Interrogation Chronicles (Chapter 13) (Patreon)

Angie paused here to take a long drink, perhaps under the guise of needing liquid courage to spit out the rest of her account, while my wife hadn’t so much as audibly breathed in a while, which told me she was hanging on my undoer’s every achingly credible word and likely shivering with rage over the highly-elevated retelling of my supposed crimes. It’s a funny thing (in the most fucked-up way possible) how much you can learn to care again about what someone thinks of you, when there’s no longer a promise of an upcoming breast-jacked orgasm in the cards, and you’re just helplessly listening to your own already-shaky reputation corroded down to a sniveling assaultive shitbag while impotently gripped in the thrall of unspeakably humongous roly-poly mammary twins from which no light, air, or voice could ever escape.

Though still I had to try. I may not have loved my wife enough by then to keep from getting my dick wet on business trips to make up for her own romantic shortcomings, but I wasn’t about to be squashed into the great booby beyond without attempting to correct this loathsomely revised history of me in her eyes. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to fight my way toward freedom, I instead opened my mouth as wide as could be allowed in this fatty pocket of absolute jug-tastic nonbeing, with the dual barricades of infinite veiny sweat-juicy melon brawn immediately attempting to push my lips back together. Before they could, I began to roar out my wife’s name in the most coherent squeak I could manage from my size.

“Right about then was when Shawn told me he was planning to get away,” Angie said, undeterred by my quiet interjections. What’s more, the lack of any inquisitive murmurs coming from my spouse, or any of my milk-flooded kidnapper’s fingers driving down into the pectoral gulch to silence her breast passenger, informed me that my pleading yelps hadn’t even penetrated through enough surrounding purgatory-humid lush-and-quashy boob mileage to worry Angie about being discovered. She just barreled right along, digging the grave of my personal standing with my wife deeper on every word, while also keeping my scarcely-conscious form more thoroughly buried in a living breathing mausoleum of her undulating boob meat. “And he made it clear that he wasn’t going home to let you know things were finished between the two of you, but… making a new start, never to return or even speak to you again. Recreating himself entirely from scratch, jetting to somewhere in Europe or Asia – I swear, if he’d given me any hint of where he was headed, I would tell you – and living off some secret fund he said he’d been hiding away from you for some time. I don’t know why he chose to make last night be the last of his life. His former life, I should say. I also don’t know why he chose to tell me as much of his plan as he did, or his real name, even if he gave no specifics that would’ve allowed me to point you in his direction, so you could get the vindication you are and were so owed. If I could go back and make one choice differently from last night, I swear it would’ve been doing more than just slapping him across the face on your behalf and mine – which of course I did, but unfortunately I have to beg you to understand that I was in such… disbelief… over what was happening around me, and being said to me, that I couldn’t do much more than demand that he get the hell out of my home after that. Which he did, and hand over heart, that was the last I saw of him.”

“My GOD…”

I heard my wife make a noise somewhere between a wet retch and a war growl. Meanwhile my own little voice, far too inadequate to break through the cellulite cosmos of this tubby pulsating prison, had gone hurtfully hoarse from shouting her name too many times more passionately than I ever had the last time we had good sex, and so I was reduced only to croaky babbling that couldn’t have been heard even if Doug was still tucked in here with me somewhere. For all I knew, he was, and had simply been dairy-fed to such a minimum height that my wingman had become indistinguishable from the puffy darkness clasping my every atom against perspiring perfume-muggy skin pale as buttermilk and twice as slippery.

“Angelina, I don’t even know where to begin…” my wife lamented. “I only hope what I’m about to tell you is of some help. I’m… not… surprised. About any of that.”

My heart just about stopped permanently right then. She fucking wasn’t what?

 “Oh, dear,” Angie empathetically swooned. “Let it all out if you like. You’re among friends now.”

“I… used to have nightmares about this exact thing happening,” my wife declared. “Shawn’s useless at so many things… cleaning, cooking, manners, marriage, giving orgasms… but he could always at least make a dollar work for him, and since I found out about all the times he’d done things like this while he was away, I would just imagine him taking our rainy day fund and vanishing forever so he could spend the rest of his days fucking everything that moves on some STD-cover beach. It’s been on my mind for a long time, like this worst-case scenario. Then… I found I started actually, God, hoping for it to happen. For him to just go away. I know what you’re thinking, Angelina. That I should’ve just ended it myself. Gotten out of there. But-”

“Believe me, I know what a hell it can be to get out of a toxic relationship,” Angie vowed. She must’ve crossed her arms over her chest now, because the pressure was mounting again all around me as it had when she rolled her high-beams into the brunch table. Her arms hugged her bust so tautly that I could hardly hear her now, let alone feel my limbs. As simple as it would’ve been for her to end me with a few more ounces of squeezing force, it also felt ironically like how I might’ve imagined being made self-aware in the womb, on the opposite end of my lifespan instead. “Personally, it cost me a full gallon of blood, sweat, tears, and every other kind of fluid in order to pull off the split from my ex-husband. I understand better than anyone the attraction of just waking up one day and seeing them gone. And after I helped make that happen, I felt… free. Maybe for the first time. I didn’t know where he went, and I didn’t care to find out. He’d already stolen enough years of my life. So, dear, I certainly wouldn’t presume to tell you how to feel or what you should expect now, what with everything that’s happened in the last day. But if there’s any ultimate reason why the minute Shawn left, I swallowed my pride, tracked you down, and flew here overnight just to meet you and tell you everything I knew about that sad little excuse for a man, it’s this: you are so much better off without him.”

“Yes. I know I am.”

Having already expended all my energy and cries during Angie’s heavily doctored retelling of our moist and mortifying night together, I had nothing else to give now in response to this obscene revelation except screaming on the inside and hoping that I did it with enough fervor to literally grow telepathic pathways in my brain and then somehow sync up with my wife’s before Angie hugged her saggy milkquaking boulders in any more dearly around me.

It couldn’t end like this.

It just couldn’t.

Why had Angie even come all this way, traveling a hundred miles overnight and risking all kinds of hard-to-answer questions in a conversation with the spurned spouse of someone she currently had stowed between bloated dairy reservoirs? She’d said something or other about it being more work for her to close the book on her deadly one-night stands with married men. No doubt that was why she’d come so far and arranged to have brunch with my wife. But then again, no one but Doug knew where I was or had ever laid eyes on Angie. She could’ve gotten away with it all, even if there was security camera footage of us together in that fancy bar, with a couple phone calls at most. She was more than clever enough for that. If all Angie meant to do here in person was ensure that no one came looking for me – and it was clear now that my wife was finished grieving for our relationship the same minute after hearing of my disappearance – why did she have to keep me here? Where I could hear everything they were saying, my character getting shredded to ribbons, and then sink into the most miserable mental sinkhole I’d ever known? Was it really just because she got such a thrill out of having the shrunken squirmy trophies of her conquests constantly tucked in her cleavage until we could no longer amuse or stimulate her?

Or maybe, just maybe, was it because Angie wanted me to hear this? As a lesson? And if she’d gone to such lengths to teach me something, then wouldn’t that mean she wanted it put to use? Because to have brought me all this way, just to listen to the complete dissolution of my marriage and my reputation as a man with my own tiny ears, and know in my heart that no one left alive and unshrunken out there truly cared about me, only for her to kill me dead anyway right afterward, would have been insane.

Believing then that I’d been given salvation, snatched from the jaws of the afterlife even as I was still deeply ensconced in the plumper jaws of Angie’s boob alley, I exhaled with relief what few molecules of air I was privileged to gasp from so far and thick down into this puttied sun-hot cavity. At this point, I couldn’t have cared less what she intended for me to do with that head-fucking lesson about my worthlessness. I was going to LIVE! No matter if that meant I’d be dropped in a hamster cage for the rest of my days, or housed inside a puny man-habitat crystal that Angie could wear from a long chain like a necklace to let me go spelunking back between her orbs in a gemmed elevator, I didn’t care. It was still better than everything ending in a squashy breast-crashing flash.

In fact, the more I thought about it, at this place of true rock-bottom the extreme likes of which had probably been known to a very (very) small population, the more I saw the potential benefits. Especially compared to facing the nothingness that would come of being mulched to a microscopic crimson blip that would be washed away within the next hour due to a bead of mimosa-induced sweat sluicing down the giantess’s inner rack. It wasn’t like I really enjoyed my job, anyway. Or even most of my hobbies, aside from anonymous screwing. I didn’t have many friends, other than Doug, and wherever the hell he was now, he was in no shape to be a wingman anymore, possibly God rest his soul. My wife had made it very clear that she didn’t need me now, and as foreign as it was for me to experience guilt or culpability when it came to the stagnant mess of our nuptials, if she was happier without me, then why shouldn’t I try to do the same?

No matter where I ended up being kept, after all, it seemed likely to involve a front-row seat to view Angie’s knockers, which I was certain after enough time could become rather worthwhile objects of godlike devotion in my mind. She’d practically gotten me to see them that way in a single night already, and to boot, a night in which she milk-shrunk me and then provided me with unquestionably the best fuck of my life. I figured a whole lifetime of staring at those twins could only yield good things, even if those good things included liquid milk pearls the size of asteroids raining down on me by the hundreds. I’d gladly swim in them, and maybe just keep my lips shut so I didn’t sink too low to know which way to float toward the creamy light. There could certainly be far worse ways to live, and I’d always been the kind of guy to enjoy living specifically on the edge. Could there be a wilder way to fulfill that need than this?

“Call me crazy, dear…” Angie said to my wife, punctuating their commiseration meal with the clinking of raised glasses. “…but I could see this being the start of a lovely friendship!”

Then she leaned back in her chair, indulged in a lengthy sigh, and suddenly the damp rubbery darkness sealed in harder around my ultra-miniaturized body with lightning speed and unbearable force, making my spread-eagle shape the ground zero of two colliding boob planets, and all my big fucking plans (along with me) popped like microscopic firecrackers.

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THE END (but Angelina will return)