The Interrogation 3 (Chapter 1)

Smoke poured from the crumpled hood of Angelina’s crimson Porsche, making her feel a bit like she was trapped in the middle of a drunken fever dream. Her head was of course still pretty foggy from the volume of liquor in her bloodstream, especially since she’d foregone her usual favorite red wine in favor of a potent top-shelf vodka tonight, and it took several hazy minutes for the woman to even register that the front of her car was wrapped snugly around a tree trunk like a crunched-in soda can.

When she finally did notice it, after confirming that she herself had sustained no major injuries inside from a few scrapes and bruises, plus a splitting headache, Angelina breathed a sigh of relief. Prior to her “divorce” and acquisition of her ex-husband’s company assets, plus the company itself, this kind of setback might’ve been a concern, but her fund pool happened to be so vast now that crashing her car was akin to spilling milk on the rug. The real annoyance would be getting a tow company out here at this time of night, and more irritatingly, identifying where the hell she'd ended up.

Angelina had purposefully driven far out of her usual bubble this evening, away from the city, to prowl for some fresh fun in bars and country clubs that didn’t know her face. It had been a real hoot hopping from place to place, luring idiot drunks to their doom, without a care in the world, but unfortunately, it also now meant she was marooned on some country road between who-knew-where and bum-fuck-nowhere, her Porsche’s engine squished to a sputtering dud and her phone getting no signal.

So perhaps this was going to be a bigger problem than Angelina guessed at first glance. Stepping out of the totaled vehicle, with a significant wobble in her gait, the woman dusted herself off, smoothed down the wrinkled folds of her black dress which hugged skin-tight to her roomy hips and sensationally ample tits, and held her phone over her head. Her long raven locks, mussed from so many hands-on encounters this evening, had to be combed back as she squinted at the blinking near-empty bars onscreen. It was just as difficult reading the screen as it was tracking the road in front of her while behind the wheel, but Angelina could see well enough to know that she was a little screwed. Huffing, and abruptly feeling the vodka swimming to her head again, she leaned against the car to catch her breath, smacking her phone on the roof and willing it to work. It wasn’t often these days that the woman found herself in a problem she couldn’t instantly and conveniently buy her way out of.

As though in answer to her frustrations, red-and-blue flashing lights abruptly blared in her face. Wincing at the sting to her fragile senses, but grateful that she’d be out of this mess soon, Angelina cupped a manicured hand over her eyes, fidgeting as a sheriff’s car came to a stop at the side of the road a stone’s throw away. The door swung open. Framed against the headlights was a goateed man with nighttime sunglasses and a beer-paunch. He ambled along down the ravine slope, following Angelina’s reckless tire tracks in the grass, up to the site of the fuming luxury car and its scantily clad, large-breasted owner balancing herself against the frame, appearing three sheets to the wind if not more.

“Good evening, Officer,” Angelina said with a smarmy smile. She swallowed a drunk hiccup, giggling to herself while politely covering her mouth. “I seem to be having some car troubles.”

“Looks like it,” the man said curtly. He shone a shoulder-mounted flashlight on the wreck, then Angelina herself, sweeping the beam from head to toe, but lingered just an instant longer when the glow highlighted the woman’s immense rack, bulging out of her too-tight neckline and glistening with a glaze of vodka-sweat.

Noticing his hesitation and latching onto it, as was her talent in identifying weak boys, Angelina’s smirk enlarged. This was going to be even easier than she thought.

“That turn just came out of nowhere, you see,” she explained. Angelina closed one eye to help herself focus on the dopey-looking sheriff in his wide-brimmed hat. “And I’m not too familiar with the area. Would you be so kind as to give me a ride back to the station so I can make arrangements? I can’t seem to get a signal out here.”

“Well, I expect I’ll be giving you a ride back to the station, but that’ll be determined by whether you can pass the test.”

“Pardon?”

“Lady, can you walk in a straight line towards me? One foot in front of the other.”

Angelina frowned. Licking her lips, she subtly, or perhaps unsubtly in her inebriated state, tugged at her already-plunging neckline, letting another inch of the deep fleshy valley be revealed in the sheriff’s spotlight. Usually in these kinds of situations, it didn’t take much more than a gaze at her half-exposed breasts, and her polite airheaded belle act, to get an officer on her side. Apparently this guy wanted a longer look before he gave in. But Angelina didn’t care; she secretly lived for this.

Walking the straight line wasn’t easy, though. Angelina held out both arms as if tiptoeing across a tightrope, and with every stride could feel her body threatening to spin out in either direction. Normally strutting came second nature, but with her perception slowed down, the woman almost felt as though the twin masses of her breasts were throwing off her canter, swinging leadenly in her dress and threatening to spill out each time she lunged forth, nearly taking a tumble. This really wasn’t how she’d hoped to end an otherwise successful evening, and by the time Angelina reached the sheriff, her smile was entirely forced, and so was her shaky balance. Teetering on the brink of wiping out, she winked at the sheriff who, expressionlessly, reached out and planted both of his grubby hands against her cleavage.

He pressed hard, one palm centered over each of Angelina’s nipples, which pointed erect through the satiny black fabric. The more intently he pushed, the deeper the depressions in her flesh, sagging slightly into the flab before the rock-like density of her breasts below the cellulite resisted. With his awkward support, Angelina stopped trying so hard to stay standing on her own, deciding this rude gesture was the price of a ride back to the station, and let the officer keep her standing by cupping her chest. Feeling his fingers digging at her dress and the doughy skin beneath, Angelina looked the cop in his shade-shielded eyes and grinned again. She had this in the bag.

“Looked like you were about to fall there,” the sheriff gruffly stated. Giving Angelina’s boobs one last squeeze, he nudged her back into her center of gravity, again using far more direct contact with her cans than was necessary to get the job done. “And we don’t want that, do we?”

“The ground was slippery,” Angelina insisted. She adjusted her girls again, pushing her arms close to her torso until the squishy fault line between her moon-pale mammaries deepened.

“Sure it was. Now, I’ll need you to stand on one leg and touch your nose with both hands.”