The Interrogation 3 (Chapter 10) (Patreon)

Angelina moved to the cot against the wall and turned her back, revealing the closed zipper positioned near her shoulder blades.

“Keep your hands where I can… um, see them,” the deputy said. “D-Do I just…”

“No need to be shy. Just give it a tug.”

He obeyed, undoing the metal-toothed binds of Angelina’s dress all the way to the small of her back. She hadn’t even turned around yet, but already the deputy looked like he was trying to edge his way back to the door while simultaneously finding it impossible to tear away from the view of her ultra-pale skin gradually emerging in a V-shape from the slinky black cocoon of her outfit.

With a wave of her fingers, however, Angelina coaxed Owens back and received help in guiding her arms up through the sleeves, until the dress slipped off her torso, held up only by her roomy hips for a second, and then nothing, as it fluttered around her feet. The woman stepped out of her heels onto the concrete and abruptly turned, fully naked, to face the deputy, whose gaze was once again unavoidably magnetized to the supple, semi-translucent, sweat-battered orbs heaving less than a foot from his face. The dark-tan rings of her bump-prickled areolas seemed to harden further just from having a fresh pair of eyes locked to them, and Angelina’s nipples accordingly stiffened enough to cut diamond, in direct correlation to the rate of the slack-jawed deputy’s pupils dilating.

“Are you going to get my new attire for me, Deputy Owens?”

The man nearly choked on drool and fell over his own shoes. Stumbling back, he retrieved the inmate uniform and used it as a shield to block the forbidden sight of the mature siren’s icy-white nudity while helping Angelina into the pants first. Of course, they ran into a problem trying to pull the shirt over her chest, which refused to be contained even by a relatively baggy garment. Each time the deputy gritted his teeth and tried to yank the hem down past her joggling bosom, the pressure became too much and the flimsy shirt was outmatched, boinging back up and nearly knocking Owens in the face with his own hands, given his delicate grip doing as little as possible to make contact with Angelina’s chest, which was a tall order since each water-balloon-like boob was larger than his pinheaded cranium.

“Is there some kind of problem, Deputy?”

“N-No, just… trying not to, you know… t-touch any, um, affected areas…” he said.

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure a boy like you would be very gentle,” Angelina laughed. “Do whatever you have to.”

“Well, if… you’re s-sure, I…”

The deputy took a deep breath and gave the jumpsuit one last pull down, actually managing to stretch it to her boobs’ lower curve, and in the process passing his knuckles over the erect summits of her udders. Just then, however, the threads reached capacity, and a rip cuts its way down the front of the shirt. Seeing her opportunity, Angelina thrashed and yelped aloud as though she’d been jabbed with a cattle prod, throwing herself back on the cot. Panicked, the deputy released his hold just in time for the prisoner’s jugs to spring back up. Smaller openings now dotted the shirt Swiss-cheese-style, allowing the woman’s ashen flesh to poke through the slits, not to mention the massive shred down the center over her cleavage, which had gifted Angelina with an even more plunging neckline than her flirty evening dress sported.

“Ouch,” she mewled, stuttering her breathing to sound on the verge of tears.

“I’m… s-sorry!” the deputy gawped. Still seemingly dumbfounded at his own accidental strength, while also once again caught up by the increasing volume of breast meat inflating its way through the various cuts in the cloth like She-Hulk’s, he backed humbly away. “It… it was an accident. I’m…”

“You were just doing your job,” Angelina soothed, though she continued laying the faux-agony on thick, heavily panting and meekly trying to tend her boob by massage-rolling it in counterclockwise circles until, by apparent coincidence, her nipple found a seam-tear in the shirt and stuck through. “Don’t worry, honey, I don’t blame you. But… if you… have a first aid kit, or anything-”

“I’ll g-get it right away,” Deputy Owens declared. He bolted from the cell, almost forgetting to lock it on the way out, which made Angelina have to swallow a genuine burst of laughter or risk blowing her cover. While he was gone, she made a point of pinching her manicured nails into the weak threads of the jumpsuit and clawing them even further apart, aiding in the already inevitable process of the shirt coming undone. Long before she heard Owens’ clumsy footsteps returning, Angelina had worked the impromptu neckline almost down to her stomach, which meant simply leaning too far in either direction would allow most of the hefty tit flab to lurch out of the opening.

Feigning weakness again, she laid sideways on the cot like a pin-up model, propped up on one elbow, though unlike those C-cup bikini babes with computer enhancement and spray tans, Angelina knew herself to be the real deal. Well, aside from her fantastic augmentations. Also unlike idiotic twenty-something posers, her rack sandbagged itself, one floppy mass piling atop the other then gradually deflating their shapes like plump pancakes. Such heat was generated in between them that Angelina could feel the tattered remnants of her prison uniform top dampening then even darkening with the last vestiges of her drunken sweat. Her sloppy inebriation had since reduced to a mere buzz, yes, but she still had at least one more game to play, and when Owens came charging back into the holding cell area, Angelina saw only a mindless guppy chasing after her fishhook.

“I… f-found the kit, so-” the deputy cried, turning the corner and nearly tripping again at the sight of the prisoner lounging on her side, with her mushy tits stacked at the forefront and one of them 90% of the way liberated from the paltry shreds of the uniform. In the dim sickly lighting of the small cell block, Angelina’s breasts took on a strange almost-blue glow, owing partly to webbed veins spread over the oblong curves, but also the increasing perspiration sheen highlighting the pallidness of her humongous freckle-pocked knockers.

“Thank you so much, Deputy,” Angelina said, turning a sore whine into a purr. She curled a beckoning finger at him. “It’s just a few bruises. A little balm and a bandage, and I’ll be good as new. Please, I don’t mean to trouble you again, when you’ve been so accommodating in light of the unusual circumstances, but could you…”

“R-Right. Yes, ma’am,” he said, and suddenly Angelina heard a difference in his tone. Though he’d called her ma’am already, the meaning had changed in her favor, more deferential than professional. Deputy Owens re-entered the cell and stood over the seemingly helpless victim on her cot, fumbling to retrieve the two requested items from the box.

“It’s all very tender, I’m… not sure I want to apply it myself,” Angelina said, upon being offered a tube of soothing cream. “Would you, Deputy?”

Owens’ throat bulged like a bullfrog.

“I’m… n-not sure that’s the best idea, especially since I already… well… m-maybe we ought to just take you to the hospital.”

“And bother them with something like this? No, no, I have absolute faith in you. It was the shirt’s fault, not yours. You wouldn’t believe what a hard time I have finding fashion suited to my… physique,” Angelina said, wincing again. “Please? It… hurts.”

Playing possum finally seemed to overpower the deputy’s defenses, and he hunkered to his knees with the salve at the ready. Looking rather like a first-time physician about to perform open-heart surgery, his quivering hand neared Angelina’s chest, slowing when he got an inch away, though thanks to the prisoner prying apart her mashed-together tits just enough to create an opening between, he was encouraged closer. Now the man’s forehead was just as glazed with moisture as the patient’s white-hot melons. A sweaty trickle dribbled out of Angelina’s cleavage when she peeled the clammy inner flanks away from one another, the liquid trail dodging between freckles on its way to her nipple, where it soaked in and frosted her goosebumped areola.

“There’s a big bruise, right in the middle,” Angelina said. “I know it might be tricky to see, but just go straight in. You can’t miss it.”

“A-All right.” Deputy Owens slid his hand and the tube into the partial opening in her otherwise air-tight cleavage, given the forces of gravity keeping the spongy walls slapped together like a melting snowman. He flinched each time his fingers made contact with her flesh, but the deeper her pressed at this glacial pace, the more impossible it became to avoid touching Angelina’s tits, even having his hand swallowed by them, especially once the woman nonchalantly released her grasp on the upper globe and let the humid skin play Pac-Man with the deputy’s inexperienced fist.

“That’s the ticket. Oh, thank you, that’s already a million times better!” Angelina moaned, once the deputy had pressed the cream vaguely at the epicenter of her cleavage. Of course he was doing little more than wiggling the tube by a differential of a quarter inch on one perfectly-healthy portion of the woman’s deepest inner tittage, but her loud encouragement, and his own obvious green-gilled nature, allowed him not to question the accuracy of her claims.

Owens didn’t try to move his hand any further now, nor did he jump, and he seemed either unaware of, or content with, the fact that it would’ve been tough to simply pull his arm back out of the plush maw of the prisoner’s cleavage, even with the aid of briny lubrication. The density of those beanbag-like boobs clamping his entire forearm in place was just too much to be idly shrugged off, more effective than any bear trap, and it wasn’t long before the deputy was hardly caressing the balm into Angelina’s skin at all, though she didn’t mind.

“I, um… a-apologize, again,” he muttered. “I only hope you d-don’t, you know… feel I’ve overstepped here. You are a person of interest, and I know the Sheriff will have a lot of questions when he comes back, but you’re still entitled to safety here.”

For a moment, Angelina took a break from the laser-focus of her flirtatious façade to appreciate Deputy Owens’ attitude. He was a sweet thing, dumb as a brick, but well-meaning, and obviously less inclined than her usual targets to get his hands on her breasts, given how hard she had to argue for him to stick his fingers into the trap, even though it was also plain he was fighting his every post-pubescent urge to do so. She almost felt sorry that she’d have to dispose of him too. Not quite sorry enough to spare him, of course, since there was no getting around the fact that he and the rest of this town’s pathetic band of backwood cops had ruined her night and forced her to proffer herself like a stuck pig on a plate while locked behind bars. Nevertheless, Angelina knew she’d take at least one degree less personal sexual pleasure from milk-feeding the deputy to death.