The Interrogation 4 (Chapter 1)

            Seated at a tiki-themed open-air bar, enjoying the view of swaying palm trees, while surrounded by balmy beach-scented atmosphere and the distant din of partying co-eds, Angelina sipped from her umpteenth piña colada of the afternoon. Without having to ask, the bartender already knew to bring a frozen margarita before she’d even drained the last glass, as the raven-haired vixen had discovered only now, on the fourth day of her much-needed vacation, just what delicious chasers the two tropical beverages made for one another. It was lucky she’d packed her absolute skimpiest bikini, blood-red as her painted lips but decidedly thinner, since the temperature was rising higher than forecasted, and the volume of alcohol she had coursing through her veins now was only making the air seem stickier.

Glamorous drops of beading sweat adorned the distinctive curves of Angelina’s waxen-white body like crusted gemstones, down her willowy midsection and supple thighs, over the fatty upper crests of her bulging tits and even the pouty rounds of her modest-yet-juicy buttocks which made most of her thong vanish into the crack. The bold-crimson swimsuit, what little of it there was to see anyway, created a starker contrast against the mysterious woman’s jet-black hair and her blindingly pale flesh which outshone even the beach sand. Her sunglasses, tinted deeply enough to make her gaze invisible to any onlookers, were the only part of her visage more reflective than the shimmering glaze of perspiration coating her blanched, bulbous figure.

Swiveling on her bar stool, Angelina observed the throngs of college kids drinking and cavorting in the surf. She smiled, amused at the evidence of their perceived-invincibility and devil-may-care attitudes, but was also actively attentive to the young dumb Adonises showing off their six-packs. These kinds of air-headed frat boys were usually so easy to collect, it almost wasn’t fun, though they certainly made up for their stupidity with a spirited romp in the sack before she offered them a tempting post-orgasm vodka-and-milk mixer.

Fortunately for them, Angelina thought with a widening smirk, most of those boys would get to go home after spring break, unshrunken and alive, simply because it was too much hassle to have to cover her tracks while staying so near the scenes of the “crimes,” and Angelina wasn’t about to give up her well-earned beach R&R time early over a few dime-a-dozen college dunces. Instead, she’d wait until the last couple days of her stay in another week or two, depending on how long the liquor supply lasted at this tiki bar, then choose the worthiest victims, and breast-feed them all into oblivion as a fun final-night capper to the trip.

Stifling a hiccup, Angelina polished off margarita number who-the-hell-knew-which, and giggled at the bartender reliably sliding another colada up for consumption. Normally she didn’t let herself get this drunk outside the house, but she’d already fully embraced a “hey, you’re on vacation!” mindset, and plus, since she wasn’t planning on cruising for any milk-loving boys for at least another week, she didn’t require total command of her ordinarily razor-sharp mental faculties for now.

Or so she thought, anyway. Despite her incredibly high tolerance for drinking, Angelina was steadily reaching a point where her peripherals were swimming, her hearing was getting less distinct, and her sizzling body was becoming hypersensitive to every saltwater dollop rolling down her plump cleavage. For this reason, she didn’t notice the chorus of doofy male chuckles until the sources were loud and near enough to overpower even the faraway roar of the beach crowd.

Turning back to the side, and grasping the bar’s edge to steady herself from tipping, Angelina found herself joined by a gang of six frat dudes. She could’ve spotted their type from a mile away, or at least a half-mile while so inebriated on rum and tequila: tan, ripped, and Disney-prince handsome, with the kinds of trendy beachwear that let them show off their best qualities. All of them were looking directly at her as they laughed, and with just enough arrogance that she didn’t suppose they were including her in the joke.

The two boys in back, likely the comparative Betas of the group, Angelina surmised, were the only ones not guffawing quite as heartily, but more due to peer pressure instead. The four in front, however, were really snorting it up, slapping their knees and elbowing one another in the ribs. Then the leader in front, the tallest and buffest and most slack-jawed, reached out toward Angelina, his pointed finger extended, and let it hover an inch away from the erect nub of her nipple which was pointed up through the sweat-dampened red fabric.

“Holy fuckin’ shit. Look what we got here. I guess somebody’s still trying to pretend she’s in the good old days,” the Alpha boomed. “Kyle, what do you think? Is she as old as your mom, or older?”

“Shut up, man,” Kyle replied, kicking his friend in the shin, but couldn’t keep goofily grinning all the same.

“Well, she’s definitely not as hot as Kyle’s mom,” a third guy added.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Chad, I swear,” Kyle threatened, putting Chad in a headlock, though both boys were still paying rapt attention to Angelina, and specifically their leader’s finger hovering within tweaking distance of her stiff teat barely withheld by uber-fine bathing suit fibers.

“Didn’t anybody tell you this place is only for people under forty?” the Alpha asked her. He waved his finger back and forth, still stopping short of poking her capacious breast, but Angelina could feel the gentle breeze of his hand waving across her overheated skin. “Also, it’s not a nude beach, and you’re just barely following that rule, too. I mean, I can see EVERYTHING on you, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing, ya know?”

Perplexed at the kind of masculine audacity she hadn’t witnessed since her misadventures in a backwater sheriff’s station a couple months back, Angelina smiled, then opened her mouth to retort, only to find her usually barb-tongued wit wasn’t giving her a zinger. Not a one. On that other unfortunate night, she’d been drunk enough to crash a sports car into a tree, but still smoothly tell off the misogynist lawmen giving her a hard time; now, she was so full of pineapple-and-lime liquid treats, all she could do was suppress an alcoholic belch. Feeling rather like a warrior who’d only remembered once she was on the battlefield that she’d forgotten all her armor, Angelina tried not to let her apprehension show through in her face. For once in her life, the kind of boys which usually represented her easiest prey had the upper hand.

“Well? Nothing to say back to me, huh? Figures. You look like you’re too full of that fruity shit to even walk a straight line,” the Alpha continued, now receiving complimentary peals of laughter from his cronies each time he insulted Angelina. He’d ceased waving just a single finger over her nipple, and taken to clawing his fingers for a pre-emptive grab on the puffy pouch of her tit, though he kept her in suspense. “And it doesn’t look like you could even stand up straight, drunk off your ass or not, with those big things hanging off the front. Seriously, how do you do normal stuff, like drive a car, without them turning the wheel the other way?”

“When you roll over in your sleep, do you wake yourself up from almost drowning in them?” Chad asked.

“And when was the last time you saw your feet without a mirror, cuz I’m pretty sure you’d have to drain half the silicone goop outta there just to see over the top!” Kyle added.

“Do you have to have a license to operate those?”

“Okay, seriously: float in water, yes or no?”

“What cup even is that? G? Double-G?”

“Double-G, for Goddamn Gross.”

“Is there a hole on the side to get them pumped back up, like tires?”

“Ever had somebody get lost and have to ask directions while they were motorboating?”

At this point, the head boy turned back to his frat brothers, sharing in high-fives and laughing self-congratulations, at least with the three who were joining him in this indignity. The other two stood awkwardly in back, trying to avert their gazes and sipping from flasks.

“They’re not fake,” Angelina said at last, silencing their chortles. She didn’t say it with as much pointed ire as she intended, but at this stage, she just had to keep from slurring her words.

“What?” the Alpha scoffed dismissively. “Bullshit, they are.”

“No, I mean it. They’re real. And realer than any of what you little boys are packing, too. What… you think the bimbos out on the beach can’t tell you’re propping yourselves up in those Speedos? Probably touching yourselves every five minutes just so they keep standing out. Hell, I’d bet a couple of you are stuffing, the way middle school girls pad their bras with tissues. So… there you go.”