“What the… what the hell’s going on?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Einstein.”

“Well, there’s no need to be an asshole about it, Bob.”

“Oh, shut it, Monica. You always have to be the scorekeeper.”

“Pardon me, but I don’t think it’s going to help anything if we start shouting at each other, instead of trying to figure out what’s going on!”

“Does it look like there’s a single damn thing we can do here? Just shut the hell up, and let me think.”

The large room, dimly lit with candles dotted in the corners, was so thick with shadow it was impossible for the four individuals present to see much behind the bounds of the expansive mahogany table. In fact, other than one another, there wasn’t much for the quartet to see at all: Arthur, Monica, Bob, and John sat in a circle facing away from one another, each bound by tethers to their respective chairs. Only by craning their necks around could they get a glimpse of one another’s bewildered, somewhat disheveled selves trapped in their seats.

Though, as top-tier board members of one of the most highly lucrative science and technology corporations in the international arena, the four had come to recognize one another’s voices blind, and especially one another’s squawked complaints, a common mode of communication at their meetings. Normally each was the most powerful person in any given room they entered, able to end careers and crush dreams with a wave of the hand, but for the first time in many years now, none of the four had any idea what was going on or why, making them feel bizarrely vulnerable.

“All I’m saying is, it would be nice to keep calm. If your collective testosterone-fueled dick-measuring egos can handle it for two minutes, that is,” Monica snarked. The sole female of the quartet, the deceptively average-looking forty-something had clawed her way to the top with no small amount of vigor and back-stabbing.

“You’re always the first one to bring up our dicks, aren’t you? As if you hold it against us?” John crowed. The youngest of the four, the thirty-three-year-old was as well known for his Ken-doll good looks as he was for asking secretaries to blow him behind the desk. “I, for one, am perfectly fucking calm. Even though I’m tied to a chair in who-the-hell-knows where.”

“Can’t you two just screw and get it over already?” Bob whined. Pot-bellied, and sagging into middle age on a bedding of booze and hookers, he’d long ago lost the energy to hold decorum, either at work or at play. “Or if you can’t shut up, just please put me out of my damn misery? Since it already seems like somebody wants to hold us to ransom…”

“I remember the good old days, when kids like you three had the smarts to keep your traps shut until you had a good idea to share,” Arthur growled. Stately and graying smoothly into elderhood, the seventy-one-year-old had been nursing a continuous migraine since the four all came to power on the board. “Perhaps you’ll give it a try sometime. If you learn to be silent once in a while and let someone else speak up, someone who knows better, all sorts of good things can happen.”

“That’s advice you could all stand to follow. Including you, Arthur,” a mysterious voice crooned from an unknown source, sultry and almost lyrical. A woman’s voice. It warmed the air, or maybe that was just from the space-distorting candlelight fogging the place like a cheapo haunted house. The four turned their heads in all limited directions, watching the shadows and wrestling again with their unbreakable bonds. None could get free.

Suddenly from out of the dark came a face they all knew only too well, albeit on a scale grander and more mythic than any could recall. There before them, just at the edge of the enormous table, holding a full glass of red wine, stood Angelina: an enigmatic, pale, black-haired siren of a woman once married to the owner of the company, Carl, who’d vanished without a trace one year before. While it was the Angelina they all remembered, sipping omnipresent wine and dressed to the nines in a shimmering black silken gown that might’ve looked like a fairy tale witch’s garb, except for the plunging neckline that granted a broad window to her ample cleavage, there was something distinctly different about her. Specifically, the fact that Angelina looked almost ten times bigger than usual: a veritable giant, observing them with a pitiful smile of lightly withheld disgust, as one might regard old dolls in a museum.

“Ang… elina?” Monica gawped in shock.

“What the hell are you doing here?” John barked.

“And what the hell made you into the fifty-foot-fucking-woman?” Bob added.

“What have you done?” Arthur muttered, picking it up fastest. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m glad you asked, Arthur. I’m sure you four all have a lot of questions, and while I’d love to watch you all squirm in your seats for as long as possible while not really answering them… delayed gratification, if you will… I’d rather not dawdle and put off the recreational activities any longer than necessary. So let’s just knock out the stupid questions first, bang-bang-bang,” Angelina replied, setting down her wine glass. A drinking straw resting in the liquid circled the rim.

She braced herself against the table, which the four now realized was just an ordinary dining room table made to look palatial thanks to their comparatively smaller sizes. Her long manicured nails, red as blood, tapped out an unsettling rhythm. Leaning ever closer to the cluster of bound-up chairs containing Barbie-sized board members, Angelina let her milky cleavage spill deeply from the sharp V-cut in her dress, to the point that the four had to wonder what forces beyond gravity even kept those humongous orbs in place.

“I don’t plan on repeating this at all, since it’s only going to get on my nerves, just like you four have cut me down to my last nerve this past year, so pay close attention,” Angelina said. The longer she spoke, the graver her tone became. “One: I’m not a giant. You’re all just very, very small, though of course by comparison to what you may well end up as later tonight, you’re positively gargantuan. Two: I’m the one who shrunk you. Don’t bother asking how. You’ll find out soon enough in a more practical way. Three: With all your repeated attempts to block me from getting what’s mine out of this company, I have to extend my congratulations for the fact that you four have officially caused me nearly as big a pain-in-the-ass as my late husband Carl, though not quite that much. Yet. Four: After tonight, I’m going to get what’s coming to me finally, because when I’m through with you, the four of you will just be the one of you. Yes, as it turns out, thanks to some fine-print research, I really only need one of you alive, functioning, and on my side to take full comprehensive control of the company! And thus, we reach the fifth and final stupid question you all were going to raise in your oh-so-annoying little voices: How, oh how, will I decide which of you three will be put out of your misery, as Bob so ironically hoped for a minute ago, and which one of you lucky little whelps will have the honor of being my puppet on the board, ensuring I get all the funds I require to keep my lifestyle going? The answer, of course, is that we’re going to have a little tournament of questions and answers. And here you all thought this was going to be so serious, didn’t you? Well, it’s not. Maybe you four will even manage to have some fun, since most of what brings you joy in life involves crushing rivals beneath your heels, anyway. In this case, though, you’re playing for keeps. Or at least I am.”

At the conclusion of this perplexing speech, the four shrunken boardsters were left with gaping jaws and bugged eyes. None spoke up.

“Lovely, it seems I did answer all your questions to satisfaction before you even had to ask them, so none of you has a follow-up? I know, considerate of me,” Angelina laughed. She leaned back to her full stature again, giving her neckline a tug that failed, probably deliberately, to re-sheath her pale, jiggly melons while they struggled to tumble out of the gown.

Given the surreal circumstances, the four couldn’t help but shift their focus away from Angelina’s crimson-painted lips spouting insanity, and instead got lost in the hypnotic jumble of those twin cans practically vibrating together, dotted with freckles and ghostly veins, whenever the woman laughed. It simultaneously occurred to all four people, in bizarre fashion, that Angelina’s breasts, already large when they’d first met her and now more spacious than ever, were fully capable of quashing them to death if the woman was to lean over the table just a bit further and then peel back the black folds of her dress. Even one boob would be sufficient. Plop. They’d be paralyzed beneath its heft, if not dead altogether. She could probably even fit several of them under a single breast. After the woman’s creepily nonchalant talk of killing three of them, if indeed this still wasn’t some sick joke, it was hard to keep that thought from entering the mind.

“Hello, you four? Eyes up here?” Angelina chuckled, snapping her fingers to regain their attention. “I can’t blame you all necessarily, of course. The new and improved formula for the… substance I’ll be using to shrink you even further now contains a fun little chemical cocktail that will make you subtly, or perhaps unsubtly, yearn to acquire even more of what made you dwindle. But enough idle talk. I’m just teasing you, when instead we could be starting the fun. And I have so much fun planned. So, first things first. I’ve got some pressing questions to ask each of you. You each have until the end of these questions to become sexually aroused. Whoever gives the best answer will not have to shrink again at the end of this round and, if needed, whoever gets the most aroused will break the tie. Crystal-clear, everyone?”

Since the four were still grappling with the fact that they’d been shrunk, let alone that their lives might soon end and they were about to participate in a depraved Q&A to keep their already-diminished size, the dam broke at once. The four started squabbling and screeching anew, yelling at one another and especially at Angelina. Their voices criss-crossed into a din that sounded to Angelina more like tittering Chihuahuas now that they were so small, though she decided she still preferred them like this.
“Silence NOW,” Angelina coldly spat, “or not ONE of you will leave this house alive.”

Clapping her hands with thunderous aplomb that instantly silenced the four hysterical boardsters, along with the threat itself, the woman planted her hands on her narrow hips and stuck up her chin, in the process spotlighting her apparently magnetic cleavage again. Bathed in muggy candlelight, her half-exposed mega-tits glistened almost as brightly as her dress.

“That’s better,” she said with a smirk. “Let’s start things off with you, John, shall we?”

“What do you want?” the modelesque man grumbled, fidgeting in his seat. He watched Angelina pick up her wine glass again and proceed to take long pulls from it around the straw while reaching for him with her free hand. No amount of leaning could protect him from those sharp nails, but rather than scratch him as her clawed hand suggested, she merely grazed them harmlessly down his front, then burrowed her fingernail into his beltline, promptly ripping straight through the slack fabric.

“Well, first I want to get your shrunken cock out in the open, so I can judge how aroused you are. Obviously,” Angelina said. Having ravaged his pants, and successfully got the man’s member in view despite his wriggling, she let her index finger’s tip hover just over it, tapping the head with an intimidating nail. “Not at all so far. And you’re supposed to be the most lascivious of this group. Oh well, it just keeps things fair. Tell me now, John, why do you think you’re here?”

“Because we didn’t let you snake your way into controlling the company!” he snarled, showing youthful bravado. “We didn’t become corporate bitches like you wanted!”

“Hmm, yes, that’s why the four of you are here, but what about you, specifically?” Angelina pressed. Her finger tapped his dick, firm but not painfully, causing him to flinch, while she took another long sip from her glass. Upon setting the wine down again, she took hold of her dress’s neckline again, peeling it ever so slightly back, revealing even more of her bulky tit, where the skin was palest and almost translucently white, coming within an inch of letting her areola peek over the silky horizon.

“I have no fucking idea!” he shouted back, wrenching his hips uselessly in the chair; no matter which way he shifted, Angelina’s finger followed his tiny cock, and gradually began to flip it back and forth across the tip of her digit like a mechanical on/off switch. “Stop DOING that! What, you think all you have to do is touch me and do a strip-tease with those saggy meatbags you call boobs? You think I’m that desperate for some old witch like you?”

“Oooh, good news for the other three of you! John here doesn’t seem to want to play along!” Angelina announced. She shrugged, then gave his member a harder flick with her pinky finger that, judging by the full-body flinch it earned from her shrunken target, caused far more discomfort than pleasure. “In case any of you were wondering the real answer, it’s because John here thinks he’s too much a big man to ever be the one not on top, no matter the circumstances. And it’s about time he was taken down a peg. No more big man. Monica, you’re next up! Why do you think you’re here?”

Angelina circled to the next compass-direction side of the table, where the sole female member of the senior board circle waited. The tiny woman, who ordinarily wore a mask of utter confidence and even sniveling disdain, was losing her composure, trembling in her chair. A look of horror crossed her face when the giantess now reached for her, inserting her large fingertip directly into Monica’s shirt and batting her shrunken tits back and forth.

“P-Please, Angelina. Don’t do this. Just make us big again, and we’ll forget any of this h-happened.” The woman gulped, her voice entering a strange vibrato while Angelina’s toying with her breasts automatically stammered her tone. Meanwhile the dark-haired titaness herself continued untucking the folds of her dress, even giving her blatantly hardened nipple, pinkish-brown and riddled with goose bumps, a chance to poke out before going undercover again. When Angelina pulled up on her neckline, letting her tit saddle back into the cloth, all four of her audience watched the rocky weight of it sifting into place again by the relentless tug of gravity.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that whichever one of you is lucky enough to leave here tonight alive will forget any of this happened. It won’t matter for the other three, because they’ll all either be dead, or so tiny as for their existence to count for less than nothing anyway.” Angelina’s molesting finger, wedged between Monica’s cleavage, kept on making them bounce like toy bobblehead tops, but also snaked her digit deeper into the blouse, tauntingly clawing her fingernail along the woman’s waistline. “By the way, Monica, I’m offering you a little extra help here, since as far as I know, you’re straight as an arrow, so you’ll need all the stimulation you can get. Just try to focus on how this feels, and how much better I am without even trying than that saltine cracker of a husband of yours.”

“All right… t-then, if you have to… please, I have two kids… let me go, and do what you… have to with the others,” Monica said with apparent remorse, even tearing up.

At this display of Monica’s, the three shrunken men erupted into a tirade of insults aimed at the sole tiny lady in their company for trying to sacrifice them, but Angelina hushed the group with another murderously stern glance. Her finger didn’t halt its pendulum-like pace slapping Monica’s miniature tits to and fro, while at last driving her fingertip into the woman’s pants and roughly massaging her crotch. The woman might’ve winced just like John if she wasn’t already heaving from produced tears.

“My, my. Good performance, Monica. Not great, but certainly good. You whipped up those tears in record time, and if I didn’t know how heartless of a snake you are, I’d almost be convinced with the part about those poor little trust fund step-kids of yours,” Angelina simpered. “Smart play, to ask for mercy first before oh-so-graciously suggesting that you be spared instead of the rest. But really, so fast? Not even one more protest? That’s where you failed to convince me.”

The look of manufactured horror on Monica’s little face, and even her tears, quickly cleared in favor of pure calculated frustration. She gritted her teeth and sneered silently at Angelina, perhaps too wise to try an insult aloud. That was usually her signature move, showing some emotion before going for the throat, but Angelina had swatted the attempt aside as easily as she could do so physically to Monica herself.

“Not even wet enough to feel down there, but still, I give you points for trying to play the game. In a way, really, you answered my question using direct proof,” Angelina proudly stated, and at last retracted her fingertip from out of Monica’s blouse and pants, patting her head on the way out. “You’re here because you might be the sneakiest, most devious, and possibly smartest one on this table, and frankly, there may not be room at the company for both of us. But we’ll decide that in due course. In the meantime, John? You’re officially out of the running to survive this round of questions un-shrunk, so…”

“What are you doing?” John dumbly gawked, as their tormenter doubled back around the table to face him again. For a moment Angelina just studied him, the panicked little man tangled in thin rope with his non-erection still poking through his half-undone pants; he obviously wasn’t used to being touched by anyone older than thirty, nor of being the submissive in any given encounter, and it was clearly making him lose his mind fast. “Get away! Don’t touch me! I swear to Christ, if you come near me again, you ugly cow…”

“Oh, I don’t need to touch you, John. In fact, all I need is for you to keep screeching and whining like you are right now. That’s it,” Angelina said, and casually began rolling her dress’s shoulder strap down her right arm, in the process letting that side of the midnight-hued garment go limp upon the enormous mass of her breast.

Black silken fabric rushed like running water over the tremendous rounded bulge, even the mound of the nipple pronounced through the material, and suddenly the mastermind’s right breast was naked for all to see: bulbous, ashen-toned, pocked with aging beauty-mark freckles and a roadmap of thin blue veins, and utterly tremendous in scope. It was no wonder Angelina had foregone a bra, because not even a triple-D holster could’ve contained those mammoth things. Now that her breast was out in the open, a glowing orb in the candlelight, again the four shrunken victims were hypnotized by the sight of it, unable to do anything except train their attentions upon the puffy nipple and the surrounding slab of prickly flesh.

Angelina’s palm cupped beneath the baggy weight of it, letting cellulite swell between outstretched fingers as she lofted her mammary a few inches higher, such that it almost looked to be buoyantly supporting itself like some perky porn star’s rack, rather than the natural anomaly of voluminous size and heavy skin that it was. Slowly, then, the woman’s hand glided provocatively up the curved wall of her own tit, massaging and temporarily remolding the generous flesh before letting it spring back into its balloon-shaped resting state. At last she arrived at the center, her thumb and index finger circling her aroused nipple, which only caused it to harden more, until the woman had fastened her fingertips around the dark-tan nub and pointed it squarely in John’s direction.

“What the fuck are you doing, you looney bin cunt?” he raged, practically hopping in his chair. “Listen here, when my lawyers get through with you, you’re going to-”

John’s rant was cut short when his wide-open blabbermouth was blocked by a gushing stream of frothy, creamy breast milk that came blasting at him like a firehouse payload straight from Angelina’s duct. The eruption was brief, lasting only two seconds before it was reduced to a single white dribble curling down Angelina’s boob; nonetheless, it was more than enough milk volume to silence John’s cries, filling his nose, mouth, and throat with the giant woman’s motherly fluids. Sheer force from the liquid artillery nearly knocked him over like a bowling pin, and in fact he would’ve gone down without intervention, likely choking water board-style on the milk. Angelina, however, having learned from the last time such a thing happened with her dearly departed ex-husband, didn’t want the fun to end so quickly, and so snatched the doll chair to keep it from toppling. Milk now stained the upper half of the man’s body, dripping down his frame like the ultimate money-shot. He smacked his lips in revulsion, having obviously chugged a significant dose of breastmilk in a desperate bid to breathe oxygen again.

The four victims, and John especially, were trapped on such an extreme roller coaster of emotion, all they could do was travel violently from magnetic focus on Angelina’s nude tit, to bewildered shock at the expertly aimed milk, and at last to traumatized terror when they saw what happened next. In a fitful jolting motion, John shrunk before their very eyes deeper into the toy furniture, stopping at somewhere around half his previous height, looking quite like a child seated in an oversized chair at the grownups’ table, even though it was already an object designed for dolls. He might’ve had the chance to wriggle free of his loosened binds now, but crippling surprise kept John frozen in place, and Angelina had tugged the knots tighter to accommodate his lesser stature before he even had the chance to blink.

“Right. Now we’ve had our practical demonstration, as I promised you,” Angelina said with a cheerful snicker. “Lick up that milk mustache of yours, John. It’s impolite. You’re much wetter than Monica now, though that’s not saying much, of course.”

Monica was crying again, except with less melodrama and wailing energy, which seemed to indicate she was weeping for real this time; Bob was hyperventilating, red-faced and on the verge of tears himself; old Arthur just looked like a captain going down with his ship. And John, for his part, had been successfully silenced for perhaps the first time in his professional career. His fellow board members might’ve appreciated it, if they weren’t now so afraid of the very-real possibility of being fed supernatural milk from those fatty lunar orbs Angelina called breasts until they shrunk so small that they vanished into the fabric of reality. If anyone was still questioning the seriousness of these circumstances, all uncertainties had now been laid to rest, once and for all.

“Let’s get a move-on, shall we? Bob, I hope all the excitement has gotten you stirred in the plump little loins, because you’ll need the boost soon,” Angelina cooed. She took a refreshing sip from her wine glass through the straw, polishing off the last dark-red dregs, then walked around to Bob’s side, scraping her manicured nails along the mahogany tabletop like fashionable little scythes, until she came at last to face the trembling, sputtering fellow in the middle of an anxiety attack, or possibility a heart attack. She didn’t especially care which type he was having. “You know what’s going to happen if you impress me less than Monica, so I trust you’ll treat this question with respect, Bob. Why are you here?”

“Because I’m a fuckin’ bastard, that’s why!” Bob whooped almost instantly, huffing and puffing. “Because I cheat on my wife, I’m a tax-evader, I skimp on restaurant tips, I don’t recycle, I skim off the employee Christmas bonuses, and I voted to block you from all access to the company!”

At this performance, Angelina broke into machine-gun chortles, again living up to her cackling sorceress visage; of course, she was the only person present to laugh. As she shook with merriment, her breasts, one still loosely contained in her dress and the other out to party, bobbed and flopped with reckless abandon. In the eerie dining room lighting, the giantess’s cleavage had begun to shine with a thin sheen of alcoholic perspiration. During this tumultuous round of quaking motions imposed on her breasts, the four shrunken guests watched those milky fleshbags practically twinkle with sweat and stray dabs of makeup. Even before she’d recovered from her amusement, then, Angelina repeated what she’d done to John, playfully raking her nails down his chest, then splitting his pants up the fly before pulling his dick out and taking hold of it. The shrunken nub of his manhood was piteously swallowed up by Angelina’s slender fingertips.

“Oh, Bob. That’s almost exactly what I wanted to hear from you, even though it’s not the right answer. That’s why I’ve always liked you, in the same way you might like a dung beetle for working so hard to roll shit up a hill,” Angelina explained, wiping away a laugh-induced tear and then continuing to caress her exposed tit, alternately squeezing different quadrants of the hulking monstrosity such that Bob’s eyes were forced to dart every which way to keep up in anticipation that she’d next pinch her nipple again for a dairy-flavored headshot. She held his dick in a vice-grip between her authoritative fingertips, but like with John, didn’t even have the courtesy to dry-pump it. “Similar to Monica, you give up immediately in order to save yourself, but you don’t even do it under the pretense of outsmarting your opponent. You just declare bankruptcy on the situation and then show your belly, hoping for the best. But unfortunately, while all of those things you listed do indeed make you a worthless asshole whose shrink-death would only benefit the world, it’s not the specific reason why you are here.”

“Then w-what is?” he pleaded, flushed as a cherry tomato.

“Oh, now that’s interesting,” Angelina drawled. “See, neither John nor Monica could lower themselves enough to go for the obvious and just ask me. It takes a certain kind of pathetic debasing I thought all four of you incapable of. Well, seeing how you’re throwing yourself fully at my mercy, Bob, and the fact that your chubby micro-dick does seem to be doing something down here, I’ll humor you. Do you remember the senior board members’ company Christmas party five years ago?”

“Y-Yeah, I remem… I… oh.” If such a thing was possible, Bob’s face turned even redder upon recalling the event. He went stock-still in his chair, jittered only by Angelina’s finger squeezing his miraculous half-mast erection. Again his eyes, cast in a thousand-yard stare, descended into the ever-closer valley of the giantess’s sweat-glazed cleavage, the gulch of which only widened the further over the table she leaned to toy with his genitals. While the still-sheathed left side sagged against the neckline, testing the strength of the stitching, the rotund hunk of her liberated right breast hung down like an udder. Her nipple even still dribbled the occasional globule of crystal-white milk that then plunked loudly on the table in a puddle, as the room was otherwise silent enough to hear a pin drop, or indeed a drop of milk. The longer Bob stared into the wide fleshy divide between those monumental sacs, and the larger that puddle of leftover milk became under Angelina’s overhanging chest, the more he looked like he might simply pop from the mental pressure.

“Don’t look so guilty just yet, Bob, although I’m enjoying the look on your face. We haven’t even gotten to the important part. Yes, obviously that was the Christmas party where you got drunk on cheap whiskey and grabbed my ass, the ass of your CEO’s wife of all asses. Then when I slapped you away, you grabbed it again. I trust that’s the same time you remembered, if you could remember anything at all after the hangover?”

“Y-Yeah, I… I remember,” he sniffled. Normally the loudest and most belligerent of the quartet, he’d gone soft remarkably swiftly, even sooner than Angelina guessed. “I’m r-real sorry, for w-what it’s… it’s worth.”

“Like I said. We haven’t even gotten to the important part. I couldn’t care less about you taking a grab at me, Bob. You’re so ugly and stupid and fat, it meant as much to me as being head-butted by a hungry goat. No, no, the thing that really got to me the most was that I’d just had my breasts augmented as an early Christmas present to myself, and when they were right there for the plucking, you chose to go for my ass?” Angelina spat suddenly, her frustration rising into anger. This turn of events startled all four shrunken detainees, including even John, who’d finally broken through the milk-soaked reverie. “Yes, yes, obviously you’ve also tried to stop me from taking control of the company assets, just like these other three fools, and that gave me cause to do this to you all now. But when it comes down to it, Bob? The thing that truly galled me was that you couldn’t even have the common decency, the basic human normalcy, to have a go at the expensive new assets instead. I mean, really. What kind of man are you? I’m sure you can’t ignore them now, but… that’s only because your fate is now literally in my tits.”

By now, Bob was bawling harder than Monica over this display of concentrated fury from a gigantic woman who clearly had the power to end his life, and which had seemingly blossomed out of nowhere over something he hadn’t thought twice about while boozily going for the highest-class asses he thought he could attain. Snotty and pathetic, he sobbed in his chair, while his erection evidently reached its potential between Angelina’s firm fingers, perhaps spurred on by a rush of adrenaline and survival instinct. He even came close to cumming, despite the tight and entirely uninviting grasp of her long digits, and it impressed the giantess all the more.

“This is almost too tragic a sight for me to handle, Bob, which I suppose makes you the new winner for the time being. Just look at the state you’re in. Crying like a little girl just because I raised my voice at you, and about to blow your load based on nothing but cowardice and two fingers in direct contact with you. Congratulations, you get to keep this size for now. Monica, on the other hand, is out of the running…”

“What?” the little woman gasped, still raw from her own personalized face-off with Angelina. She wriggled in her chair so hard that she actually managed to mostly turn herself around, despite being bound hand and foot. “Y-You said I was s-safe! You said-”

“Said, said, said. Who cares what was said? Words don’t mean much of anything to you, do they, Monica? Besides, you tried to pull one over on me, while poor Bob here turned into a sad-sack at the first opportunity. He understands the game better than either you or John: the game, of course, of proving your aptitude for being my bitch while I take back what’s mine. So, you’ve got to get smaller. Come here, now.”

“No! No! PLEASE!” Monica croaked through fresh tears. In a last desperate bid, she flung herself and her chair onto the side, where she became even more vulnerable to Angelina’s oncoming hand. Those willowy fingers wound around the roped seat and the savage businesswoman within it, plucking Monica off the table and lifting her into the air. The self-appointed new boss held the diminutive woman up at chest-height, dispassionately observing and savoring the tiny thing’s mewling for a few seconds before speaking again.

“Why don’t you come a little closer now,” Angelina said, almost kindly, as though she herself wasn’t in total control of Monica’s every move. She hugged the chair in closer, until the shrunken woman’s head was just an inch away from the risen hillock of Angelina’s nipple, pointed at Monica’s face like the barrel of a gun. The shrunken woman clearly felt the threat of the immense naked hooter seemingly floating in orbit right in front of her vulnerable little body, going taut in Angelina’s grip and looking like she might vomit from nervousness.

All she could see now without craning her neck was the dark bumpy mound of Angelina’s areola, the summit of her erect nipple at the center, surrounded on all sides by an abundant canvas of artificially inflated flab and skin. The air rising from the freckly terrain was that of bittersweet liquor and perspiration-salt, or perhaps that was just the balmy fog of Angelina’s wino breath wafting down as the giant woman stared at her nipple-dweller in wide wonder, sighing with unsettling satisfaction and contributing even more to the husky heat radiating from her tits.

“Take your pick, Monica,” Angelina said semi-drunkenly, yet still with a steely focus on the little woman in her clutches that proved she was deadly serious. “Drink off me for five seconds, or take a ten-second shower in it. Your choice.”

Retching at the thought, there was ultimately no real choice in the tiny woman’s mind; ill as it made her, there was a lesser of two evils here. She took a deep breath, opened her lips, and wrapped them over the mound. Angelina’s meaty nipple filled Monica’s whole mouth, clamping her jaws open by force, the tender yet forceful flesh hardening even more.

“I’m waiting,” Angelina sighed, her lips curling into a cruel smirk.

And then, tears in her eyes, Monica began to suck. It didn’t take much, either. The taste of the milk, hot and bubbly in Monica’s throat, quickly overpowered the sticky atmosphere of dry wine and boob sweat. It was rich, more like butter or melted ice cream than milk, and it made Monica positively sick to her stomach, though that effect could’ve just as easily come from the fact that currently she was willingly sipping milk like an infant directly off the teat of a hated business rival and possible murderer.

By the time the disgusting five seconds concluded, Monica had already melted into her chair, even smaller now than John had become, and Angelina was quick to pull the knots tighter before setting the puny lady back on the table.

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Angelina said, wiping away the residual liquid beads from her nipple and flicking them onto Monica’s face. “You’ve had quite a bit of time to come up with a good answer, and most importantly, time to will that probably tired old thing between your legs back to life. I’m afraid I don’t have any Viagra on hand. You’ll just have to do make do with what you have, which is the fact that if you can’t put on a better show than Bob, I’m going to make you drink my milk. So. Why are you here tonight?”

“Just do what you’re going to do,” the old man said, not even deigning to look up at Angelina when she strolled to his side of the table. “I’m getting tired of this, and I’m not going to give up the dignity I have left just because it gets you off. I’m too damn old for this.”

“Right to business, aren’t you, just like always,” Angelina said, unsurprised by the elder’s reaction. Her fingernail traced circles around Arthur’s crotch. “Not even a guess?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m an old man. I’m much closer to the end than to the beginning. Let one of them go, and just get it over with, whatever you’re planning to do to me,” Arthur continued, curt and pious as a prophet. “Do it.”

“A-Arthur?” Monica whimpered.

“What the hell are you doing?” John said.

“Are you crazy?” Bob sputtered.

All three of the other top-tier boardsters couldn’t even recognize the usually cold self-serving geezer beside them, as he made what was the apparently his first unselfish decision that anyone could recall.

“I can’t help but feel the answer is on the tip of your tongue, Arthur. You’re so close to saying the right thing and getting a reprieve for now,” Angelina said. She tickled a fingertip upon the old man’s junk now, but feeling it unmoving, retreated with a knowing smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your answer?”

“Yes,” he spat.

“Suit yourself. I’ll put something else on the tip of your tongue instead,” the giantess shrugged. The same finger she’d just used to tempt the old man’s unconscious genitals pressed against the doll-chair’s plastic leg, tipping it, and allowed it to clatter backwards. Against their usual natures, the other three shrunken participants all gasped with concern for the old man when he and the furniture toppled violently over.

Ignoring them all while Arthur achily moaned, Angelina reached for her empty wine glass, plucked out the loose straw, and aimed it like a spear directly at the old man’s head. The room went silent while the thin spire descended in her grip, the shrunken lot of them wondering if Angelina was about to spice things up with a head-impaling, but the tube stopped at Arthur’s lips. With a soft nudge, their hostess pried the shrunken old man’s jaws open and inserted the straw, which filled his mouth much like the giantess’s nipple had done to Monica’s. Then, before anyone could start questioning what was going on, the giantess leaned deeply over the table while propping the opposite end of the straw at her exposed hanging breast. With just a tweak, her swollen milk-glazed nipple fitted over the straw’s opening. From there, all it took was a pinch for Angelina to send a concentrated cavalcade of her fresh dairy down the pipe and into Arthur’s forcibly waiting mouth.

Instantly he started to groan and sputter, white fat droplets pouring over the sides of his mouth as he wrenched for relief in his downed chair. Unfortunately, with gravity against him, Arthur found himself unknowingly in a position much like the group’s predecessor had one year before. Lumps of creamy liquid descended his throat, without any breaks for air. Angelina gave the fleshy spigot several hearty squeezes, pumping a new dosage of milk through the straw just when an air bubble was starting to form. This act went on for longer than either of the previous two losers had drunk, past the ten second mark and up toward the twenty, then beyond. Soon Arthur, seemingly feeble though he was already, wasn’t even struggling while Angelina milk-boarded him through her wine straw.

“For God’s sake, stop it!” Monica demanded.

“That’s enough!” John said.

“A-Arthur? Jesus, she’s gonna kill him,” Bob wept again, the reality sinking in like never before.

The old man was visibly shrinking now even while continuing to suck down deadly helpings of breastmilk, dwindling into the ties. This time Angelina didn’t even bother trying to tighten them to keep up with his reduction in size, clearly not the least bit concerned with the possibility of him fleeing. Soon he was smaller than both John and Monica, less than half his already grossly diminished doll-stature, when at last Angelina popped the straw out of his mouth. Hacking and spitting up lactate, the old man clung loosely to consciousness while buried under rope at his newly crunched size. Just as he opened his eyes again, of course, Arthur was hit in the face with a single stray blob of partially congealed milk that Angelina expertly flicked off the tee of her nipple. Again she was the only one to laugh.

“Oh, don’t feel so bad for him, you gullible idiots,” Angelina giddily chided the three horrified younger shrinkees. “I saw through it the moment he started speaking. I’m surprised you didn’t, with all your business expertise. Arthur here was going to get you on his side by pretending to sacrifice himself, then rile you all up enough to start volunteering yourselves instead of him, while also trying to prove to me that he’s not so desperate for self-preservation that he couldn’t serve as my puppet in the company. Unfortunately for him, it backfired, and now he’s the smallest among you. Use your heads, all of you, while you still have heads big enough to form thoughts. It just might let you think of an answer that makes me happy, like poor belly-up Bob here who, if I’m not mistaken, has pissed himself. That’s the kind of initiative I’m looking for in a winner here, not reverse psychology.”

Dumbfounded, Monica, Bob, and John looked almost pleadingly at Arthur, hoping it wasn’t true. To their crushing dismay, the bitter old man had recovered sufficiently to look upon them with resentment and hatred, indicating he was not even remotely at peace in the ruins of his backfired plan.

“The three of you deserved to be cut off even before this psychotic bitch came along,” Arthur snarled venomously, shattering his usual dry well-bred tone. “And I’ll be damned if one of you three whelps is going to still be around instead of me to see the end.”

Watching the anger and discord now ruminating among the tiny group, all sharing hissed insults and renewed tears, Angelina delightedly took the opportunity to address everyone at large with a clap of her hands:

“Now, fair is fair. We know now why each of you is here, but I suppose it is a tad hypocritical of me to point fingers at you all like this, when I fully plan to use the company as my personal piggy bank once I’ve loosened your grips on the darn thing. Still, at least I have the decency to be up-front about what I am and what I want…”

The woman receded through the doorway now and into shadow, just as ominously as she’d first arrived. The last part of her figure to vanish was, of course, her uncloaked breast, coated now in creeping sweat, flecks of miss-sprayed milk, and dancing candlelight.

“…unlike the lot of you, who put on public masks with benefits and charities and eco-developments, then screw everyone behind their backs. I prefer the kind of screwing done straight to the face, like I’m about to finish doing to all of you. And now that everything is out in the open, I think you’ll all find this way far purer, too. Don’t get too comfortable. We’re going to have a winner-take-all lightning-round next to decide which of you shrinky-dink ingrates gets to live to see the morning, right after I get a refill!”

With all four board members in various states of reduction, overcome with equal parts broiling fury and hysteria, they were surprised when Angelina returned just as quickly not with a refilled glass, but the whole bottle, plus a bowl. Too concerned with their own mortalities, none had the bravery at this point to question what the gothic giantess was up to now, though they had a feeling she’d make it painfully clear.

“Oh, you thought I wasn’t going to offer you all some wine, too? What kind of host would I be to drink in front of you? I’m sure the beverages I’ve already provided didn’t quite satisfy your thirst just yet,” Angelina said, falsely affronted at the notion. She poured herself another round from the bottle, then dumped the glass container over the bowl until the rest of the rich purple substance had emptied. Everyone watched, bewildered and silent as the grave.

Casting them all another toothy simper, Angelina languidly wrapped her fingers over the left-hand neckline of her dress. With so much tension plied upon the fabric from the weight of her saggy right tit slung over the folded top of the garment, it took only a gentle pluck for the shoulder strap to spring loose and the dress to hang in a silky mess around Angelina’s stomach, while her whole torso, and especially that matching set of oily, engorged hot air balloons she called breasts, was liberated. Once again garnering the quartet’s full undivided attention thanks to the suggestive properties of the milk they’d already drunk, the giantess put on a show. She mashed her breasts together, starkly deepening the dividing line in her cleavage, then pried them apart to display the sheer range of her lethargic tits, so prone to quivering like jello, and remolding the texture of the freckly flesh at even the slightest prod from a fingertip.

Angelina alternately hefted her boobs, one loosely balanced across each hand again, though her palms and fingers were quickly covered up by doughy skin drooping over their respective appendages like pale mushroom heads. One up and one down at a time, the woman bobbed her blimpy mammaries, until even without squeezing the ducts, milk started spritzing from the openings from all the activity. The group of four, still bound in their chairs, did their utmost to turn their heads, keeping their tiny lips sealed shut, while a white sprinkle of haphazard milk droplets rained upon them from Angelina’s sashaying tits. Despite their efforts, each participant received several splashes across the face, which soaked into their noses and mouths, costing them each another inch or two.

“That should do,” the woman said, and without further fanfare, her hand struck out for John like a viper. In one swipe, she cut through the tatters of his clothes, already softened by the milk, and held his miniaturized form upside-down in her fist. Getting ahold of himself, John started pleading anew while he was inserted feet-first into the underside of Angelina’s cleavage, though the blood quickly rushed to his head and made it hard to shout. The application of his shrunken body between her tits was made even easier by the ample supply of underboob sweat flowing beneath, and in another second, all anyone could see of John was his flushed, milk-splattered, tear-stained little head poking out from the bottom of Angelina’s naked rack.

While fixing John in place, the giantess’s free hand tweaked her nipple and sprayed a focused stream of her motherly cream into the wine-bowl, turning it a sickly magenta hue as the mixture swirled, until it was more milk than wine.

“P-Please, you… you don’t h-have to do this. W-We can all play ball,” John wailed. “All of us can w-work for you, do whatever you w-want. Just… just…”

“Save your air, John. You’ll need it for the last question,” Angelina warned. She braced herself against the table again, hunching slightly and allowing her baggy breasts to wilt so low they almost dunked into the drink. John’s head, poked from the basin of her cleavage while the rest of him was clamped and numbed in a tight swaddle of ruddy boob skin, hovered just an inch over the liquid abyss.

“Okay,” he relented, a crack in his voice.

“Why are you… not everyone else, just you… the best choice to become my puppet? Oh, and please do be quick, because… no offense to you all… I’m getting pretty sick of having so many of you still alive.”

“I’ll give you full access to the offshore accounts!” John’s little voice sang from under the oppressive, greasy weight of Angelina’s megaton tits. He could barely squeeze the words out, while her breasts compounded him into a pancake, but with shrill determination, he eked out: “I’ll… make you the top member of the board! And-”

“Sorry, toots, but that’s not what I wanted to hear,” Angelina said, and lowered herself another inch, thereby submerging John’s head in the milk-wine. Soon his cries turned only to frantic bubbles from below the surface. His peers watched, nauseated and tearful, as the surface of the liquid suddenly went still. “If I wanted to work, I certainly wouldn’t need any of you four. That’s what your whole life is going to become, whichever of you is the lucky winner. You work for me now. But I don’t think John has caught onto that fact, even now: the big man who could never dream of anyone, certainly not a woman, working above him. And for that reason, I’m withdrawing your name from consideration for this position, John. Thank you for applying.”

Angelina gathered her boulder-sized breasts in both hands again, sifting them apart until John’s now two-inch-tall prone body slid out of the sweaty crevice between them, plunking unceremoniously into the alcoholic magic-milk lake, where he performed a dead man’s float across the top. With his face sunken in the liquid, he continued shrinking at a slower rate while liquid poured into his gullet and slowly weighed him down like an anchor.

“Don’t look so glum, everyone. It’s like you’ve all seen a ghost. Really, you should be thanking your stars. Suddenly each of your odds went up! Let’s see now, Monica? Your turn in the hot seat,” Angelina continued, charging straight on with the interview-stroke-interrogation in a breezy mood, despite having just offed John without batting an eye. She reached for the lady, slicing through her sopping-wet clothes and plucking the Monica out of the chair.

Angelina’s fist momentarily hovered below her cleavage again where she’d plugged John. She enjoyed Monica’s distraught howls for a moment before instead deciding to hold the tiny woman on the opposite side of the twin globes’ orbit, atop where the valley dipped. Even smaller than John had been, the sole female boardster squished into the slippery crevice without any resistance. From here, the giantess could witness Monica’s every fidget and squeal. Like her precursor, the miniature victim was asphyxiating in mushy blubbery tit flesh swelled like wet clay all around her, until there wasn’t even a micrometer to move in any direction, while her puny head alone still had partial access to air and a horrifying view of Angelina’s glowering billboard-sized smirk above.

“Crunch time, Monica. What makes you the best candidate for this job? You’d be wise to learn from John’s mistakes, by the way.”

“I’m yours! Whenever you need me, 24/7, no matter what it is!” Monica peeped. With every word, she felt herself sinking deeper into the divide between Angelina’s monstrous bosom like quicksand, her neck vanishing, until only Monica’s face was visible. Writhing only sped up the process. “I’ll prioritize whatever you need at the company over my sleep, my family, my life! Please, Angelina, just-”

“Hmmm, you were doing all right there for a minute, sister, but you might be in trouble,” Angelina said. “There was just something about that last part I didn’t like, something the next candidate may improve upon. We’ll keep you in the running for now… still, consider this a probationary period until I determine if there’s a better choice. Until then…”

Smiling ear-to-ear, the middle-aged dark angel raised a hand, stuck out her thumb, and pressed her fingerpad squarely into Monica’s head. The woman’s screams were fully muted by just a single one of Angelina’s fingers. Twisting and jamming her down the rest of the way into the cleavage ravine, the shrunken creature disappeared. This left Monica, if she wasn’t crushed outright from the pressure, swimming in the high-temperature flab-vortex where Angelina’s planetary breasts were ground most firmly together, sealing out all hope of air, light, or sustained existence.

“Remember, this is the lightning round, so choose your words carefully. Bob?” Angelina said, repeating the same swift ritual as the others that left the chubby boozer naked in her hand. After considering her options, and chuckling at the bug-eyed frenzy in Bob’s cartoonish face, the giantess chose not to stuff him into her cleavage from either the base or the top, but instead held him right over the center of her tremendous left breast, putting him face-to-areola with her nipple. “Grab hold right now, Bob, or we’re going to see how long you can hold your breath in the swimming pool down there.”

Uncoordinated and out of shape, Bob nevertheless obeyed, taking shaky hold of the tan flesh-knob before him. Angelina’s erect nipple was the only foothold stamped upon the otherwise blank expanse of sun-averse flesh nearly as milky as the beverage primed inside, if not for the freckles and age-marks. Right after Angelina let go, leaving the man dangled off her teat like an oversized ornament, he started to spasm, almost immediately slipping off the damp flesh, but just managed to cling on. To emphasize the consequences of his almost-inevitable failure, Angelina held the bowl right under the doll-sized man. Though Bob had shrunk the least of the group, there was no doubt in his mind or the giantess’s that if he fell, it wouldn’t take much more than a probing finger to push him down to drown in the milk-spiked wine.

“This is for all the marbles, Bob. What can you offer me, as an employee, that’s even better than all the promises and groveling Monica just made? You have until you fall into the bowl to decide,” Angelina said. For her own entertainment, she started flicking at the shrunken man’s legs, watching him strain and huff just to keep hanging onto the sturdy summit of her nipple. “Clock’s ticking now.”

“I’LL DO ANYTHING!” Bob squeaked. As he frantically cried, his violent grip caused more milk to spurt from the duct and coat him all over again. “I’ll give it all up! M-My money, my life, my family! Nothing is mine now! I live only for you now! Only for you! Whenever you want, whatever you want, even if it… kills me in the end.”

“Bingo,” Angelina stated in a prayerful slur. She smiled, shaking her head at the little man hanging for dear short life onto the colossal breasts he’d so unfortunately failed to ogle several years before. “I underestimated you, Bob, and the depths you were prepared to sink to. I guess it was only you, the dumbest little cretin on the senior board if not in the whole company, who could see things clearly enough to know what it’s going to take to work for me. It’s going to take everything. Which I suppose means, Arthur? No disrespect to the elderly, leaving you out of the second interview like this, but for one thing, you’re so small that it was going to be a real pain just trying to hear you, plus I doubt those old lungs have finished coughing up enough milk to give me a good answer anyway. So, I’ll just see you out.”

Lofting her breast in both hands, the same blanched, sweaty, ever-molding sphere upon which Bob still hung, Angelina positioned her heavily augmented sac of flesh and milk right over the puddle of white where a plastic chair, strings, and the three-inch old man were piled. Though barely conscious, Arthur became cogent just long enough to notice the shadow cast over him like an eclipse, even in the dimly-lit execution chamber of their hostess’s dining room. The last bit of recognizable humanity he saw was Angelina’s victory grin and a sultry wink, both of which were soon covered by the all-encompassing mass of that breast, supported only by the woman’s cupped hands, which slowly parted, until there was nothing between the shrunken geezer and that behemoth udder. There was a slump like the fall of a guillotine blade, followed by a moist crack somewhere beneath the humongous blob as Arthur permanently exited the interrogation.

In almost the same stroke, when Angelina’s tit descended and turned its thumb-sized mark into a red splat, the embrace of her cleavage opened and Monica came tumbling out. Head-over-heels she spun, bouncing off the jellied walls of the inner breast flanks before cannonballing into the bowl. Monica, soaked pink from wine and milk, surfaced with plenty of time to clamber out of the brew, but Angelina was too quick, peeling her murderous breast off the crimson roadkill stain that used to be Arthur, and instead fitting her bulging chesticle right over the rim of the bowl, trapping the little woman inside with the swirling miasma. Whether it was guzzled milk-wine that killed Monica via infinite shrinking, or the meteoric weight of her breast making berth that crushed the little woman to pulp, Angelina didn’t know, and didn’t especially care either way.

“The most important part of having me as your superior, Bob, which you were wise enough to point out…” Angelina sighed, graciously swiping the little fellow in her fist again to relieve him from cliff-hanging duty. Her nipple, crusted over with goosebumps from arousal and weeping lactation, quivered when Bob let go. As she lifted the traumatized lackey above the horizon of her breasts, the giantess shoved him into her bosom, to be worn like a living badge of her victory. “…this arrangement will last precisely up to the point that you are capable of being useful to me. Beyond that, I expect things will go in… a new direction. One where I don’t even need puppets to do my bidding, because I’ve got enough capital to buy and sell anyone who gets in my way ten times over. But until then, let’s see a smile on that little face! You’re working for the most powerful figure in the industry now, after all. That has to count for something, even if it doesn’t last forever. Then again, nothing good ever does.”