Giantess World
“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.