Giantess World
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?”