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Interrogation Chronicles: One-Night Shrink (Chapter 10)
🕑 Added 2025-10-16 13:00:05 +0000 UTCAngie, in turn – with a muffled murmur of gratification – open-mouth snogged me in a single suckling jolt by wrapping her lips in a tight seal over mine and backwashing out every drop of piping-hot maternal elixir. This time not a drop missed my tongue, and I guzzled it right down, not exactly willingly, but with the grim acceptance that I had no other option while nakedly strapped to a bed at less than half my ordinary height and straddled by a titaness who was hell-bent on gorging me like a man-shaped milk balloon by whatever means necessary. As she’d led me to understand, I might as well let said means be sealed with a lactation-chugging kiss midway through my last fuck on Earth.
Counterintuitively, the knowledge that I might not exist much longer the closer we both crept to orgasm made me begin to abhor and even want to repel the atomic pleasure itself that was sure to wrack us both following so much buildup, but especially in the final seconds of humping toward the finish line, there really was no going back. Angie wouldn’t have allowed it. When she’d deposited every ounce of breast milk she had to give from her mouth into mine, I simply let her muscular tongue probe inside to fill the void instead, the pair of us sharing a discordant moan over the last hip-jerking pumps by this colossal amateur contortionist’s will alone, violating me on two separate bodily features and making me love-hate every instant of it.
Angie released me from that conquering kiss only to gasp and then screech in climactic jubilation at a resonance that shook me down to the bones. Of course she had to come first. I wasn’t far behind, though, simultaneously experiencing undeniably the most superb ejaculatory frenzy and also less bodily control than I’d ever felt post-finish with anyone before, though I managed only to indiscreetly vibrate rather than thrash like an epileptic, a shuddering effect that seemed to please my more-than-welcome rapist for a full minute after she’d already drowned my member in nectar that almost rivaled her last milk offering for its effusive outflow.
Having followed her advice to get my shit together, I can’t say I was at all disappointed in the result, as the bliss didn’t just erupt through me in a single blackout burst, but came in repeated waves that – even now – made me wonder what could’ve been, if I’d met Angie years earlier and endeared myself to her enough to make this manic sensual glory our norm, instead of letting myself become just another shrunken hookup for her to dispose of. I was a person with feelings, after all, or at least I liked to think so, and while the tail end of the orgasm rippled through me, I tried to manually flash an entirely different life before my eyes, one where I became Angie’s trophy husband and sex slave. It looked risky and at times degrading but overall a spicier and more fulfilling ride than the loveless lie-fueled drought-fest I’d had with my wife. I used to consider myself a bit of an Alpha, but if tonight had taught me anything (aside from the modest bombshell that drinking the right woman’s boob milk can make you fucking shrink), it was that I could be down with just about anything, and practically change my whole life plan in the span of hours, if only for the right woman. The gargantuan one currently crouched atop me like her latest gladiatorial slaughter, for example.
I still hadn’t started miniaturizing again, or else I’m pretty sure I would’ve felt the leather loops around my appendages opening up, but I knew it was just a matter of time. My eyes stayed shut the minute Angie finished with me, as if staying in the dark would stretch out my likely limited time a while longer. Then again, in unconscious hindsight, maybe I’d have been better served to steal one last glance at those larger-than-life celestial flesh bodies she called tits, especially because I’d at least have liked to expire from this existence while looking at something of true life-changing beauty. But I’d made my choice, and so instead the last thing I sensed while lashed to that bed beneath Angie’s astronomic living hourglass physique was a murmur of triumphant feminine laughter containing the last vestiges of her orgasmic gasping. This was followed immediately by the now-familiar concussion of plump fragrant milk-and-sweat-slimy boob flab dropping on my head like a pair of atom bombs.
When next I became aware of anything around me, I couldn’t see or even feel most of my body, and so reasonably assumed I was dead and that this was the afterlife, or at least the waiting room before hell. Absolute blackness, indescribable heat, and general nonbeing were cramped all around me, replacing every molecule of space with crushing pressurized mass, albeit slick and mildly marshmallow-soft to the touch, yet still so all-encompassing that it might’ve actually been more freeing to be buried six feet under in a solidified grave of hard-packed earth. It was all so beyond my comprehension that I couldn’t even exactly feel afraid or sad, just perplexed that I was sensing anything to begin with. My memories of my last moments were fuzzy, though I could at least keenly recall how goddamn transcendent that final climax under Angie was, so I chose to ride that high as long as I was allowed, before getting dragged down wherever I went next to pay for having such an epic time on Earth – though I could only feel this content about it because I was 98% sure that none of this was real anyway, and that I wasn’t feeling anything at all.
Then came a voice that swiftly reversed my usual laid-back fuck-it-and-see-what-happens vibe that had gotten me so far in life, right up until that fateful minute I’d approached a certain giga-boobed milk sorceress:
“Now, Angelina. I feel like that’s… not a name you hear as often these days?”
“Right you are. Which is why sometimes I’ll go by Angie. I find that a little self-reinvention goes a long way.”
There was no mistaking it, even if I couldn’t trust a single other aspect of my current cloyingly restrictive lodging. That was my wife’s voice, followed immediately by my ginormous lactate-queen’s own.
In direct conversation.
In the same room.
The two of them.
Right above me, or around me, or wherever the hell else they could’ve been to put me practically right between their cheery tones, which were surprisingly and resonantly louder than I would’ve guessed they’d be, and simultaneously muffled to a near-ghostly whisper as though heard through a bank vault door.
