JacksmithShrinkStories
patreon
Interrogation Chronicles: One-Night Shrink (Chapter 2)
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 13:00:03 +0000 UTCAngie then gave me the most wonderfully-obvious signal of ogling permission yet by pulling on that shoulder strap hard enough that I could spy a circular mound thick as a fingertip protruding from the center of that blimpy chest hump, even while still sheathed in sleek navy blue cloth. This not only confirmed my suspicions that she wasn’t wearing a bra (unless her erect nipples could punch clean through the cups) but also gave me the clearest possible view of her pectoral anatomy, short of ripping her dress right off at the bar. The fabric was sitting skin-tight against that chosen boundlessly-broad orb in particular, revealing all its juggly dimensions at once like a small planet viewed from orbit, complete with the miniature mountain of that teat which I so direly wished to suck on right at this instant, even if I had to chew through her clothes to reach it. At this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Angie had commanded such a thing right here and now, in front of God and everyone. I exhaled, rendered clammy and speechless, regardless of whether it had been appropriate to comment upon the beauty of the colossal shapes being advertised before me or not.
It was inevitable then that I couldn’t hide the more aggressive rise under my own clothes, even with creative posture and pants-fluffing, but I no longer wanted to conceal it. I’m no Adonis, but I know how to make the most of what I’ve got, and so chose this moment to start angling my thighs further apart to give her a preview of my hardware. It’s not like Angie didn’t already know how I felt, after all, based on the way she was currently vacuum-sealing both her gloriously puffy mammaries inside that dress with every yank on the straps.
Her other hand entered my peripheral – only vaguely, since my attention was so razor-focused now on her tits, as though I was studying them through a solar eclipse viewer box – and, extending her pointing and middle fingers like the barrel of a pistol, inserted those fingers directly into the pudgy grasp of her freckly cleavage but a few inches below her neck. From there, she dragged those two digits down the entire deeply-entrenched length of that dividing line between smushy honkers, giving me a very informative show as her supple flesh swelled outward in response to the obstruction of those fingers, before again flopping back to her chest’s natural ultra-compressed state.
“Yes, I’m definitely looking at a boob man right now. And a handsome one, at that,” she purred. I was surprised by her willingness to continue speaking at a normal volume, hot as that was. Our conversation was shamelessly flirtatious before, but we were quickly entering public-taboo territory now, based on the way Angie’s fingers were still excavating her tittage bulk and I was man-spreading to a comical degree while sporting a full-mast Johnson. What if someone noticed us? Did she care? Did I?
I realized that I hadn’t released my breath starting from that time close to a full minute ago, when she jammed said digits into said cleavage for the stroke-down, and my air-deprived chest was straining for relief while I became gradually more hypnotized by hers. When I did at last surrender an amorously labored exhale, Angie and I were leaned in close enough to one another that I could actually feel the alcohol-scented breeze fogging and then refracting back from the bulged-out twin slopes of her upper chesticle crests. More importantly, I swore that I could feel the heat of her boobs radiating out, felt even from close to a foot away. Appropriately, there was a modest liquid dusting of perspiration adorning that V-shaped window to her pale goods, a mere liquor-induced sprinkling that only enhanced the placement of beauty marks and veins upon her awe-inspiring globes. Hand-over-heart, I think I could smell her breasts, too: homey, familiar and inviting, musked by some mouth-watering exotic perfume and that rough-and-tumble tincture of alcoholic sweat.
“G-Guilty as charged,” I smarmed, blearily taken in like never before. Who the hell was this woman, and where had she been hiding all these years?
“I don’t think you really had to admit it out loud to get the point across,” Angie replied, now more boldly eying my bulge, just as I was checking out every visible inch of her udders in kind. “But it’s sweet, all the same.”
“What would you say to… going someplace where it’s easier to hear each other talk?” I offered
“What’s the matter, you can’t hear me well enough now?” Angie taunted, leaning so close at once that her lips practically wrapped around my ear. Her tongue certainly probed at my lobe on the last lingering syllable. Engaging as this was, what really made me start jittering with evident boxer-endangering arousal was the side effect of her advance also finally pressing her chest into contact with mine. Of course it would be more accurate to suggest those tits swallowed my torso, with Angie sifting their vibratory sandbaggy girth so presumptively into me that I had to grip the edge of the bar to keep from toppling right off my stool when they hit me like soft wrecking balls. But I held firmly enough to keep steady, and so did she, using the crossover of our legs to run her hand up my inner thigh, playfully tweaking the tip of my tent between those fingers she’d already made me wish rather painfully to be touched and explored by sans clothing.
“I… I-” I almost drooled.
“Only pulling your leg,” she snickered, letting go of my crotch and instead reaching for her glass to glug down the final drops, which also regretfully robbed me of having her beach ball assets smushed so luxuriously against my abdomen that my spine threatened to creak. “There’s only so much talking one can do before one wants another kind of distraction. And that’s exactly what I want now. For example, pulling your legs. Maybe the middle one, if you keep playing those cards right.”
Fuck me, this woman was a raging sexpot monster underneath her initially coy and stuck-up disguise. I knew then that I’d never live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my power and whatever else was necessary, however degrading, to make sure we screwed each other’s brains out well enough to last me through the next drought at home.
“I intend to,” I said, recovering well enough from that momentary groping and tit balancing act to keep from visibly nearing climax right there at the bar. “I have a hotel room.”
“You can keep it. No offense, but once you’ve slept in silk sheets, or gotten a workout on top of them, you just can’t go back to those scratchy disease-rags they put on hotel beds,” Angie said. “How about my place instead?”
“Even better.”
“What about your friend?”
I’d almost forgotten Doug existed, let alone that he was still milling around the swanky bar somewhere. Angie had that effect on me. I looked around the place, having lost all track of time, but as it had become more crowded since our arrival, Doug was nowhere to be seen. Most likely, he’d already had enough sense to notice that I wasn’t going to pay anyone else but Angie a moment’s attention for the rest of the evening.
“No problem. I’m sure he can find his way back.”
“Are you sure? Maybe he’d like to come with us.”
Given the seriousness of her question, for a moment my gut clenched up at the thought that Angie might be trying to suggest a devil’s threesome, and the more sickening thought that in order to have a chance with this cleavage-blessed vixen, I might’ve even considered getting naked in the same room as my wingman as a necessary evil just to see this woman’s rack without the dress blocking her nips. Luckily, she let me off the hook by bursting into titters again.
“Oh, John, you should’ve seen the color drain from your face. Not to worry. From what I felt down there, you’ll be more than enough man on your lonesome for my tonight,” Angie flaunted, and as was becoming her trademark, made me feel incredibly foolish and badly wanted at the same time. I could tell by the way she kept pronouncing that fake name I’d given, too, that she’d known it was bullshit from the second I uttered it, but like my marital status, didn’t care about it. She clacked her long fingernails on the bar top, then produced a cell phone, which she spun like a windmill blade between her thumb and forefinger. “Not to put a damper on the mood just when things are getting more honest, but I really do have to make a call before we get better acquainted in quieter pastures. Think you can entertain yourself here for a few minutes?”
“Of course. I’ll, uh, just get settled up here,” I answered, reaching for my wallet – using cash, naturally, so my wife couldn’t ever trace a statement back to this bar. But Angie’s hand wrapped around my wrist.
“I already took care of that,” she simpered, rising from the bar and raising her phone to her ear after giving me a final sultry pout. “I told you. Money talk isn’t going to impress me.”
Horny as hell and apparently stupid-stinking rich, too? I was starting to seriously regret now that I’d ever even met the woman I’d been idiotic enough to legally bind myself to, instead of coming to this city years sooner, meeting Angie, and becoming a male trophy slut for her. As I watched her pronounced booty bustling off into the crowd, and those hindquarter cheeks (while nowhere near as gargantuan as her chest) were nothing to scoff at, it came as a relief to me that Angie was likely some middle-aged trust fund baby who had nothing to do but play-dress up in some family-owned corner office and throw money at anything which would allow her to stave off the aging process. This probably included having those finely-crafted hooters engorged to worship-worthy proportions, and charming random hookups like me at the highest-priced bar in the district. Which meant she probably saw me as a disposal night of fun, one she probably wouldn’t want smudging her reputation, which was all the better for keeping my own dirt-bag cover intact. The irony was, easily as I could usually shrug off an anonymous piece of ass in a city far from home, a part of me was hoping I’d be able to make an exception and hide Angie’s phone number away in my address book, in case the company ever sent me here again, because I had a feeling I’d like to be back. And I hadn’t even gotten to squeeze her nipples yet.
Having gotten lost in my thoughts for a while, as Angie’s urgent call was taking longer than I expected, I indeed entertained myself by finishing off my drink for liquid courage, and psyching myself out for the performance ahead with several mouthed mantras. Not that I didn’t have practice at this kind of thing. I had become far better at sex once I started having it outside my marriage. But even as Angie had made it all-too-plain that we were going to leave together and have some fun, I realized I was more intimidated by her than any woman I’d ever met, including all the ones I didn’t want to fuck. Only once I had myself in the right headspace again to meet Angie’s needs – manly, confident, but not overdoing it to the point of immaturity either – did I decide to be the “good friend” and give Doug a heads up.
Yo, I texted him. I’ll catch up with you in the morning. This executive asshole from the Sacramento branch won’t shut the fuck up about parasailing.
The key of course to successful play outside the nuptials is to not leave a paper trail, in your phone or anyone else’s. A couple stupid hyper-specific details go a long way, in case the wrong person stumbles upon it someday. Doug didn’t even respond, though, which confirmed my suspicions that he’d shambled back to the hotel a long time ago, alone and sexless, and conked out to dream about his many life regrets. Meanwhile, Angie was taking so long to return, I was starting to suspect she’d either abandoned me for whatever matter was on the other side of that call, or that she’d just been a too-sexy and too-good-to-be-true figment of my imagination all along. Fortunately, she was proven both real and even hotter than I’d recalled when she came back through the throngs of new-generation yuppies, making room with only a wave as though parting a sea by the sight of her bazonkers alone. Of course it wasn’t just me capable of noticing them.
“So sorry for the delay,” Angie murmured, standing so close to me again that she could’ve looped her tongue back around my ear, or heaved those white heifer teat-balloons hard enough to unbalance me again. “Sometimes a little business has to happen before the pleasure. But, rest assured, I’ve tied up all the loose ends for the night. And I’m sure that whatever heat you may or may not have lost while waiting for me, I can get cooking again in no time, in the right setting. Do you have faith that I can pull that off, John?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, then what are we waiting for?”
One eleven-minute taxi ride later, Angie was leading the way through the lobby of her surely-seven-digit-rent brownstone and up the private elevator. The whole journey, I willed myself not to look like a gawking schoolkid getting too visibly impressed by her wealth or body, such that I became unattractive to her. But it was tricky, first as I watched her ample heiney sashaying in that dress with every step nearer to her sanctum, and then especially after getting a glance around her top-floor penthouse. I could see why any bragging about money in this lady’s presence too long would make her vulva close up for business.
