The Interrogation 3 (Chapter 2) (Patreon)

Again Angelina winced but kept the seductive joy plastered on her face. Could he not see her cleavage well enough in the darkness? She cleared her throat, then did as she was told, trembling on one high-heeled foot while bringing her thumb to the tip of her nose, first one side then the other. This was far trickier than the first sobriety test, and after two taps, Angelina could feel she was going to topple. As she predicted he would, though, the sheriff stepped forth and caught her with an embrace, again grappling with her boobs, this time from the sides and nuzzling them inward to replicate the tantalizing preview she’d given him before.

“Watch yourself there. Doesn’t seem you’re in a fit state to drive,” the officer said. Rubbing Angelina’s tits together until they swelled out of the neckline top like overrisen bread loaves, he brushed his fingers up the taut slit running between her compressed orbs and watched them jiggle. In the harsh radiance of his flashlight, the black of her dress became effectively see-through, more like gossamer film, while the V-shaped window in the garment displaying her chest itself lit up like neon. Her skin, so pearly and smooth in the scrutinizing glow, seemed nearly ghostly, demarcating the blue veins under her skin like a cross-country roadmap. The man’s jaw hung open, the first visible sign of emotion or desire for her aside from his poorly hidden molestation, and after one more swoop of his finger along the curved divide, he grunted: “That’s enough. Stand up straight. I’m going to need to give you a breathalyzer test.”

Now Angelina was getting seriously miffed. What was the point of those first two tests, clearly only an excuse for him to feel her up, if he was already so sure she was drunk? The muggy stink of the vodka on her every exhale should’ve been the only clue needed. Obviously neither of them was idiot enough to believe she hadn’t gotten behind the wheel with a high blood-alcohol level and put the pedal to the metal; this was just a dance they were engaging in now, an exchange, or so she believed. Was it possible the oaf was actually going to further inconvenience her?

“Officer, is this really necessary?” she asked, trying to hide her irritation again, but she received no answer. In a final bid to avoid blowing in the box, she cradled both hands under her rack to prop up the goods and ensured they received a hard enough thrust to wobble for several prolonged seconds. “I’m certain there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here.”

Though the sheriff blatantly drunk in the sight of her last-ditch effort, he still returned from his car with the device, held it to Angelina’s mouth, and instructed her to breathe. She stepped back, watching his stone-face study the beeping output, and an ominously funny feeling came over her then that was justified immediately after when the sheriff unslung the handcuffs from his belt, clinking the chain links together, and held them out to her.

“Lady, I’m placing you under arrest for driving while intoxicated. I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Startled, Angelina did as she was told again, but slowly, still half-hoping this was a trick. Surely he couldn’t be serious? The moment he couldn’t see her face, her eyes rolled back into her head. The cold metal clapped around her wrists, and she knew definitively this was not going to be her night. Was he blind? Her tits were right there!

“Officer, are you sure there hasn’t been some mistake? Maybe the batteries in that thing need changing.”

“You have the right to remain silent,” he said, ignoring her. Once the cuffs were secure, his hands snaked up Angelina’s arms, petting her along the way, then curled around to the front, whereupon he cupped her breasts more fully than ever while simultaneously nestling her juicy rump against his crotch, which she could already feel tenting. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And if you say anything that’s not sweet and pretty, especially, it won’t be in your best interest.”

Angelina’s adrenaline spiked at the simultaneous amending of her Miranda rights and the man’s greedy paws returning. She’d swallowed his offensive handsiness before, when she still believed it would get her off the hook, but there was something newly unsettling about feeling the sheriff’s hands on her breasts now that he had her in shackles. He explored more vigorously now, making them flop up and down while he got comfortable with their malleable geometry through the barely-there layer of her dress.

“You have the right to an attorney. At some point,” the sheriff continued. “If you cannot afford an attorney, then you can ask very nicely in a way that I find satisfactory, you may still get one if I’m in the mood. At any point during questioning, you have the right to shut the hell up and hold still.”

At last the man’s hands found their way inside Angelina’s dress. He only groped the outer bulk of her globes at first, kneading the mushy flesh and squeezing until he could feel the firmness deeper within, then united his knuckles in the middle, sliding his fingers into the blubbery intersection where her inflated chest squished numbingly together. His thumbs hooked around the dual brown-tan slabs of Angelina’s areolas, circling them and flicking the nubs of her nipples to and fro, until they peeped over the top of the neckline and met the frigid midnight air, with the man’s probing fingers their only source of warmth.

“Do you understand these rights, sugar-tits?” the sheriff drawled in her ear.

Her blood chilled as ice now, which took some doing while the vodka was still keeping her hot under the collar, Angelina shivered in the man’s authoritative embrace. Never in her life had she been treated like this. No one had ever dared before. For the first time in years, Angelina was rendered truly speechless, in line with her perverted legal rights.

Often her meetings with strangers began as this one had, with a helpless man’s eyes gluing to her breasts while he practically drooled himself into a horny stupor; she’d play coy for as long as it took to make him feel he’d snared her, and then she’d make her move, whether that meant slipping some dairy in his whiskey, or if he was handsome enough, letting him get some hands-on time before shrinking him to his rightful height anyway. She was the one who put them in the proverbial chains, not the other way around. Gone was that sensation of power Angelina usually reveled in by using her massive rack’s gravitational pull to lure in unsuspecting males. Now there was only discomfort, revulsion, and most alien of all, powerlessness.

“I don’t know how you could even follow the road with that much of the sauce in you, but you seem to be just full of surprises,” the sheriff chuckled. “Now, speaking of surprises, just to ensure my own safety as an officer of the law, I’ll be continuing to search your person for any contraband or stowed items. You know, firearms and such. I know your type, liable to keep a little something hidden where you think the pushover big-city cops won’t reach, out of politeness. Well, you’re in my county now, lady, and I take the law very seriously, so politeness is a luxury I can’t afford. I haven’t found anything on you yet, but you can be sure I won’t be satisfied until I’ve checked you good and hard, and justice is done. Move over this way now for the pat-down. Remember, any unruly behavior will be counted as resisting arrest.”