not to let Angelina have the last laugh allowed him to persevere for a time. She might kill him one way or another, but this sad little joke of a method would not work. Finding he could withstand the supple bulge, he even broke into delirious and inexplicably empowered laughter. He was Atlas, and this was his task; he would make this underworld queen remember that when he fell, it was neither easy nor satisfying for her evil designs.

Then the force of his necessarily braced palms against the outer rim of her spongy areola saucer finally reached maximum capacity, and his world came crumbling down, or rather it began spewing a creamy and altogether lethal dose of shining ivory-white milk. The jetstream was turbulent and unforgiving, the liquid flow thick as a temple pillar, and all of it was blasted straight into Logan’s head. He nearly faltered when the warm bubbly mess splashed into his hair and washed down every cranny of his Olympic body, but he gritted his teeth and doubled down, pushing up with every bit of might he could summon while trembling scalp-to-toe. A pained whine elevated into a defiant roar, though this was tricky to keep going for long when so much milk was pouring down, and after the first stray droplet splashed into his throat, Logan shut his lips again. The gathering opalescent pool of dairy at his feet was a much more immediate problem, flooding up past his ankles and making the ground too slippery for an even-footed plant. Soon it was filling past his legs and crotch, even further narrowing the already-sweltering airless space, and sealing Logan between equally dread-worthy plains of chunky maternal teat and a sea of frothy whole-fat lactation.

Within a minute, Logan was floating in a milk pond above his chest, and after having taken in several more spritzed gulps while screaming in muscle-burning agony, his feet could no longer find the bowl’s basin under the opaque white rapids. Still he tried to the last gasp, but pushing upward now had become a fool’s errand at his dwindling size of three then two and then under one inch. Angelina’s world-breast had fully reformed, and was becoming more like a cosmological body to Logan all the time, the lower he shrunk. While his cascading stature did prolong his survival, preventing his limbs from buckling and snapping, it wasn’t long before there wasn’t a spare pocket of oxygen to find between the yin-yang forces of breast bulk and rich ocean, and the tenth-inch frat fuckboy ultimately succumbed in the swirling one-way ticket to milky hell Angelina had booked him.

Before his puny corpse could fill with too much dairy, however, the giantess arose, scooping her boob from the bowl in a majestic pearl-dribbling rainfall, though Logan remained glued to her skin no matter how many droplets rolled over the bloated mountain.

“Goodness…” Angelina sighed to herself, alone at last. She toweled off her sopping chest using the towel she’d stolen from the bathroom, and was careful not to sweep away her final trophy’s remains in the process, but instead glided him via manicured nail deep into the heavenly cleavage he’d so craved, though not as a gravesite. “I do believe I’m going to need a vacation after this vacation.”