Saxon’s Folly

PLEASE READ BEFORE PLAYING: This multiple choice adventure is by far my most ambitious undertaking, and unfortunately it proved too much for me. Of over 500 possibly endings, only about a third are complete, and I humbly apologise for any frustration this may cause.

NOTE: Some of the entries are so long that you will need to scroll down to read all of the text. When you click on the link to continue, be sure to scroll back up to the top of the screen in order to read the next entry. If anyone knows how to fix this problem, please let me know! Enjoy!

Click to get started on your adventure.

The alarm clock rudely awakens you from a delightfully erotic dream, and you switch it off in annoyance, feeling rather disappointed that the experience you just had was not as real as it seemed. It was an intense, incredibly exciting dream, and your body is still feeling hot and tingly with arousal. You slip your hand into your panties and begin to stroke your pussy as you try to remember the details … but to your dismay, they are slipping away quickly. You concentrate hard, but it doesn't seem to help, and you feel your frustration mounting. Now all you can remember is that it involved…

Panty-pooping.

Wearing next to nothing in public.

Insects crawling all over you.

You can't recall much of the dream, so instead you begin to invent a fantasy about pooping in your panties. You know that the dream involved you having an accident in public, and so that is what you start to imagine … walking through the mall, wearing a tiny little skirt … and then letting it all come out into your panties… People stare at you as you hike up your skirt, showing off your bulging panties … and then you moan and shudder as you reach a delicious orgasm. Crazy fantasy of course, but that's the beauty of fantasies - you can be as crazy as you like!

Unfortunately, you now have to get up. Your bowels feel very full, but you decide to hold in your poo for a while yet. After a quick shower, you return to your room wearing nothing but a towel, and open your wardrobe to pull out your clothes for the day. You will be wearing…

Your school uniform.

A skirt-suit.

A tank-top and miniskirt.

The dream involved wearing a see-through top and an indecently short skirt, but that's all you can seem to remember. So you fantasize about wearing such an indecent outfit in public, something you could never actually do in reality … or could you? The idea is both frightening and exciting, and you bring yourself to a shuddering climax.

But then, unfortunately, it is time for you to get up. You have a quick shower, and then return to your room wearing only your towel. Opening your wardrobe, you try to decide what to wear for your day…

Teaching English at a local boys' school.

Working in a busy office.

Learning boring stuff at school.

The dream involved cockroaches, you remember that much. But why is the idea of cockroaches crawling on you turning you on so much? You could never really let them do that … could you? The idea is disgusting, but somehow arousing, and as you imagine the horrible insects getting inside your clothing, you bring yourself to a wonderful orgasm.

But then, unfortunately, it is time to get up, because today you have to…

Start your new job working for a pest control company.

Help your dad clean out the attic.

Teach biology at a local boys' school.

You put on a pair of white cotton panties, a white bra, a pink blouse, a grey miniskirt, white knee-socks, and black shoes. As you zip up the skirt, however, you discover that the zipper is broken and will not fasten properly. You look for your other skirt, which is identical to this one, but remember that you put it in the laundry hamper last night. And then it occurs to you that you can hear the washing machine going…

Your only other skirt is one you haven't worn for years. It is very short, but you might be able to squeeze into it. Will you…

Make do with the skirt you have on?

Wear the shorter one instead?

You put on a pair of pale pink satin panties and a matching bra, followed by a white blouse, through which, you can't help noticing, your bra faintly shows. Once you put on your jacket, however, that is not an issue. You pull out the skirt that matches the jacket, but then you laugh and say “Oops!” This is not the right skirt at all - it's the same colour, but it's a skirt that you used to wear to nightclubs when you were a student. It barely covers your buttocks, and would not be remotely suitable for the office.

Yet, the thought of wearing it to work gives you a little thrill. Could you really be that bold?

What the hell - you only live once!

No way - you don't want to risk getting fired.

You put on a pair of white silk panties, a white bra, a tight yellow tank-top, and a sky-blue miniskirt that stops just two inches below your buttocks. You finish off the outfit with short white socks and white running shoes. You smile to yourself as you consider how inappropriate your outfit is, and try to imagine the reactions of…

The old people at the nursing home where you work.

The judge, jurors, and everyone else in the courtroom.

Your viewers when you appear on television dressed like this.

The boys at school are aged from twelve to eighteen, and can be quite difficult to deal with sometimes. You usually wear an outfit that exudes authority: trousers on your bottom half, and either a smart pullover or a blouse and jacket on your top half. But today… You shiver slightly. Today will be different. Today you rather think you will wear…

A denim microskirt, and a flimsy tank-top with thin shoulder-straps.

A mid-thigh pleated miniskirt with a tight blouse, partly unbuttoned.

A Lycra microskirt with a see-through peasant top, and no bra.

Normally you wear a smart blouse and a long skirt or trousers to the office. But as far as you know, there is no formal dress code - could you perhaps get away with wearing something more revealing? You shiver and smile to yourself. Yes, you almost certainly could. But just how far do you think you should push it? What will you wear today?

A see-through blouse and a schoolgirl-style pleated miniskirt.

A sensible blouse and a stretchy microskirt that rides up when you walk.

A tube-top and a cotton skirt trimmed to buttock-length.

Your school uniform consists of a pink blouse, grey skirt, white socks, and black shoes. The girls at school wear skirts of a variety of lengths, ranging from knee length to just a few inches below the buttocks. Usually you stay in the mid-thigh area, but today you are feeling just a little naughty. Today, you decide with a quiet giggle, you will…

Wear a school skirt that you haven't worn for three years.

Get some scissors and trim one of your skirts to buttock-length.

Deliberately 'forget' to wear a skirt.

Almost certainly it is your new job that inspired the dream, as your subconscious explored your anxieties about the prospect of dealing with bugs, rodents and the like. Your boss has told you to 'wear something sensible' for your first day, but you are not sure what that means. After some careful consideration, you decide that it must mean…

A t-shirt and jeans.

A tank-top and denim miniskirt.

A pretty cotton sundress.

You are not looking forward to helping your dad in the attic - it is hardly how you would have chosen to spend a sunny Saturday. But you did promise him you would help, and so, with a sigh, you go and take a quick shower before getting dressed. It occurs to you that the attic will be quite dusty and dirty, so you decide that the most appropriate outfit for the day's work will be…

Shorts and a t-shirt.

An old dress that you don't wear any more.

A pair of panties, and nothing else.

You shudder slightly at the thought of spending another day teaching horny teenage boys about biology. You are not really cut out for this job - you would much rather teach younger children, but there was a greater demand for high school science teachers, and you were, after all, qualified. But one of today's classes might be interesting - you are teaching entomology, which is a fascinating subject … and the thought of all of those insects running around… What if they got loose? You shiver, and are surprised to find yourself becoming a little aroused. You turn to your wardrobe. What would be an appropriate outfit for today?

A long dress.

A knee-length skirt and a blouse.

A babydoll-style minidress.

You figure the broken zip is unlikely to be a problem. You go downstairs to have breakfast, then you brush your teeth, grab your school bag, and head out to the bus stop. Your bowels are feeling very full now, and you have to clench your buttocks to prevent any poo from escaping. The bus arrives, but there is standing room only. As you are jostled by other passengers, something awful happens:

You feel a hand cupping your right buttock through your skirt.

You find you cannot stop your poo from emerging.

The old skirt is a very tight fit, but you manage to get it on. When you fasten it, however, you are rather alarmed at how short it is: when you reach behind you, you can feel your buttocks just peeping below the hem. You shiver with a mixture of fear and anxious excitement. Do you dare to wear this? After careful contemplation, you decide to:

Keep this skirt on.

Keep this skirt on, but put on some black tights to wear underneath.

The jacket is almost as long as the skirt! When you look in the mirror, you shiver with excitement at the amount of leg you are showing. Perhaps, you think, the effect would be a little less outrageous if you were wearing tights under the skirt. But that would also make it a little less exciting. It's a dilemma! You ponder the matter for a couple of minutes, and then come to a decision. You are going to:

Put on some dark-coloured tights.

Remain bare-legged.

You put on the skirt that was designed to go with the jacket, and, after a quick breakfast, head out to work. As you are driving, the pressure in your bowels grows stronger and stronger. You grit your teeth and clench hard, and manage to keep your poo inside. But then you slow to a stop as you hit a traffic jam. In dismay, you realise that there has been an accident up ahead. After five minutes, you have barely moved. You look at your watch, and begin to fret that you might be late for work. But then, two minutes after that…

The traffic starts moving again.

You finally lose control of your bowels.

After breakfast you drive to work, the growing pressure in your bowels making you feel more and more uncomfortable. But you arrive at work without incident, and take up your position behind the reception desk. Almost immediately, however, it becomes obvious that something is wrong. Some kind of stomach bug has been spreading among the residents of the nursing home, and two of the nurses have called in sick. As a result, Jenny, the facility's administrator, asks if you wouldn't mind helping out with the care of the afflicted residents. You protest that you have no nursing experience or training, but Jenny is very insistent.

“Please, Zoë!” she practically begs you. “They're making such a mess and poor Meg can't keep up on her own. It's not rocket science - you won't have to do anything medically complicated.”

“Oh all right,” you finally say, very reluctantly. “I suppose I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you!” says Jenny. “First of all, would you mind popping out to the supermarket? We need these things, urgently!” She hands you a list, at the top of which, underlined three times, are the words 'TOILET PAPER'. “We just can't wait for our supplier's next visit,” she explains.

“Shopping, I can manage just fine,” you say, and you hurry back out to your car. It is a short drive to the supermarket, but as you walk through the automatic doors, you groan as the pressure in your bowels becomes intolerable. Not far away are the customer toilets, but you are not sure that you will make it that far. You start towards them…

But before you are halfway there, your poo starts coming out.

And make it to the women's toilet just in time.

After breakfast, you drive to the local Crown Court, where you work as a barrister. Today's case is the trial of a man accused of raping his niece, a sordid affair in which you are the counsel for the prosecution. You feel that your case is strong, but unless you get to a toilet before you are due in court, the mounting pressure in your bowels is likely to become very distracting. On the steps of the court building, you have to stop and clench your buttocks in order to avoid having an accident. You grimace as the pressure quickly becomes unbearable. Sweat breaks out on your forehead as you struggle to prevent your poo coming out…

But eventually you succeed, and hurry inside.

And then you gasp as you finally lose control.

After breakfast, you drive to the television studio. It is still extremely early in the morning, as you have to get through make-up before your programme, Saturday Madness, goes to air. Part gameshow, part magazine show, the programme is aimed at children but, thanks to your miniskirts, it also has a certain amount of adult appeal. Granted, you don't normally wear one quite this short…

You manage to hold in your poo throughout the make-up process, and then it is time to get in front of the cameras. There is a sizeable studio audience made up of screaming children, already whipped into a frenzy by comedian Toff Beasley, your co-host. More screams and applause erupt as you make your entrance, waving to the children. Toff grins at you and gives you a thumbs-up.

The cameras start to roll; you are given your cue. “Welcome to Saturday Madness!” you cry, throwing up your arms as the kids go wild. “We've got a great programme lined up for you today, boys and girls. For one thing, we have The Popsicle Twins performing live for us!” Even shriller screams - you are tempted to put your hands over your ears.

“Later on we'll be selecting six members of our audience to take part in our usual muddy challenge,” you continue, “but first…” And then you gasp, as the pressure in your bowels becomes unbearable. You fight to keep the poo inside, but you are losing the battle. Leaving the stage at this point would be unthinkable. By means of a huge effort, you might just manage to prevent an accident, but not without causing quite a scene. Thinking quickly, you decide…

To carry on as if nothing is wrong, while letting some poo out.

To sit down on the floor and clench as hard as you possibly can.

The denim microskirt only just covers your buttocks. Beneath it you wear a pair of white satin panties, while on your top half you wear a sheer bra underneath your flimsy pink tank-top. You get yourself some breakfast, and then drive to school. Inside, walking down the corridor, you feel very naked as the boys all gasp and stare at you. “Nice outfit!” says one boy loudly, and laughter erupts all around you. You hurry to the staff common room, where your colleagues all look at you in astonishment. The headmaster, Mr Pringle, frowns and says, “Is that really an appropriate outfit for teaching teenaged boys, do you think?” You blush and reply:

“I'm sorry, my washing machine's broken and this is all I could find.”

“I thought the boys might pay more attention to me if I wore this.”

A few years ago, as a teenaged girl, you went through a 'skinny phase' while training obsessively as a long-distance runner. Since then you have filled out a little, particularly in the chest area, and some of your clothes from back then no longer fit you. You put on a cream-coloured blouse from that era, and struggle to fasten its buttons. Those around your tummy give you some trouble, but you manage to do them up. When you get to your chest, however, the two sides of your blouse simply will not meet in the middle, and even the button just below your bra will not stay fastened. It is with quite an exposed chest, therefore, that you leave the house half an hour later.

When you arrive at school, the boys all stare wide-eyed at your exposed bra as you walk down the corridor. You enter the staff common room, raising a few eyebrows among your colleagues. The headmaster, Mr Pringle, takes one look at your chest and says, “Aren't you a little cold?” You smile and reply that you are fine thanks. You make yourself a cup of tea, and head to your first lesson.

“Now boys,” you say to the class of fifteen-year-old boys, once you have got them all sitting at their desks, “we're going to have a test on Shakespeare's Macbeth. Pens and paper ready? Good. Question One: what was the first prediction made about Macbeth by the witches?” As you read out question after question from your own notebook, you…

Wander around the room, up and down between the rows of desks.

Lean over your desk, giving the boys a great view of your cleavage.

You put on a white thong, and then, with some trepidation, your dark blue Lycra skirt. It is incredibly short - you bought it to wear out to nightclubs but never actually did, because of its tendency to ride up as you walk. At its longest it covers your buttocks by barely an inch, but you do not have to walk far before that inch disappears, and your bottom begins to peep out from underneath the back of the skirt. You find yourself getting quite excited, thinking about it…

You put on your peasant top, and shiver when you look at yourself in the mirror. Your nipples are clearly visible through the thin material. This is an outrageous outfit - it crosses your mind that it might get you fired. But you are determined to go ahead with your exhibitionism, and after a quick breakfast, you drive to school.

As you enter the building and start to walk down the corridor, wolf-whistles erupt all around you as the delighted boys line up to watch you go by. You are acutely aware that your skirt is riding up higher and higher; your buttocks are probably already showing slightly, and if you don't do something quickly, even your thong will make an appearance at the front. After a brief internal struggle, you decide…

To tug your skirt down.

To let your skirt ride up unchecked.

You put on a white bra and white cotton panties, then you pull out your sheerest white blouse. Your bra is clearly visible through the flimsy material, but you have seen bras through blouses before at your workplace, and nobody seems to object. On its own, this should not get you into trouble.

The skirt, however, is shorter and sexier than you remembered; an ex-boyfriend bought it for you from a website, but you only wore it once. It is grey, and pleated, and fits you perfectly, but the hem is only a few inches below your buttocks. It is certainly shorter than any skirt you have seen being worn by other women at your office. As you complete the outfit with shoes and socks, you hope that you won't get into trouble…

After a quick breakfast, you head to work, and immediately start turning heads. Tasha, the girl in the cubicle next to yours, stares at you as you arrive. “Wow, Zoë!” she says. “Um, are you sure that's appropriate…?”

You grin and reply, “Of course it's not - I thought I might let out my naughty side today.”

She giggles. “Well I hope you don't get into trouble!” she says.

“Bloody hell,” says Walter, in the cubicle opposite yours, as he stares in annoyance at his monitor. “I've got no network connection this morning.”

You are quite computer-savvy, often acting as tech support for your group, and you know that the IT guys sometimes fiddle around with the ports after office hours. You suspect that Walter just needs to try plugging his network cable into a different port. The ports are located beneath the desks, just above floor level.

Will you offer to fix Walter's connection problem?

Or tell him what to do, and go and make yourself a mug of tea?

You put on a white lace bra and lacy white panties, a smart pink blouse, and a stretchy Lycra skirt that you bought for wearing out to nightclubs, although you only wore it once because of its tendency to ride up as you walk or dance. It is outrageously short, stopping just one inch below your buttocks, and any significant movement will make it even shorter. It is terribly inappropriate for the office … which sends a delicious shiver down your spine.

After a quick breakfast, you drive to work, and your co-workers gasp as you enter the building and head for your desk. Up ahead, you see Travis, your boss, just about to turn the corner and come towards you. You guess that your skirt has already risen high enough to reveal a little of the front of your white lace panties. After a moment's panic, you…

Decide to leave your skirt alone, and let Travis see your panties.

Quickly pull down your skirt to cover your panties.

You put on a pair of white silk panties, and a hot pink tube-top that you once wore to a concert. The top clings nicely to your breasts, and stops just short of your navel. Then you take out of your wardrobe a pale blue cotton skirt with an elastic waistband, and with a pair of scissors you radically shorten it until you judge that it is buttock-length. When you put it on, you are pleased to discover that you judged it almost perfectly. Your buttocks peep out slightly at first, but a slight downward tug on the waistband fixes that problem.

After breakfast, you drive to work, and as you enter the building you hear gasps of shock from all of your employees. Suppressing a grin, you go to your office and sit down at your desk. You check your email, and are rather annoyed by one sent by Freddie, your human resources manager. It concerns an office dress code, and suggests that some of your employees are not dressing in the most professional manner. He even has the temerity to suggest that there should be a rule regarding skirt length.

Another email is from one of your bosses, Simeon Taylor, the vice president of international sales. He is apparently flying in today from the company's corporate headquarters in the States, and is asking for someone to meet him at the airport … in half an hour! You feel a stab of guilt at not checking your email at home before you came in, because you were too busy shortening your skirt! You look at your watch. There is still time to get to the airport, but in this outfit…?

Will you go and meet Simeon dressed like this?

Or ask someone else to meet him, and go and deal with Freddie?

As you go downstairs, wearing your old school skirt, your parents stare at you in surprise. Your father clears his throat. “Um,” he says, “won't you get into trouble for wearing a skirt that short?”

“It'll be all right,” you say. “Other girls wear skirts this short all the time.” This is almost true - girls at school frequently flout the skirt length rule, which is rarely enforced. However, this skirt, stopping just three inches below your buttocks, might well be the shortest worn by any girl at school today.

You have breakfast and brush your teeth, then your father drives you to school. Getting out and walking towards the school, you giggle at the admiring looks from all of the boys.

Your first class is history, which is one of your favourite classes as you quite fancy the teacher, Mr Hardacre. You wonder if he will be annoyed or aroused by your short skirt.

Will you sit in the front row, so you can show Mr Hardacre your panties?

Or sit somewhere near the back, next to one of the nicer-looking boys?

It is an awkward job, but using a pair of sharp scissors you manage to cut a good eight inches off one of your skirts. Unfortunately there is no time to hem it properly, so you put it on and check yourself out in the mirror. You shiver in nervous excitement - the skirt is almost exactly level with your buttocks, but your cutting was slightly uneven and your right buttock is just peeping out.

You trot downstairs, and almost giggle at your parents' faces. Of course, you know them well enough to anticipate their reactions, so you are not surprised when…

Your father explodes with rage, and your mother tries to calm him down.

They both turn bright red and pretend not to notice your indecent skirt.

You put on a white bra and white cotton panties, white socks and black shoes, and a pink blouse. Then, with no skirt on, you trot downstairs to have breakfast. You almost giggle as you walk into the breakfast room and hear your parents' gasps of surprise. Then your little shit of a brother, Steve, bursts out laughing. “You forgot to put on your skirt!” he exclaims. “Nice panties, Zoë! Ha ha ha!!”

You blush in embarrassment, but even this little bit of humiliation is enough to start your vagina lubricating. Your mind races, trying to think of an explanation. Then your mother politely inquires why you are not wearing a skirt, and you blurt out…

“Oops! I forgot. But I'm starving - I'll put one on after breakfast.”

“I spilled some coke on it and had to wash it - it's not quite dry yet.”

You put on a baggy old t-shirt and a pair of scruffy jeans, and after a quick bite to eat you head off to work. Your boss, Dan, smiles as you enter his small office. “Welcome to your first day at Pestless Spirit!” he says. “Good, that outfit's perfect, though you'll probably want to tuck your jeans into your socks when you're wading knee-deep in cockroaches.”

“Knee-deep?” you ask incredulously.

Dan laughs. “Okay, a bit of an exaggeration. But you do have to be careful - cockroaches get everywhere, and love to hitch a lift to new destinations.”

“So that's what we're dealing with today? Cockroaches?” you ask.

“That's our first job, yes,” says Dan. “Come on - let's get moving.”

You get into Dan's van, and he drives it a few miles until you reach a grotty-looking block of flats. Together you take the lift up to the fourth floor, and approach flat number 412. “It's open!” calls a voice from inside.

The smell as you enter is pretty awful, and you cough. There is filth everywhere - empty pizza boxes, beer cans, burger wrappers, and a congealed pool of something nasty in the middle of the floor. On a couch on the far side of the room, watching television, is possibly the fattest man you have ever seen. He is wearing a string vest and a pair of socks, but if he is wearing any underpants, they are concealed by his huge rolls of flab.

Cockroaches are crawling everywhere, even over the man himself. They seem very bold and are soon climbing on to your shoes, and Dan's. But Dan has tucked his trousers into his socks, and you have forgotten to do so. Suddenly you feel a tickling sensation on your calf, inside your jeans. You shake your leg, but you can feel more and more cockroaches that have climbed up inside your trouser-legs. To tuck your jeans into your socks now would seem like locking the door after the horse has bolted.

You come to a quick decision. You will…

Take off your jeans so that you can brush off any roaches on your legs.

Leave your jeans on, and just let the roaches climb up inside them.

You put on a white tank-top and a denim miniskirt that covers your buttocks with just three inches to spare. You head downstairs to have a quick breakfast, after which you drive to work. Your boss, Dan, smiles as you enter his small office. “Welcome to your first day at Pestless Spirit!” he says. He looks down at your legs, hesitates, then says, “Good, that outfit's perfect - trousers just provide a trap for cockroaches, as I have discovered to my cost! A skirt is much more sensible, though I'm afraid I don't have any!”

You laugh. “So that's what we're doing today? A cockroach infestation?”

Dan nods. “Well, that's our first job. Come on.”

You get into Dan's van, and he drives it a few miles until you reach a street full of terraced houses. Together you walk up to the front door, and Dan rings the bell. A short, aggressive-looking young man soon answers it. “Who are you?” he demands.

“Pestless Spirit,” says Dan. “You called us about a cockroach problem?”

“Oh,” says the man, nodding. “Thank Christ! This place is awash with the little fuckers. Come in, come in. Name's Liam, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Liam. You do realise that we don't actually kill the cockroaches?” says Dan as he walks inside.

“Yeah, yeah, that was what made me call you,” says Liam. “I love animals. Even little bastards like cockroaches. My dad had Madagascar hissing cockroaches in a tank - I used to love those little fuckers. Mind you, these aren't like that - these are fucking, I dunno, German cockroaches I think.” He scratches his shaved head.

You look around as you follow Dan inside. The place is a complete disaster; Liam obviously does not like to do housework. Cockroaches are crawling all over the place, but they are too big to be German roaches: some of them are more than an inch long. You squeal as you feel one running up your leg. Dan turns towards you in amusement, while you…

Brush the cockroach off your leg.

Let the cockroach climb up under your skirt.

You put on a pretty green floral-printed cotton sundress which comes down to your ankles. Underneath you are wearing white cotton panties and a white lacy bra. You head downstairs to have a quick breakfast, after which you drive to work. Your boss, Dan, smiles as you enter his small office. “Welcome to your first day at Pestless Spirit!” he says. He hesitates for a moment as he looks at your dress, then he says, “Good, that outfit's perfect - trousers just provide a trap for cockroaches, as I have discovered to my cost! A dress is much more sensible, though I'm afraid I don't have any!”

You laugh. “So that's what we're taking care of today? A cockroach infestation?”

Dan nods. “Well, that's our first job. If you're ready, shall we go?”

You get into Dan's van, and he drives it a few miles until you reach a cul-de-sac full of semi-detached houses. “Not the usual sort of place for a roach infestation,” Dan remarks. He gets out of the van, and you follow him to a house marked 32. Dan knocks on the door, and, to your astonishment, it is opened by a petite young woman in her twenties, who is wearing nothing but a pair of white satin panties.

She seems highly agitated. With one arm covering her breasts, she beckons you in with the other. “Come in, come in!” she says. “Sorry about my state of undress, but if I wear clothes, the cockroaches get inside them, and I just can't bear that! The feeling of having cockroaches under my clothes and against my skin - ugh! I only wear panties to stop them getting … you know…”

“I quite understand, Mrs Lombard,” says Dan soothingly.

“It's Miss, actually,” says the young woman, sitting down on her sofa. “But in any case you can call me Justine. She reaches up to run a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair, and then shrieks as she catches a cockroach in her fingers. She throws it away, flailing her arms and legs in distress, while her uncovered breasts jiggle distractingly until she remembers herself and hurriedly covers them up again.

You look around at the cockroaches climbing all over every surface that you can see. They are small - probably German roaches - and incredibly numerous. You wonder how Justine could have let things get this bad before taking action. Then you feel a tickling on the side of your left knee, and also on your right calf, and realise that cockroaches are climbing up your legs underneath your dress. You…

Quickly hike your dress up around your upper thighs and brush off any roaches you can find.

Figure any effort to stop them will be futile, so you let the roaches crawl where they may.

You put on a pair of white cotton panties, a white bra, white ankle socks, pink-and-white trainers, a baggy t-shirt, and an old pair of loose-fitting khaki shorts that come down to mid-thigh. After a quick breakfast, you head up to the attic with your father, and he switches on a rather dim light that vaguely illuminates half of the space while leaving the other half hidden in dark shadows. There are cobwebs everywhere, some of them stretching all the way across the room, and it is extremely dusty up here.

“Wow, looks like it's been a while since we were last up here!” says your father cheerfully.

You crawl further into the attic, and over to where several boxes have been stacked in irregular fashion. A small movement catches your eye, and you look to your left to see what it was. To your dismay, you see…

An earwig crawling out of the top of one of the boxes.

A rat scuttling into the shadows between two of the boxes.

The biggest spider you have ever seen, disappearing into one of the boxes.

You put on a pair of pink satin panties, a white bra, and an old knitted dress that Aunt Flora gave you for your tenth birthday. You pretty much hate it, which is why you don't care if it gets dirty, or snags a nail and gets torn. But it is rather smaller than you remember, and only just covers your panties. It is also very tight across your chest, the weave spreading out so that your bra clearly shows through. But it will just be you and your dad in the attic, so it doesn't really matter. You go down to breakfast, and your mother rolls her eyes as your brother bursts out laughing.

“Oh Zoë, whatever are you wearing that old thing for?” says your mother. You explain, and she nods. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. I hope you're wearing shorts underneath, though…”

Fortunately she doesn't ask for evidence, and you let it slide. After breakfast, you head upstairs with your father, and he pulls the ladder down so that you can both climb up. It occurs to you that if you go first, your father will see your panties…

So you let him go first.

So you quickly climb on to the ladder and go up ahead of him.

Feeling very naughty, you can't help smiling to yourself as you imagine how your parents will react when you go downstairs in nothing but your panties. But of course, if you are going to go through with this plan, then your choice of panties is important. You have a lot of panties, but only a few good candidates present themselves. After some careful consideration, you decide to wear…

A pair of ordinary white cotton panties.

A pair of sexy, skimpy, pink satin panties.

Your tiniest thong.

You put on a long summer dress, with a white bra and white panties beneath, and after a light breakfast you drive to school. Your first lesson is with the fourth form, a bunch of unruly fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, to whom you have been attempting to explain the anatomy and life cycles of insects. In order to make the lesson come alive for your class, you have acquired tanks full of various species of insects, with which you are planning to experiment in non-lethal ways.

The lesson is going well until there is a commotion at the back of the classroom. “What's going on?” you ask.

One of the boys looks up with an impish grin. “Jamie just spilled his ticks all over the floor,” he says.

You sigh. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Jamie!” You hurry to the back of the classroom, grab the container, and get down on your hands and knees, looking for the ticks. As you pick them up, you put them in the container. Fortunately they are a large tick species and easily spotted and caught. You feel cool air on the backs of your thighs and your buttocks, and suddenly realise that one of the boys behind you has lifted up the back of your dress. Your first instinct is to turn around quickly and berate whoever it is, but part of you is a little aroused by the thought of being exposed like this. After a moment's consideration, you…

Turn around and yell at the boy who is lifting your dress.

Continue picking up ticks as if nothing is wrong.

You put on a pair of blue satin panties and a matching bra, followed by a knee-length navy blue skirt and a white blouse. After a light breakfast, you drive to school and prepare to teach your first lesson. It is with the fifth form, your least favourite bunch of boys, but at least the lesson should be fun. You have been studying household pests, and have acquired some tanks full of various pest species in order to study them in a classroom setting.

Ten minutes into the lesson, however, disaster strikes when one of the boys accidentally knocks over a tank full of Oriental cockroaches. They scatter all over the place, some running off to dark corners, others flying up to the walls or ceiling. “Quick!” you cry, “start catching them and putting them back!” You right the tank, which now contains just three roaches, and then duck as a cockroach flies past your head. You are now wishing you had acquired a flightless species!

“Miss, a cockroach just ran up your leg, under your skirt!” exclaims one of the boys, pointing.

“Quick, let's get it!” says another boy, and before you can stop them, two of the boys have lifted up your skirt to waist level, exposing your panties. You gasp in shock, and say…

“Let go of my skirt, you little bastards!”

“Hurry, catch it quickly before it gets into my panties!”

You put on a pair of white cotton panties, a white bra, and a blue-and-white babydoll dress that makes you look a bit like Alice in Wonderland. It covers your bottom with only two inches to spare, and if you raise your arms, your hem lifts up, exposing your panties. You have some breakfast, then drive to work with a sense of trepidation, hoping this dress will not get you fired.

When you arrive at school, a lot of the boys wolf-whistle at you, but you ignore them and make your way to the staff common room. The headmaster is there, and he frowns with disapproval at your dress. But he says nothing, and after making yourself a cup of tea, you head for the classroom.

Your first lesson is with the lower sixth form, with whom you have been studying the life cycles, environmental impact, parasitic behaviour, and practical uses of worms. In order to make the lesson more interesting, you have acquired tanks full of various species of worms, with which you intend to conduct some non-lethal experiments.

You pair the boys up into groups of two, and give each group a tank full of worms to study. One of the boys, Brian, asks for help, and you go over to his desk. He is a shy boy with a quiet voice, and you strain to hear him over the noise generated by the other boys. You are about to bend over, in order to hear him better, when you realise that this will expose your panties to anyone behind you. After a moment's thought, you…

Bend over to listen to Brian.

Tell Brian to speak up.

You cannot believe the nerve of the guy, groping a schoolgirl in public and in broad daylight! You are tempted to teach him a lesson, but part of you is sort of excited to be fondled like this. After all, there's no danger to you - you could easily scream and bring all kinds of trouble down on the guy if it gets scary. As you try to decide what to do, the man actually lifts the back of your skirt and begins to caress your bottom through your panties. You are by now very desperate to defecate, and it occurs to you that it might be amusing to give your groper a nasty shock by pooping in his hand. It would also give your fellow passengers a nasty shock, though, and they might not be terribly happy with you. You think hard for another minute, by which time the groper has started to slip his hand inside your panties. Then, having come to a decision, you…

Shout “Somebody's groping me!”

Start straining, and let out your poo.

Let the groper carry on fondling you.

You cannot hold it in any more! Your poo starts to emerge, despite your best clenching efforts. It is very wide and makes your eyes water. As it slowly pushes between your buttocks and descends into your panties, you continue to fight it, sweat breaking out on your brow as you desperately attempt to force the poo back in. The poo curls around as its progress is arrested by the white cotton, but still it continues to emerge. When about a ten inches of two-inch-thick poo have come out, you finally give up the struggle, and relax your anus. A couple of the other passengers have begun sniffing the air, and you cross your fingers, hoping that they do not realise where the smell is coming from.

Having let out another five inches of poo into your panties, you feel…

A little better, so you stop pooping.

Very full still, so you continue pooping.

As you go downstairs, your father happens to be passing by the foot of the stairs. He looks up and his jaw drops as he sees your panties. Knowing him as well as you do, you are not surprised when he…

Explodes in a fit of religious outrage.

Grins lecherously and says, “Wow, nice skirt!”

Turns bright red, looks away, and scurries into the living room.

The tights don't exactly make your skirt seem less short, but they do make the whole ensemble seem less revealing. You trot downstairs and go into the kitchen, where your little brother sees you first. His eyes widen and he laughs. “Mum, look at her skirt!” he exclaims.

“Good heavens, Zoë!” says your mother. “Are you really wearing that thing to school? It's awfully short…”

You nod, but then your father comes into the room behind you. He has obviously seen the skirt, because he…

Makes a sarcastic comment about it as he goes to his chair at the table.

Gives your bottom a squeeze as he passes.

The tights make you feel a little less exposed, though in truth they make the skirt seem even more invisible. You have some breakfast and then head off to work, feeling nervous and excited. Your bowels are feeling more and more full by the minute, making it hard to concentrate, but fortunately you happen to notice that your fuel level is very low, so you pull into the next petrol station and get out to fill up. As you pump the petrol, you grimace with the effort of holding in your poo. Suddenly you realise you cannot hold it in any longer. With a gasp, you stop pumping, replace the fuel nozzle, and stumble awkwardly towards the shop. Inside, you head for the counter to ask where the toilet is, but there is a queue. You look around wildly, and your eyes light up as you see a sign with stick figures of a man and a woman.

But you have not taken more than two steps towards it when you groan in pain, and, despite your best efforts, your anus opens up to let a huge poo emerge. It slowly slides out of your rectum as you clutch the corner of a shelf, your knees bent and your head bowed.

“Hey - are you doing what I think you're doing?” demands the man behind the counter. You turn around, your cheeks burning, and see several customers staring at you in amazement, and beyond them, the owner of the petrol station. He is glaring at you.

“I'm … I'm very sorry!” you stammer. “I was desperate - I couldn't make it to the toilet!”

“Get out!” shouts the man, pointing at the door.

“But … I haven't paid for my petrol!” you say.

“Oh bugger. Well go and clean yourself up, then come back here and pay,” he says sternly.

You nod. During this exchange, more poo has slid out into your panties, and now it forms a squishy lump about the size of an orange, which is causing your tights to bulge noticeably below the hemline of your microskirt. There is still more to come…

But you decide to hold the rest in, and do as the man has instructed you.

So you decide to keep pushing out your poo.

But you decide to hold the rest in, and rather than clean up, attempt to pay the man now.

Feeling very exposed, and anxious but excited, you have some breakfast and then drive to work. Your office is only a couple of miles away from your house, but with several sets of traffic lights in between, it takes you almost ten minutes to get there. As you walk across the huge lorry park outside your office, several drivers whistle their appreciation of your outfit. Fools, you think - you could have them all fired for sexual harassment if you wished. But today, you have to admit that you are behaving rather inappropriately yourself, by dressing this way. There is no dress code for your office - as the Operations Manager, in charge of the driver dispatchers and indeed of the drivers themselves, you would be the person to implement a dress code anyway.

A moment later you are passing close by a small group of drivers who are all clutching cups of coffee or tea and chatting with each other while they await their dispatch instructions. They grin at you as you approach, but the look you return them is rather frosty. At that moment, unfortunately, the pressure in your bowels becomes too much to bear. You gasp and stumble, bending over and clutching your abdomen. Try as you might, you find yourself unable to keep your anus closed. A thick, knobbly poo begins to push out into your panties, and your eyes water as your anal sphincter is forced open to an uncomfortable width. You grit your teeth and try to close your anus, but by now your poo is sliding inexorably out of your rectum, and into your pretty satin panties.

The drivers, concerned, cluster around you, asking if you are all right. Then one of them gasps - he is behind you, and has spotted the growing bulge in your panties, which is dipping into view only because you are bending over. You are torn between a huge sense of embarrassment at being seen like this, and especially by drivers, and your urgent need to relieve the horrible pressure in your bowels. Already at least a foot of poo has slid out into your panties, producing a bulge somewhere between an orange and a grapefruit in size, but there seems to be still more to come, and you are still feeling uncomfortable. After a moment's thought, you…

Get down on your hands and knees, and strain hard.

Pinch off your poo, thank the drivers for their concern, and hurry indoors.

Much to your relief, you are soon moving again, and you arrive at work without further incident. Unfortunately there is no time to go to the toilet, and already thirty people are gathered in the main conference room, waiting for the presentation you are due to give. You take your laptop into the conference room, switch it on, and attach it to the projector. While you are waiting for Windows to load, you smile around at your assembled colleagues and underlings.

“Good morning!” you say. “Welcome to today's presentation, How to Sell Women's Underwear. Now hopefully you have all discovered by now the major selling points of all of our products, and indeed our major selling points, in general, as a manufacturer of lingerie. I need hardly mention our competitive pricing, our customer satisfaction index, or our user-friendly order tracking system … although it seems that I just have…”

A polite murmur of laughter ripples around the room.

“But selling our products is about more than just listing these points, and others that are more product-specific. It is about enthusiasm, it is about passion, it is about recognising that you cannot sell our products if you cannot sell yourself. That is the key point that I would like to…” Then you break off as the pressure in your bowels becomes unbearable. You gasp and lean forward, resting your hand against the table in front of you.

A couple of people get to their feet. “Are you all right, Zoë?” asks Clarissa, one of the customer service reps.

“I'm okay … I just … ugggghhh!” You wince as your anus is forced open from within. “Oh my god,” you mutter, trying desperately, but failing completely, to stop your poo from emerging. A thick turd, at least an inch and a half in diameter, is sliding steadily out of your rectum, and curling up in the back of your panties. You frantically try to squeeze your anus shut, to somehow force the poo back inside, but the poo carries on smoothly flowing out of your anus. It squishes as it loops back and presses against itself, and quickly forms a misshapen bulge in your panties that is fortunately hidden by your skirt. Ten, then twelve, then fifteen, then eighteen inches of poo slide out before you are able to pinch it off. By now, people are starting to sniff the air, and guessing what has happened. You have never seen so many people looking at you with shocked expressions. It is rather frightening … but rather exciting at the same time. Looking around at everyone with your cheeks burning with embarrassment, you say…

“I'm terribly sorry - I seem to be having a bit of an accident.”

“I'm so sorry - I'm afraid I've had an accident. Please excuse me for five minutes.”

You groan with pain as the pressure in your bowels finally gets the better of you. Your anus opens up, and a thick pole of poo begins to slide out. You struggle to keep it inside you, but it keeps coming, and as inch after inch oozes out into your panties, it squishes outwards to form a round-ish lump which presses against your buttocks. The pressure is still unbearable, and since you have already messed your panties, you decide to let a little more out, just to get some relief from the intense discomfort. You lift your bottom off the seat, push hard, and force several more inches of poo into your panties. Already it feels like there is a lot in there, but you still feel very full.

The traffic begins to move again, and, with a grimace of disgust, you sit down, your poo squishing all around your buttocks, and forward along your gusset to surround your pussy. You shudder as your pussy lips squelch into the poo, and your clitoris is rubbed distractingly by the oozy mess. You drive onward, and eventually reach the bank where you work. Once you have parked, you contemplate the poo in your panties, and the poo still pressing uncomfortably against the inside of your anus. Will you…

Push out some more poo before going inside?

Or go inside now, and clean up?

You are halfway down the aisle with all the baking ingredients when you stop and clutch your abdomen. It is no good - you just can't hold it in any more. You relax your aching anus, and a thick poo quickly slithers out of your anus. It curls up in the back of your panties, and is followed almost immediately by a second, even larger turd. A third poo is on its way out when a smartly-dressed man taps you on the shoulder. “Hey!” he says, his brows knitted with barely-suppressed anger. “We have toilets for that.”

“I'm sorry!” you exclaim, tears springing to your eyes. “I was trying to get to them, but I lost control…”

His expression softens. “All right, well you've had an accident and I'm sorry about that, but you really need to get to the toilet, now. People come here to buy food - we can't have the place smelling of poo.”

You nod, and the man pats you on the shoulder, then walks away. You start towards the toilet, but another cramp hits and you wince in pain. Gritting your teeth, you…

Clench your anus shut and waddle to the toilet as quickly as possible.

Push hard to expel more poo.

You just make it through the door into the women's toilet when you finally lose control and your anus opens up. A thick poo slides out, forming a tent in the back of your panties which soon dips below the level of your skirt's hemline. You squat slightly and push, lifting your skirt and tugging your panties down a bit to make more room for the emerging poo. You grunt and strain, and your poo folds over and slips forward, then loops back as you continue to force more shit into your panties. After a minute or so, they are very full, and you stop pushing, despite the fact that you can feel that there is more poo inside you. You walk over to the mirror, turn, and stand on tip-toe so that you can see the bulge in the back of your panties. It is impressively large - about the size of a grapefruit, you think. You pull your skirt back down, and admire the way the bulge in your white silk panties forms a perfect, broad curve, dipping a little over an inch beneath the hemline.

The truth is, you have to admit that it looks and feels rather sexy, having your panties full of poo. You know that you should really clean up, so that you can do your shopping, but you find that you are strangely reluctant to do so. After pondering your options for a while, you decide to…

Stop being silly, and clean up, do your shopping, and return to the nursing home.

Leave your messy panties here, do your shopping, then come back for your panties.

Push out some more poo into your panties.

Gasps of surprise greet you as you hurry into the courtroom, where the jurors have already assembled. The accused, Len Barlow, is being brought in and shown to his seat. You take your own place, and start to put your papers in some semblance of order. The judge comes in, and everyone stands up, including yourself. The judge catches sight of you, and peers at you over the top of his glasses. Then he sits down, as does everyone else.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is the counsel for the prosecution dressed like, for want of a better expression, a cheap tart?”

You blush, and get to your feet. “I do apologise, Your Honour,” you say. “I had a laundry mishap.”

“Well well,” he says. “It's most irregular, but I personally have no objection. Does the counsel for the defence object to the prosecution's attire?”

The defending barrister gets to his feet. “No objection, Your Honour.”

“Then perhaps we might proceed. As I recall the prosecution was in the middle of cross-examining the defendant. Are there any further questions?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” you say, briefly standing up.

“Then would the defendant please return to the witness box.”

Barlow takes his place in the box, and you get to your feet once again. Stepping out from behind your desk, you approach the defendant, and say, “Mr Barlow, in your signed statement you claim that on the night of the alleged assault, you were having drinks with your friend…” You consult your notes. “Roger MacMillan. Do you stand by that story?”

“Yes I do, Miss,” says Barlow, grinning at your legs. “And if I may say so, you're looking pretty sexy today.”

“You may not,” you say, rather coldly. “Mr Barlow, your friend lives at 29 Sopworth Avenue, is that not correct? Some three miles from your house?”

“That's right.”

The pressure in your bowels starts to get stronger, but you clench hard against it, and continue. “And the establishment in which you were drinking is located on Devonshire Street, approximately two miles from your house, and one-and-a-half miles from Mr MacMillan's?”

“That sounds about right, yeah.”

“And you claim that you left your own house at approximately seven p.m., picked up Mr MacMillan at approximately seven-ten, and arrived at the pub at approximately seven-fifteen?”

“Right, yeah, something like that.”

“Then you would have had no occasion to travel some seventeen miles in the direction of your brother's house in Buxton?”

“No, none. I didn't go in that direction.”

“And when you picked up your friend Mr MacMillan, and thence drove to the pub, you did this in your own car?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“A red Vauxhall Cavalier with the registration JQ59 ASE?”

“That's my car, yup.”

“Then would it surprise you to learn that your vehicle was photographed by a speed camera, on that very evening, not three miles from Buxton, and seventeen miles from your own house?”

Barlow's jaw dropped. He appeared to be thinking hard.

You press home your advantage. “Would you like to change your story, Mr Barlow? Perhaps you and your friend were seeking another pub? Perhaps you…” And then you gasp as the pressure in your anus becomes unbearable. You cannot hold your poo in any longer … you feel as if you will explode if you don't let at least some of it out … and so you relax your anus…

Almost immediately a soft rope of poo slithers rapidly out of your anus, piling up in the back of your panties. Your eyes widen, but you cannot stop the flow, and as more poo pours out of your rectum, your panties begin to sag downwards. You realise that soon your bulging panties will be visible beneath the hemline of your skirt, but you cannot help it - it feels so good to relieve the pressure in your bowels that you actually start actively pushing it out.

“Miss Sterling, are you all right?” asks the judge.

“Oh … oh no!” you wail in distress, as you finally clench your anus shut again, and stop the flow of poo. “Your Honour, I'm afraid I … I appear to be unwell. I seem to have had a slight accident.”

“An accident?” repeats the judge in disbelief. “Of the Number Two variety?”

“Good God!” exclaims the counsel for the defence. “She has! She's done a poo in her panties! I can see it from here!”

You reach back and feel the bulge in your panties, which is indeed sagging beneath your hemline. Your poo feels sticky against your buttocks and anus, and has even crept forward along your gusset so that you can feel it against your labia. The bulge is round, and quite smooth and uniform. You spread your fingers wide, caressing it lightly, then you press it upwards so that it oozes against your anus and vaginal opening.

“Look! She's playing with it!”

“Am not,” you reply sulkily.

“Under the circumstances,” says the judge, “perhaps we should break for one hour.”

This is a disaster. You are on the brink of making Barlow slip up - the last thing you need is for him to have an hour with his barrister to prepare his next response. But you have created quite a stink, and you can still feel plenty of poo inside you, and the urge to get rid of it is strong. After a couple of seconds of dithering, you say,

“If Your Honour permits, I would like to finish my cross-examination first.”

“Very well, Your Honour.”

Your anus opens up, and a thick rod of solid poo begins to slide out. It stretches your anal sphincter painfully wide, and after a few seconds' futile effort spent trying to get it back in, you decide to push it out instead. Relief from the pain is currently more important than decorum. You strain, and the poo presses down against the material of your white silk panties, pushing them below the level of your skirt's hemline. You hike up your skirt until you can grab the sides of your panties, and you pull them down a few inches to make room for your poo. But the column of poo continues to descend in a straight line from your anus, until it becomes obvious that you will need to squish it in order to prevent your panties from being pushed down your thighs. Will you…

Reach back and squish it with your hand?

Or turn around and sit down on the steps to squish it?

“But first,” you say, as your anus opens up and the tip of a thick poo begins to emerge, “let's meet our special guest host, Millie Morris!” You clap enthusiastically, and walk over to the sofa to greet Millie, a newly-popular soap starlet. Somehow you manage to maintain your smile, though it is difficult when you can feel a five-inch sausage of poo rubbing between your buttocks as you walk. As you shake Millie's hand, several more inches slide out of your rectum, and your poo begins to curl up in your panties. You are not pushing at all; your poo is simply coming out on its own. But now you face a problem: you have to sit down. The discomfort in your bowels, however, is still quite intense, and in any case, you are surprised to discover, it actually feels rather nice to be pooping into your panties. You are conflicted … but eventually, you come to a decision: you will…

Stop pooping, and sit down on the sofa, hoping that you don't make too much of a mess.

Tuck your foot beneath one buttock as you sit, so that you can keep pooping.

You sit down, pressing your anus against the floor of the stage in a desperate attempt to stop your poo from coming out. You groan, clenching as hard as possible, while the audience and cameramen stare at you in confusion. Fortunately Toff comes to your rescue. “But first,” he says, “we have a guest presenter today - none other than Millie Morris!”

The pain is intense, and you can't bear it any longer. With a whimper, you turn over on to your hands and knees, and begin crawling towards the side of the stage, no longer clenching. Your anus opens up, and a flood of diarrhoea pours out of your rectum, soaking your white silk panties and turning them a yellowish-brown. They quickly fill up with very soft poo, the liquid slowly straining through the silk to drip on to the backs of your legs, and leaving behind a huge volume of mush, which starts to ooze out of the leg-holes of your panties.

The audience is gasping with horror, none of them paying any attention to Millie Morris, who has come on stage, waving and smiling, to the sound of rapidly dying applause. “Millie Morris, everyone!” says Toff desperately. But nobody is listening to him.

The fact is, while your skirt is long enough to cover your panties when you are standing up, while you are on all fours it does not cover them very well, and hardly at all when they are full of poo. What makes matters even worse is that the job of Camera Two is to follow you wherever you go, and its operator is taking his job very seriously. And while the editor is currently being careful to broadcast only the live footage from cameras One, Three and Four, the picture from each camera is displayed on one of four large monitors at the side of the stage. The monitor from Camera Two is currently almost filled with your poo-filled panties, as the perversely fascinated cameraman has just zoomed in to get a better look.

Oblivious to this for the moment (though you will later have the opportunity to see the footage for yourself when it surfaces on MyTube), you can only think about how good it feels to relieve the pressure in your bowels. As the soft mass of poo begins to slide down your gusset, some of it leaks out to splash between your knees, but most of it oozes over your labia and starts to fill the front of your panties. As you crawl, your pussy lips squish around in the poo, which seeps between them and begins to rub against your clitoris. A hot flush spreads through your body, and you pause to gyrate your hips, grinding your clitoris into the soft poo. You realise you should probably get off the stage and go and clean up, but Toff seems to be handling things very well on his own, and your poo does feel quite delightful as it surrounds your pussy and sweetly strokes your clit… Half a minute later…

You pull yourself together, get to your feet, and waddle off to the toilet.

You throw caution to the wind, and begin to masturbate.

“Are you taking the piss?” demands the headmaster. “Your washing machine's broken?”

“It's true!” you insist.

“Hmph,” he says. “Well, just don't make a habit of this. I imagine the boys will be fairly merciless towards you, but you'll just have to tough it out.”

You nod, and make yourself a cup of tea. Then you go to your first class of the day, which is with the fourth form. They whoop and cheer as you enter, and it takes some time for you to calm them down. You have last week's homework marked, and start handing it back to all of the pupils in the room. As you pause by one desk to chide an underachiever for his low grade, however, you suddenly feel a hand on your buttock.

Will you turn and bark at the young groper behind you?

Or ignore the hand, and continue to berate the underachiever?

“Well yes I imagine they probably will!” says the headmaster. “But is it the type of attention you want? I think your outfit might make it harder for you to get them to attend to their work.”

“Possibly, but I thought it would be worth a try,” you say.

“Well it's your classroom,” he says. “But don't let this little experiment of yours result in poorer grades this year, or you'll find yourself out of a job!”

You nod, and make yourself a cup of tea. Then you go to your first class of the day, which is with the upper sixth. They cheer and clap as you enter the classroom, and your cheeks flush in embarrassment. You see the undisguised lust in the eyes of all of these young men, and shiver with anxious excitement. You start to write on the blackboard at the front of the room, but in your flustered state you accidentally drop the chalk.

Will you crouch to pick it up?

Or bend down with straight legs, giving the boys a nice look at your panties?

Holding your notes in one hand and your cup of tea in the other, you wander up and down the aisles between the desks, glancing over each boy's shoulder to see what he is writing down. You pause for a moment to see what your star pupil, Jeremy Baxter, has written, and you are pleased to see that he has got everything right so far. But he seems to be struggling with your latest question, and suddenly, apparently not realising you are standing at his shoulder, he raises his hand. It connects sharply with your wrist, knocking your cup of tea out of your hand. You shriek as hot tea pours over your right breast, soaking into your blouse to form a large brown wet patch.

Instantly Tommy Garrett, the class bully, leaps to his feet with a big grin on his face. “Uh-oh,” he says. “That tea will stain your blouse if we don't wash it out quickly. Take it off, Miss, and I'll go and wash it for you.”

You gape at his impertinence, but the thought of taking your blouse off in front of all of these teenaged boys makes you shiver, and not entirely in a bad way. You clear your throat, and say…

“Thank you Tommy, that would be most kind.”

“You've got a nerve! I'll wash it out myself, thank you.”

You place your hands well apart on the top of your desk, and lean forwards, giving the boys a very nice view of your ample cleavage. One by one they look up and grin as they stare at your chest. You continue to read out questions, but you can tell that they are not paying very good attention. Eventually, you decide enough is enough, and sit down in your chair. Unfortunately you are not paying sufficient attention yourself, because as you pull your hands back, you accidentally knock over the plastic cup that you placed on your desk when you came in. Tea pours out, spilling rapidly in your direction, and before you can push your chair back far enough, the hot brown liquid pours over the edge and directly on to your lap.

“Oh good grief!” you exclaim, jumping to your feet. Your little pleated miniskirt is covered in tea. “Ugh, I need to go and clean up. No cheating!”

Tommy Garrett, the class bully, leers at you as he stands up. “It's inevitable that we'll cheat if you leave the room, Miss. You should send someone to the toilet with your skirt, to clean it for you. Then you can stay and keep an eye on us.”

You glare at him for a moment, then reply:

“Thank you for volunteering, Tommy! That would be most kind of you.”

“Nice try, Tommy, but I'll wash my own skirt, thank you.”

It seems like you have to tug your skirt down every few steps, and it is horribly embarrassing to run the gauntlet of the boys' laughter and mockery, but eventually you reach the staff common room, where you heave a sigh of relief. But now you find yourself facing the angry glare of the headmaster, Mr Pringle, who says, “Miss Sterling, have you lost your mind? Whatever are you wearing?”

You mumble some excuse about your washing machine being broken, but he is not impressed. You bite your lip, afraid of what he will say next. But you are shocked when he fixes you with a stony glare, and says…

“Take the day off, Zoë, without pay! Come back tomorrow in a decent outfit!”

“Bend over and touch your toes, Miss Sterling - it seems I have to teach you a lesson!”

The boys cheer as your thong peeps into view, and the boys that you pass crowd in behind you, following you and watching your buttocks as they become more and more uncovered. Before you are halfway down the corridor, fully half of your thong is showing at the front. But now you are surrounded by excited boys, who are blocking your way forward. You feel very exposed and vulnerable … and your vagina is lubricating like crazy.

One large boy, named Clyde Richardson, sneers at you as he looms over you. He is at least a foot taller than you, and almost twice as heavy. “I like your new look,” he says. “Nice tits.” He reaches out and puts his hands on your breasts, squeezing them through the flimsy material of your top. You are about to object, when you feel another hand begin stroking your left buttock. You feel a shiver of fear, and realise that much depends on your next action. Will you…

Try to escape?

Scream “Rape!”

Or say, “Clyde, my breasts are not toys. Please stop playing with them.”

“Sure, be my guest!” says Walter. He pushes his chair back, and you kneel down and crawl on your hands and knees underneath his desk. Feeling rather sexy, you arch your back and spread your knees apart as you pretend to work on Walter's cabling, though in fact it takes you just a couple of seconds to unplug his network cable and stick it into another socket. You can imagine that your skirt, riding high over your hips, is revealing a large expanse of your panties, and your damp gusset is probably in plain view. If you are hoping to provoke a reaction, you are highly successful, because after a few seconds of showing off your panties, you…

Feel Walter's fingers stroking your pussy through your panties.

Hear your boss exclaim, “What the devil are you doing?”

In the kitchen you make yourself some tea, and then carry it carefully back to your desk. On the way, you almost collide with Nigel, one of your colleagues, as he turns the corner you are approaching. In the split second that follows, the thought flashes through your mind that this would be a perfect opportunity to stage an accident, if you so desire. But you have to act quickly. Will you:

Gasp, start in surprise, and 'accidentally' spill your tea all down the front of your blouse?

Or skilfully steer around Nigel to avoid a mishap, and return to your desk?

Travis turns the corner, coming straight towards you, but he stops in his tracks as he sees your panties peeping below the hem of your climbing microskirt. Your nerve fails, and you duck into your cubicle and sit down, wondering if you are about to lose your job. You hear Travis approaching - he stops outside your cubicle and clears his throat. Then he says…

“Are you insane? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't fire you!”

“Nice outfit! Turn around - I want to get a better look.”

You tug your skirt down just in time to prevent Travis from seeing your panties. Nevertheless, his jaw drops as he notices your tiny skirt and long, bare legs. With one eyebrow raised, he comes up to you and says, “Come straight here from the nightclub, did you Zoë?” You start to reply, but he waves you silent. “Never mind that for the moment. I need you to get me the KPI report right away - I'm meeting with Damien at nine o'clock and he'll want the latest figures.”

You nod, and hurry to sit down at your desk. You can hardly believe it - you have actually got away with wearing this outrageously short skirt to work! And in fact, though over the course of the day you get a lot of disapproving looks, you completely fail to get into any kind of trouble for wearing this skimpy skirt. Mostly, of course, your bare legs are safely tucked under your desk, but whenever you get up to go to the toilet, or to make a cup of tea, or to go and talk to one of your colleagues, your legs are exposed for all to see. You take care to keep your panties covered, of course, and that is what probably saves you from getting into trouble.

But then, shortly before two o'clock, you hear a voice behind you. It is Jessica Brandon, the managing director. She is a stern woman, known for her fierce temper, but she has always been quite nice to you. “This report,” she says. “I'm a little confused by the transit table. How did you come up with these figures?”

You glance down at your lap. Your skirt is riding high, and you can see quite a bit of your panties. Gulping nervously, you…

Swivel your chair around to face Jessica, leaving your panties exposed.

Clasp your hands in your lap, covering your panties, and swivel your chair around.

You drive to the airport and park in the short-stay car park. You attract plenty of stares as you trot through the concourse on your way to the arrivals lounge, but you ignore them as you scan the area ahead of you for Simeon's bald head. Eventually you spot him, and wave. His look of astonishment as he sees your outfit is priceless, but you suppress a giggle and merely smile at him.

“Hi Simeon! Sorry to keep you waiting,” you say. You wonder for a moment whether you should shake his hand, give him a friendly hug, or just stand there and wait for him to pick up his bags. But then Simeon makes the decision for you, by…

Exclaiming angrily, “What the hell are you wearing?”

Pulling you into a warm hug, and sliding his hand down to cup your buttock.

You go to Freddie's office, and fix him with a stern look. “What's all this about a dress code?” you demand.

Freddie stares at your outrageous outfit, and stutters, “Um, well, I just thought … office decorum and whatnot … we should probably set out some guidelines…”

You fold your arms. “And would these guidelines outlaw the clothing that I am currently wearing?”

Freddie squirms in his chair. “Well … not necessarily…”

“Oh? Then what would you set as the minimum skirt length, Freddie?”

Freddie improvises quickly. “Well, uh, I was thinking more of a maximum length, rather than a minimum length…”

You chuckle. “Oh really?” you say. “Hmm, I suppose that idea has merit. But don't you think some people might object?”

“Yes, they probably would,” agreed Freddie. “Silly idea. Forget it. People wouldn't stand for it. You'd lose all your female employees.”

But the more you think about it, the more you like the idea. “Yes,” you say, “I think there should be a maximum skirt length, and we should start enforcing it as of tomorrow.”

Freddie's jaw drops. “But … you could lose good people that way…”

“I doubt it, Freddie,” you say. “In the current economic climate, do you think anyone is likely to voluntarily leave their job here? And if they do, there are plenty of highly qualified people out there who would jump at the chance of working here. Now, what do you think the maximum skirt length should be?”

Freddie, after staring at you for a moment, shrugs helplessly. “Knee length?” he hazards.

You smile, and say…

“That'll do nicely, Freddie. Please send out an email to that effect.”

“Oh Freddie, you can do better than that! I had something much shorter in mind.”

You sit at the desk directly in front of Mr Hardacre's, and you spread your knees apart so that he will be able to see up your skirt. You smile at the good-looking young man as he comes in and sits down, and then you watch him carefully to see how he reacts when he realises that he can see your panties from where he is sitting. To your satisfaction, when he happens to glance beneath your desk, he completely loses the thread of what he is talking about, and stutters as he tries to recover. Over the next ten minutes, he steals several more glances at your panties, and whenever you catch his eye, he blushes.

At the end of the lesson, he says, “Miss Sterling, would you stay behind for a moment please?”

Your heart leaps. As your classmates leave, you get up and walk around the teacher's desk to stand next to him. He clears his throat. “Zoë,” he says, “I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your friends, but you really mustn't display yourself in that way.”

“You enjoyed it, though,” you accuse him.

He coughs nervously. “No no, I assure you I didn't. It was … distracting, certainly, but I'm much too old for you, young lady, and you're too young for me. Now please, run along, and don't let it happen again.”

You feel annoyed, but feel you can't just leave it like that. Taking some comfort from his obvious unease, you…

Straddle his lap and start grinding your panty-clad pussy against his crotch.

Take off your panties and give them to him as a souvenir.

Class hunk Nick Trumball is sitting alone behind one side of a double desk, you notice, so you sit down next to him and smile at him. He grins back at you. “I like your skirt today, Zoë,” he says.

“Thank you!” you reply. “It's a bit old but it's all I had clean. Do you think I should wear it more often?”

“Definitely!” he says eagerly, and you giggle.

Ten minutes into the lesson, you feel Nick's hand on your leg. You let him stroke your thigh for a minute, but as he moves his hand up higher and higher, pushing it under your skirt, you start to worry that your other classmates will notice and make a fuss. Will you…

Push Nick's hand away, and whisper, “Meet me during break behind the bike shed.”

Or let Nick do what he wants, and damn the consequences?

“How dare you come down the stairs looking like that!” shouts your father. “What have you done to your skirt, you shameless girl? I've a good mind to give you a good thrashing!”

“Oh don't spank her, dear,” says your mother, clutching your father's arm. “She's just being a teenager - you know how they like to experiment with their sexuality at that age…”

“Experiment with the wha-what?” splutters your father. “She's old enough to know what is and isn't appropriate school-wear! And too young to be doing any such experimenting! She can experiment when she's married! And preferably not even then!”

“Oh hush dear, do you know how old-fashioned you're sounding?” says your mother.

“Old-fashioned or not, look at that skirt, woman! You're not telling me she'd get away with wearing that at school, are you?”

Your mother looks up at you and winces. “Of course not,” she says. “But maybe we should just let her find that out for herself, and face the consequences…?”

“I'm not having my daughter showing up at her school looking like a prostitute!” exclaims your father hotly. “No, she's got to be punished here and now, and taught a thing or two about proper behaviour!”

Your parents argue for a few more minutes, but eventually…

Your father gets his way, and takes you into the living room for a spanking.

Your mother gets her way, and lets you wear your shortened skirt to school.

True to form, your parents pretend not to notice the outrageous shortness of your skirt. Your little brother Steve, however, is delighted by it, and keeps trying to get a look at your panties. After breakfast, while you are bending over the bathroom basin, washing your face, Steve is sitting on the edge of the bath, chuckling at the sight of your white cotton panties stretched across your buttocks.

“Getting a good look, are you?” you demand in annoyance. “Stupid little pervert. I'm your sister, for god's sake!”

“I'm not the one who's flashing her knickers for all to see!” says Steve. “You're the pervert!”

There is some truth to this, of course, but you are not about to admit that to Steve. “Just bugger off,” you tell him. And he does, for about a minute. But a moment later, he comes back into the bathroom. “What now?” you inquire peevishly. Then you feel the waistband of your panties being pulled away from your bottom, and gasp as…

Something cold and gooey pours into your panties, running between your buttocks.

A camera flash goes off - Steve just took a photo of your bottom!

Your mother snorts. “A likely story,” she says. “You forgot? Who forgets to wear their skirt?”

“Oh leave her alone,” says her father. “As long as she puts her skirt on after breakfast, where's the harm?”

Your mother shrugs, and you smile at your father as you sit down. After breakfast, you go upstairs to brush your teeth and wash your face, and then you gather your things together for school. But how will you contrive to get to school without putting on a skirt? You consider this problem for a minute, and then you decide to…

Sneak out of the house unnoticed and hurry to the bus stop.

Tell your father in confidence that you have actually left your skirt at school.

Your mother sighs. “Silly girl,” she says, as you sit down to eat your breakfast. Afterwards you get ready for school, but there still remains the problem of how to get to school without your skirt. Your mother drives you and your brother to school every day, and there is no way that she wouldn't notice your lack of a skirt in the car. It occurs to you that you will need Steve's help if you are to succeed in your quest, so you go to his room, and ask him to provide a distraction that will let you get in and out of the car, skirtless, without being noticed.

Steve's brow furrows. “Why do you want to go to school without your skirt? You'll get into heaps of trouble.”

“I just think it'll be fun,” you say. “Imagine the faces of my teachers!”

Steve chuckles. “Yes - right before they send you to the headmaster!”

“I'll cross that bridge when I come to it,” you say. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“I'll help you,” says Steve, with a sly grin. “But it'll cost you.”

You sigh. “What do you want?”

Steve hesitates for a moment, then replies, “A few of my friends will be coming around here after school. Mum and Dad will be out, so I want you to serve us drinks and biscuits - generally be at our beck and call. But you've got to do it while wearing just your panties and nothing else.”

You gasp. “You little shit!” you exclaim. “As if!”

Steve shrugs. “Apparently you like showing yourself off, so don't act all shocked. Is it a deal, or what?”

You glare at him for a moment, then say…

“I'll do it, but you have to tell your friends: no touching!”

“You're right: I admit it does sound like fun. I'll even do it completely naked if you want.”

You hurriedly take off your jeans, and sweep off several cockroaches from your thighs and calves. The fat man and Dan both stare with interest at your pink silk panties, until you catch them at it, and glare at each of them in turn. Dan clears his throat.

“Okay, well I'll start sucking up what I can find,” says Dan, plugging his PestVac into a wall socket. “You chase them out of their hiding places wherever you can find them.”

“There are plenty hiding under these cushions,” says the fat man, patting the sofa as he grins lecherously at you. “Come and see.”

You reluctantly walk over to him and lift up the one cushion he is not sitting on. Roaches scatter, and you chivvy them on to the floor. The fat man stares hungrily at your panties, then says, “I think a few got into my pants. You may need to fish them out.” He hoists up his belly-flab with one hand, and you catch a glimpse of a yellowish pair of Y-fronts. You are completely disgusted both by his body and by his suggestion,

But you steel yourself, and prepare to plunge a hand into his underpants.

And you tell him he can fish out his own damn cockroaches.

You shudder as you feel the cockroaches climbing higher and higher, all the way up your thighs until they are squirming against your panties. More roaches are climbing up inside your jeans all the time, and soon there is a lot of scuttling roach traffic going up and down both legs.

“Right, well, I'll start sucking up some of these roaches,” says Dan, plugging his PestVac into a wall socket. “You can start rooting them out of all the dark corners - chase them out into the open.”

You nod, and wander through to the next room. It is the fat man's bedroom, and his bed is gross and unmade. You lift a corner of the bedspread to look underneath the bed, and you see a swarming mass of cockroaches all climbing over each other. You shudder at the sight, but you suppose this is why you are here. Will you…

Crawl underneath the bed to chase all the cockroaches out into the open?

Or start scooping them up and tucking them inside your t-shirt?

You flick the cockroach off your leg, but more are climbing up your ankles all the time, and you find yourself having to bend down every few seconds to stop them crawling up too far past your knees. Dan plugs his PestVac into a wall socket, and says, “I'll start sucking up all the roaches I can see. Liam, would you mind showing Zoë up to your attic? Zoë, I'd like you to find out how bad it is up there, and give me a report.”

You nod, and follow Liam upstairs. He pulls down a ladder, and you…

Climb up ahead of Liam, giving him a great view of your panties.

Follow Liam up the ladder.

More cockroaches are climbing up your legs all the time - there are so many of them that there doesn't seem much point in trying to keep them off you. You shiver as you feel the first one scuttling up your inner thigh and reaching your panties. Others soon join it, while still others crawl up outside your skirt and run up your torso, crawling up both outside and inside your tank-top.

Dan plugs his PestVac into a wall socket, and says, “I'll start sucking up all the roaches I can see. Zoë…” But he does not get any further, because at that moment the doorbell rings. “Ah, that'll be the TV crew I imagine.”

“Oh, right,” says Liam. “Fucking Blue Peter.” He goes to the door and answers it. Sure enough, there is a three-man television crew outside. He lets them in, and one of them introduces himself.

“Hi, I'm Bob Farley,” he says jovially. “Thank you for agreeing to let us film your operation, Mr Goldsmith.”

Dan shakes Bob's hand. “My pleasure!” he says. “Thank you for doing a piece on me. It'll be great to be able to show the nation's children that even the most annoying pests are animals, just like any other, and that they deserve to live and thrive and have a place on this planet.”

“Yeah, yeah, great,” says Bob. “And who's your lovely assistant?”

“Oh this is Zoë Sterling,” says Dan, gesturing towards you and smiling. Bob extends a hand, and you shake it nervously. By now, hundreds of cockroaches are swarming under your clothing - they have found their way into your bra, and some of them have even forced their way under the elastic seams of your panties. You can feel them crawling over your pussy and between your buttocks. Then one of them starts to push its way into your vagina…

And you freak out, tearing off your clothes to get all the roaches off your body.

But you ignore it, and say to Dan, “You never said anything about a television crew!”

You hike your dress up and hurriedly brush cockroaches from your legs. There are a surprising number of them already on you, and as more roaches climb up from the floor, you realise that this dress is going to be problematic. Pulling the lower half of the dress away from you, you tie a big knot in it, which then sits against your hip, effectively shortening your dress to approximately panty-level. Now that your legs are bare, you can see the cockroaches as they climb up, and you have plenty of time to get rid of them.

“Where would you say the problem is worst, Justine?” asks Dan.

Justine shudders. “The cellar,” she says.

“Cool, you have a cellar?” you say in surprise.

Justine nods. “I don't go down there these days, though. It's … well, the cockroaches have really taken over down there.”

“Hmm,” says Dan, “well I hate to make you face your fears and stuff, but would you mind taking Zoë down there? Zoë, I'd like you to assess the extent of the infestation down there while I start setting up my equipment.”

Justine shudders…

But agrees to take you down to the cellar.

And says, “Oh I just couldn't! Sorry Zoë, you'll just have to go down there on your own.”

Before long the cockroaches have reached your panties. Some continue on up your torso towards your bra, while others start trying to force their way under the elastic seams of your panties. You wonder how Justine is keeping the cockroaches out of her own panties, and casually walk over to her so that you can get a better look. Fortunately she is distracted by the cockroaches climbing all over her thighs. While Dan searches for a socket to plug in his PestVac, you bend down and peer at Justine's panties. Sure enough, you can see movement beneath the satin material.

“I think you may have some cockroaches in your panties,” you remark to her.

“Ugh, yes, I know!” says Justine. “But I can't bear to touch the things. Would you … would you mind getting them out for me?”

You raise an eyebrow in surprise. Then you…

Reach down and slip your hand into the front of Justine's panties.

Tell her that it would be simpler for her to take off her panties and shake them out.

You shudder at the sight of the earwig, and back away from the box. But then your father comes over and starts opening up various boxes, including the one that just produced the earwig. He hands you another box and says, “This one's got your name on it. See if there's anything in there you want to keep.”

You stare suspiciously into the box, then you sit down with your back against a wooden beam, and start pulling out some old toys and books. Then you gasp as you spot a pretty little pillow that you used to sleep on when you were very little. You had completely forgotten it, but suddenly all kinds of memories come rushing back. “Look Dad!” you say excitedly. “Remember this?”

But then disaster strikes. The pillow, its fabric half-rotted away, tears open, releasing its cargo of thousands of earwigs, which spill all over your torso and lap. You scream…

And freeze in panic as the earwigs scuttle all over you.

And frantically flap your t-shirt, trying to fling the earwigs away from you.

“Uh-oh,” you say. “Dad, we seem to have rats up here!”

“Really?” says your father. “I think that's unlikely, Zoë. Mice, maybe, but…”

“You think I can't tell the difference between a rat and a mouse?” you say. “It was a rat!”

“All right, it was a rat,” says your father soothingly. “But I'm sure there aren't many of them. Listen, there are some more boxes in the eaves - would you mind pulling them out for me?”

You crawl over to the little doorway that leads into the eaves, and peer through it. “It's dark in there, Dad!”

“Don't be a baby,” says your father. “Just feel your way along, and bring back anything you find.”

Grumbling in annoyance, you retrieve a couple of boxes from the eaves without difficulty, but the rest are further back, and you have to crawl into the darkness to get to them. You stop at the sounds of squeaking around you, and then you scream as several creatures jump on to you. You are sure they are rats, and you flail your arms to dislodge them, but in this cramped space your attempts are ineffective. One of the rats crawls up the left leg of your baggy shorts, and you can feel it pulling at the material of your panties with its claws. A couple of other rats have got inside your t-shirt, and one is nosing its way into your left bra cup.

“What's wrong?” asks your dad from the other side of the wall.

“I've got rats all over me!” you shriek. More rats are now crowding into your shorts, and the gusset of your panties has been pulled aside, exposing your pussy. As one rat pushes the tip of its nose into your vaginal opening, you…

Shout, “Do something, Dad! They're trying to get inside me!”

Reach between your legs to stop the rat from entering your vagina.

“Ugh, Dad, a massive spider just went into that box!” you exclaim. “It was enormous!”

“Cool! I'd like to see that,” says your father. He comes over to look at the box in question, and carefully begins pulling things out of it. You watch nervously. Then your father gasps, and leaps backwards as several dozen enormous spiders launch themselves out of the dark recesses of the box.

You scream, and your father yells, as the spiders swarm all over him, biting him. You leap to his aid, but the spiders merely turn their attention to you, running up your arms and leaping on to your head and torso. You have never seen anything like them - they are bigger than tarantulas, and incredibly fast-moving. You feel tiny stabs of pain all over your body as they bite you, and you scream and scream as you thrash your arms and legs about. Then the spiders' poison begins to take effect, and you begin to feel groggy. Your movements slow, and the world starts to grow dark. You fall on to your side, and lose consciousness…

When you wake up, you find you cannot move. Opening your eyes, you find that you can see a little through a haze of spider silk that appears to be binding you. In front of you are three bound shapes - you guess that they are your father, mother and brother. “Mum! Dad! Steve!” you exclaim in a muffled voice. One of the silk-shrouded bundles answers you with a muffled groan - it sounds like your father. You surmise that your screams probably brought your mother and brother charging up the ladder, only to be attacked by the spiders.

Then, as you come more fully to your senses, you realise with horror that you have been bound in a very compromising position, with your legs spread wide apart, and that you can feel a cool breeze on your pussy... You can't help noticing that your mother has been bound in the same position, and a truly gigantic spider, with a body the size of a small dog, is lodged between her legs. As you look around, you see more spiders of the same size, lurking in various parts of the attic. One of them scuttles over to you and thrusts its abdomen against your pussy. You gasp as you feel something sliding into your vagina, probing deep. A moment later you feel a rush of cold fluid inside you. You thrash about wildly, but cannot get at the huge spider.

“I think I can reach my mobile phone,” says your father in a muffled voice. Your spirits lift a little…

But a moment later, he says, “Damn, I just remembered I left it downstairs.”

And a moment later, after some struggling, he says, “Got it!”

You follow your father up into the attic, and he switches on a rather dim light that vaguely illuminates half of the space while leaving the other half hidden in dark shadows. “Good lord!” he exclaims, looking around in dismay. Your jaw drops as you see little insects scurrying around on every surface.

“What are they?” you ask, your eyes wide.

“Cockroaches!” says your father. “Disgusting things - I can't think how they all got up here. We'd better get someone in as soon as possible to take care of this. Why don't you stay up here and start opening up boxes, while I go downstairs and phone an exterminator?”

“What?” you say, alarmed.

But your father is already descending the ladder. “I won't be long,” he says.

You crawl further into the attic, and shiver as cockroaches begin to climb up your thighs and arms. They are soon on your panties, and underneath your dress, crawling up your belly and back. Before long you can even feel them crawling through your hair. This reminds you a little of your dream, and you shiver. Will you…

Start going through boxes, as you father asked?

Or pull your panties halfway down your buttocks, to see if the roaches go inside?

As you climb up the stairs, you wonder if your dad is looking up at your panties. You slow your climbing pace, and spread your thighs as wide apart as you dare, as you arch your back and display your panty-clad pussy to him. You hope he is enjoying the show, because he…

Has been under great stress lately, and perhaps you can take his mind off his work.

Has been fucking you since you were fourteen, and you would hate for him to lose interest.

You put on a clean and nearly new pair of white cotton panties, and trot downstairs barefoot, with your naked breasts bouncing freely. As you enter the kitchen, you are not surprised to see…

Your mother glaring disapprovingly at your breasts, while your father sighs and rolls his eyes.

Your brother spanking your mother's naked buttocks with a ruler while she washes the dishes.

You put on a pair of string-sided pink satin panties, and admire yourself briefly in the mirror before trotting downstairs barefoot with your huge G-cup breasts bouncing freely. Your mother meets you at the bottom of the stairs, and gasps in shock. “Get back upstairs!” she cries, aghast. “What if Dad and Steve saw you like that?”

“They're family!” you reply. “What does it matter if they see me like this? Besides, I'm helping Dad to clean out the attic today and I know that the attic's disgusting. I thought it would be easier to clean myself afterwards, rather than my clothes.”

“Silly girl, what do you think we have a washing machine for?” says your mother.

“But you're always telling me I use it too much!” you reply hotly. “You keep saying it's bad for the environment!”

“What's all this commotion?” asks your father, coming out of the kitchen with a piece of toast in his hand. “Good heavens, Zoë!”

“Talk some sense into her,” says your mother. “She says she wants to clean out the attic like that.”

“It'll be hot and stuffy up there!” you say. “And it'll be filthy - I just don't want to get any of my clothes all filthy with cobwebs and dust and stuff.”

Your father shrugs. “Well if that's what you want to wear for cleaning out the attic, I suppose I don't mind.”

“Trevor!” says your mother reproachfully.

“It's her choice!” says your father. “We're all family, after all. It's not like she's showing her…” he gestures vaguely towards your chest, “…skin … to strangers.”

Your brother Steve now comes out of the kitchen, and he bursts out laughing. “God, Zoë,” he says, “your tits are each as big as your head now! You're such a freak.”

“Oi!” says your father, smacking the side of Steve's head. “Don't be so rude! Apologise to your sister at once.”

“Sorry,” mumbles Steve.

“All right,” says your mother. “If your father says it's all right, I suppose I have no objection. But I wish you'd put something more on for breakfast, at least…”

“Oh Mum…” you whine.

Your mother rolls her eyes. “Fine! Don't, then. Just go and have breakfast.”

Your father heads upstairs, and your mother goes back into the kitchen. Your brother, as he passes you, grabs your left nipple and twists it hard before letting go and running upstairs.

“Hey, you little shit!” you call after him, scowling and rubbing your sore nipple. You follow your mother into the kitchen, but while you are pouring your cereal, you begin to hear a low, throbbing noise, that sounds at first like a heavy vehicle rumbling past. But the noise gets louder and louder, and as the house starts to shake, you begin to wonder if perhaps it is an earthquake.

“What the hell is that?” shouts your father. You hear him bounding down the stairs, and then you hear the front door open. Another patter of footsteps indicates that Steve has followed your father outside.

Your mother hurries after them both, leaving you alone in the kitchen. You want to run after her, but you are practically naked. After a moment's hesitation, you…

Run upstairs, throw on a t-shirt, and head outside.

Run outside as you are.

You put on your naughtiest thong, which you ordered from a website about six months ago. It is white, and is made almost entirely of elasticised string, except for a tiny little triangular front panel that hardly hides anything. You sometimes use it to cover your clitoris, but today you choose to wear the thong with the panel just above your clit, and the string beneath fitting between your labia, just to the left of your clitoral hood.

Thus you are, for all practical purposes, naked as you trot downstairs with your large E-cup breasts swinging freely. As you enter the kitchen, however, you are surprised to see not only your parents and brother having breakfast at the table, but also Lester Gorman, the elderly minister at your local church. The old man's eyes nearly pop out of his head as you come around the corner, but your mother merely grimaces and shakes her head in disapproval.

Your father looks up at you and smiles. “There's my girl!” he says happily. You have always been Daddy's little girl, and you are well aware that you are the apple of his eye. “Zoë, I'm sorry I didn't warn you that Mr Gorman would be here, but I had no idea you would come to breakfast wearing so little. Still, never mind. Come and sit down.”

You go over and give your father a hug, and a tender kiss on the lips, and then you take your place at the table. Your brother Steve flicks a soggy cornflake at you; it hits your left breast just above the nipple, and sticks there. He giggles as you glare at him and pull off the cornflake.

“Do you always dress like this around the house?” inquires Lester.

“No!” says your mother firmly. “This is unusual, even for Zoë.”

“I'm helping dad clean out the attic today,” you explain. “I didn't want to get any of my clothes dirty.”

“Very sensible!” says your father.

“Well I have to say I'm a little disturbed,” says Lester, frowning. “Zoë's too old to be displaying her body this way - even to her family. And certainly she should not be displaying herself to me, a complete stranger!”

“Oh, but you're our minister!” says your father dismissively. “You're above such temptations, surely?”

Lester sighs. “I'm only human,” he says. “But my point is, at your age, Zoë, you shouldn't wander around the house like that. It's just not appropriate behaviour.”

You feel your cheeks turning red, and you are about to retort that it's not his place to tell you what to wear, but your father pre-empts you.

“Oh she's not doing any harm,” he says, putting a hand gently on your arm. “I happen to love Zoë just as she is, and if she chooses to come to the breakfast table dressed like this, then I for one am not going to tell her off for it.”

“Well you should!” says Lester, getting rather annoyed. “And if you won't, I will be happy to. Zoë, for the sake of all that is decent, go and put something on.”

You glare at him as you get to your feet. Then you…

Take off your thong, and fling it at him.

Tell your father you'll meet him up in the attic, and flounce out of the room.

“Hey! Stop that!” you yell at the culprit, a dark-haired boy named Alan who is holding a handful of mealworms. He drops your dress, and grins. You pick up the rest of the ticks, and hand the container back to Jamie. “Try to be more careful!” you tell him.

“Um, Miss,” says Barry, one of the smaller boys in the class, “You may want to check your knickers…”

“What? Why?” you ask.

Several of the boys snicker. “No reason,” says Alan. “Don't worry about it Miss - they're just teasing.”

A nasty suspicion arises in your mind. “Did you put something in my panties?” you demand.

At that, a few of the boys laugh out loud. “Me? No, of course not,” says Alan innocently. “What would I put in your panties?”

You stare at the mealworms in his hand. “Alan, if you've put any mealworms in my panties…”

“I haven't!” he protests. “Check for yourself!”

“Then why are you holding a handful of mealworms!” you accuse him, now convinced that he must have put at least one mealworm in your panties.

He hesitates. “Coincidence?” he says.

You put your hands on your hips. “Alan, go and see the headmaster, this minute!”

“But I promise I didn't put any mealworms in your panties!” he insists. “Check for yourself! If you find one, then I'll happily do detention every weekend for the rest of term.”

You purse your lips. “Really?” You begin to wonder if maybe he is telling the truth. After all, you cannot feel anything in your panties.

“But if you check, and you don't find any mealworms,” continues Alan, “then I get to shove this handful of mealworms in your panties.”

“Are you crazy?” you exclaim. “I'm not going to let you do that!”

“Well if you're not prepared to take a risk, then I'm certainly not going to do all those detentions,” says Alan. “That's the deal - either you don't find any mealworms, and I get to put some there, or you do find one or more mealworms, and I do detentions for the rest of term.”

You sigh in exasperation. “Alan, if you've really put mealworms in my panties, then I'll give you those detentions anyway!”

“For the rest of term? That would be a bit harsh, don't you think?”

“Not really!”

Alan shrugs. “Well look, that's the deal. Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, then you're not allowed to check your panties for mealworms.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because,” Alan explains patiently, “like you said, if you find some, you're going to give me detention, but if you don't, then you'll have got away with falsely accusing me, and I don't think that's right.”

At that moment, you feel something wriggling against your right buttock. Your eyes widen, and you say, “I'll take the deal! I can feel the damn thing, you little sod.”

“All right!” says Alan, grinning. But then, as you turn to leave, he says, “Where are you going?”

“If you think I'm going to check my panties in front of you boys, you can think again!” you say.

“Hey, but then we won't know if you cheated or not!” says Alan. “If you go out, and then come back in here two minutes later and tell us you found a mealworm, we won't believe you! If I'm going to do detentions for the rest of the term as a result of losing a bet, I'll need some compelling evidence of my wrongdoing! In short, I'll need to see the mealworm in your panties.”

“Oh good grief,” you say impatiently, folding your arms. “As if I'm going to let you see inside my panties!” Then you feel the wriggling sensation again, and you feel a desperate urge to get the mealworm out of your panties. You bite your lip, and say…

“Oh fine! Anything to get this thing out of my panties, and to make you pay for it!”

“I promise I won't cheat. But I'm going to the toilet to get this thing out of my panties!”

You pretend not to have noticed that your panty-clad bottom has been exposed and is now presumably being gawked at by all of the boys behind you. But then you feel your panties being pulled open at the back, and dozens of wriggling creatures drop between your buttocks. One of the boys has apparently taken a handful of maggots, or mealworms, or something similar, and dumped it inside your panties. For this offence you could probably have the culprit expelled, but…

You settle for looking over your shoulder and ordering the culprit to remove the creatures.

You decide to ignore the wriggling between your buttocks, and continue picking up ticks.

The boys let go of your skirt, and back away laughing. You wonder if they really did see a cockroach running up your leg, or if they were just making it up so that they could justify lifting your skirt. But you have more important concerns right now - the cockroaches are everywhere, and you have to try to retrieve them all before they get loose in the rest of the school and start breeding.

You start to collect cockroaches, from wherever you can snatch them as they land on the wall, desks or floor. But they are very squirmy escape artists and you can rarely keep more than one at a time in your hand by the time you get back to the tank. And the tank itself is too big and heavy to take with you around the room. What you need is a smaller, easily sealable container…

“Miss, they keep getting out of my hands before I can put them in the tank!” complains one of the boys.

You sigh. “Yes Harry, I know, it's a problem. Keep trying, though.”

“You know Miss,” says another boy, “we could probably use our pockets.”

“An excellent idea, Andrew,” you reply. “Go ahead and use your pockets to keep the roaches in, until you get back to the tank. Now if only my skirt had pockets…”

“You could use your knickers, Miss,” says Harry cheekily.

“Harry, don't be crude,” you admonish him sternly.

“I'm serious, Miss!” he says. “In fact they'd be better than a pocket, because the elastic would trap the cockroaches inside until you wanted to empty them out.”

You think about this, and have to admit to yourself that Harry has a point. The thought of cockroaches in your panties is rather horrible and makes you shudder,

However, so you dismiss his idea and continue to collect cockroaches the hard way.

But since time is short, and Harry's idea would actually work, you decide to give it a go.

The two boys, Chandra and Dominic, stare at each other for a split-second in delighted surprise, and then they reach eagerly for your legs. They run their hands up and down your thighs on the pretext of chasing a cockroach, grinning as you hold your skirt up for them and several other boys crowd around to take a look. Dominic slips one hand between your thighs, and Chandra reaches around the back to stroke your right buttock.

“Are you going to just fondle me, or are you going to find that cockroach?” you demand irritably.

“It disappeared,” says Chandra.

“We're still looking for it,” adds Dominic.

“I think it may have gone inside your panties,” says Chandra. “Lie back on your desk and spread your legs - and don't worry, Miss, we'll find it.”

Your loins tingling, you…

Nevertheless tell Chandra not to be absurd, and say you'll find the cockroach yourself.

Bite your lip anxiously, sit down on the desk, lie back, and lift and spread your legs.

You bend over to listen to what Brian is saying, very aware that this is exposing your white panties to the boys behind you. You hear some gasps and whispers, but ignore them and pay attention to Brian.

“My worms have legs,” says Brian, looking puzzled. “Isn't it sort of a definition of worms that they are legless?”

“Not at all,” you say, “though most don't. Some scientists think that worms like these, which are called lugworms, represent a kind of intermediate step between legless worms, and more complex leg-possessing animals like arthropods.”

At that moment you feel your panties being pulled out at the back, and a cold, squirming mass of worms slides down behind, and partially between, your buttocks. You turn around, scowling at Clyde, a blond-haired boy who is sitting behind his desk grinning and trying unsuccessfully to look innocent.

“Do you mind, Clyde?” you say. “I'm trying to talk to Brian here. That wasn't a very nice thing to do.” Then you…

Take the worms out of your panties, and give them back to Clyde.

Turn back to Brian, and continue talking to him.

“My worms have legs,” Brian repeats, loudly enough for you to hear this time. “Isn't it sort of a definition of worms that they are legless?”

“Not at all,” you say, “though most don't. Some scientists think that worms like these, which are called lugworms, represent a kind of intermediate step between legless worms, and more complex leg-possessing animals like arthropods.”

You sense that your dress is being lifted up at the back. Will you…

Turn around and snap at whoever has lifted your dress?

Or keep talking to Brian?

All eyes turn towards you in startlement. The hand in your panties is immediately withdrawn, and you look around to see who the groper was. But there are several people behind you, and all of them are looking at each other suspiciously. You give up trying to figure out who it was, and concentrate instead on your bowels, which feel like they are about to explode. Your school is only a couple of stops away, and you think you can make it if you keep clenching your buttocks tightly together. The pressure is almost too much to bear…

But somehow you manage to hold in your poo, and reach the school without accident.

And then it becomes intolerable, and you gasp as a thick turd starts to come out.

You relax your anus and strain hard, and a thick, solid turd begins to slide out of your rectum. It is not immediately noticed by your groper, who has pushed his hand between your legs and is now slipping two fingers into your vagina. But after finger-fucking you for a few seconds, the groper stops suddenly, and withdraws his fingers. You push harder, and several inches of poo descend from your anus, right into your groper's hand. Unsure how he will react to this, you…

Giggle as you hear a muffled curse, and the hand is withdrawn from your panties.

Are surprised when the hand remains in your panties, stroking your bottom while you poo.

You smile to yourself as the groper caresses and kneads each of your buttocks in turn. Then he slips his hand between them, running his fingers forward until they reach your vaginal opening. He curls two fingers, and pushes them gently inside you, making you gasp a little. You let him finger-fuck you for a while, but your stop is approaching. You spread your feet apart, allowing your groper to probe deeper inside you, and then you feel his other hand snake around your hip beneath your skirt, and plunge into the front of your panties to stroke your clitoris.

Your cheeks flush, and you start panting hard as your excitement mounts. But at that moment, the bus comes to a halt at your stop. You could continue to the next stop, but it would be quite a walk back to school and you would be a little late for your first lesson. Also, you feel like your bowels are about to burst. Torn between desire and practicality, you…

Reluctantly disengage from your groper, and get off the bus.

Stay on the bus, at least until the next stop.

With a bulge in your panties the size of a small grapefruit, you feel rather better from a bowel-relief standpoint, but now you feel horribly guilty and embarrassed. Already the other passengers are staring at each other, and at you, in suspicion. Your cheeks are burning, but you try to look as disgusted and surprised as everyone else while willing the bus to hurry up and get to your stop. Unfortunately it is still a couple of minutes away.

Those two minutes seem to take forever, and people are beginning to cough and cover their noses with hands, handkerchiefs, or whatever else they can think of. In order to maintain the pretence, you tuck your own nose inside your blouse. Then, at last, the bus arrives, and you eagerly get off along with a few other girls and boys from your school.

“God, did you smell that?” says one boy.

“Smell it?” says Charlotte, one of your friends. “I almost suffocated!”

“Yeah, me too,” you say. “That was horrible. I think someone must have actually shit themselves.”

“Well duh!” says the boy.

As you walk with Charlotte towards the school, you take her elbow and lean in close to her. “Actually, Charlotte,” you whisper, “it was me.”

She gasps and turns towards you incredulously. “Zoë!” she exclaims.

“It was an accident!” you protest. “I just couldn't hold it in any longer!”

Charlotte snorts with laughter. “Oh Zoë, you poor thing!” she says sympathetically, though she is clearly highly amused. “So, what are you going to do? First lesson is about to start.”

The mass of poo in your panties actually feels rather nice against your buttocks…

But you say, “Clean up, of course! I'll just have to be late for the lesson.”

And you say, “No time to clean up then - I'll just have to go to the lesson like this.”

You grunt, your eyes watering a little as you keep pushing out your poo. A second turd emerges, almost as thick as the first, but more uncomfortable as it is quite lumpy and misshapen. Grimacing with discomfort, you push inch after inch out into your panties, which are becoming rather full already. You clutch the sides of your panties through your skirt, and push harder. Six inches, eight, nine, ten … then the last two inches slither out of you, and you almost gasp with relief.

You strain again, and push out another poo - this one is fortunately softer, and only about an inch and a half in diameter - it feels quite pleasurable as it slides smoothly through your anus, looping around the first two turds and squishing into whatever gaps it can find. It starts to thrust forward along your gusset, nudging between your pussy lips, and you squeeze your thighs together slightly to make your pussy squish into the poo.

The other passengers are by now staring at each other, and at you, in suspicion, and holding their noses. Some are actually coughing from the smell. You try to act like them, frowning in apparent disgust and glaring at a balding man who is standing next to you. But secretly you are still pushing out a thick turd, into white cotton panties that are probably bulging enormously by this time. You are thankful that your skirt is long enough to cover your crime - if you had gone with the shorter one, you'd be in serious trouble by now.

After about eighteen inches, your poo breaks off. There is still more to come, but the bus is already slowing down for your stop. Along with several other passengers, including some boys and girls from your school, you waddle to the front of the bus and carefully get off. Your poo, feeling very heavy in your panties, is rubbing squishily against your buttocks and pussy, and feels rather nice…

“God, can you believe that?” exclaims Roddy, one of the boys. “That was disgusting! I thought I would choke!”

“Me too,” says Penny, a girl from your class whom you don't really like.

“Yeah,” you say, “it was horrible. I couldn't wait to get out of there.”

The others nod in agreement. Then Mike, a freckle-faced boy, says, “I can still smell it! You know, I think it was one of us!”

Uh-oh, you think to yourself as Mike, Penny, Roddy, Ben and Suzy all look at each other, trying to figure out whom to blame. Various strategies race through your head, and then you say…

“I'd love to stick around for your little witch-hunt, but first lesson is about to start.”

“Well, whichever of us it was, is going to be heading straight to the toilet, right?”

“You shameless whore!” he roars at you. “How dare you wear a skirt like that! Don't think I'll be letting you wear that thing to school, you little slut! Get down here at once. How dare you!”

“Sorry Daddy, but my other skirt was broken!” you say meekly, as you hurry down the stairs. “The zip, I mean - I didn't have time to fix it!”

“And your solution was to wear a skirt that would embarrass a prostitute? I can't believe that I could have fathered such a wanton girl! I've a good mind to put you over my knee…”

“What's going on?” asks your mother, coming out of the kitchen.

“Look at how your daughter has chosen to dress herself this morning!” cries your father. “She's utterly shameless!”

Does your mother take your side?

Or your father's side?

You roll your eyes and smirk. “Thanks Dad,” you say, as you continue down the stairs.

Your father starts rubbing his crotch. “Come here Zoë - give your old dad a hug.”

You stop on the bottommost stair, and put your arms around your father's neck. He goes straight for your bottom, slipping his hands up your skirt and kneading your buttocks through your panties. Then he actually puts one hand inside your panties, and pushes his fingers between your buttocks. He begins to worm his middle finger into your anus, but you clench against it.

“Careful Dad,” you say. “I'm feeling very full - if you play with my arsehole, I might just end up accidentally doing a poo in my panties.”

Your father pulls away in surprise, and says…

“Now that I'd like to see. Go on, then.”

“Ugh! Spoil-sport. Go on and have your breakfast.”

You chuckle to yourself, and head into the kitchen, where your mother and brother are sitting at the breakfast table. Your brother Steve bursts out laughing as he sees you, and your mother raises her eyebrows.

“Zoë darling, you're not seriously planning to wear that to school, are you?” she asks.

“Yes I am,” you reply. “My only other clean skirt has a broken zip. Don't worry - I won't get into trouble.”

“Are you sure about that? Your school does have a dress code, you know!”

“Yeah, but it's never enforced,” you say casually, and untruthfully. You take your place at the table and pour yourself some cereal. “Can you drive me to school today?”

Your mother shakes her head. “Darling, it's a lovely day - you should both walk to school.”

“In this skirt?” you say.

Your mother smirks in amusement. “Oh, so the skirt's fine for school, but too short for the street?”

“Touché,” you say.

Fifteen minutes later, you and Steve leave the house and start walking to school. Steve starts bouncing a bouncy ball, which sometimes he catches, and sometimes bounces off in a funny direction so that he has to chase after it. One time as he catches up with you, having dropped behind to retrieve his ball, he says, “I could see your bottom from back there! Just a bit of it.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “Could you see my panties at all?”

“Not really,” he says, and he starts bouncing his ball off a tall fence that runs alongside the pavement just here..

Then, “Oh god,” you groan, and you stop to lean against the fence. The pressure in your bowels just became quite intense.

“What's wrong?” asks Steve.

“I think I'm about to have an accident!” you gasp.

Steve's eyes widen. “Really?” he asks. “Number one or number two?”

“Number two!” You grit your teeth, fighting to keep back your poo…

And eventually you manage to force it into submission.

But it is no good - you cannot stop the poo from coming out.

“Is that a skirt or a belt, Zoë?” asks your father, as he goes to sit down at the table. “Pass the cranberry juice please, Steve.”

You eat breakfast with your family, and then get ready for school. You and Steve go outside and climb into the family car, and your father joins you a few moments later. You are older than Steve, so you get to be in the passenger seat. You start to flick through radio channels, but your father stops you. “I already have a headache,” he says, “which your music is unlikely to alleviate. Besides, we'll be there in five minutes.”

You shrug, then wince as the pressure in your bowels builds to an intolerable level. You rub your abdomen, and your father glances down. “You all right?” he asks.

“Feeling very full!” you gasp.

“Silly girl - you should have gone before we left the house,” he says.

You nod, and clench your buttocks to prevent an accident. Your efforts are…

Fortunately successful, and you arrive at school with your poo still inside you.

In vain, however, and the tip of a very large poo begins to emerge from your anus.

You jump. “Dad!” you exclaim in mock outrage. “I'm your daughter!”

He laughs as he sits down. “Nice skirt this morning!” he says. “Bit short for school though, don't you think?”

“That's what I said,” says your mother.

“It'll be fine,” you say as you join your family at the table. As you sit down, your bottom lands on something hard and wriggly, and you leap to your feet again. “Steve!”

Your brother laughs as he withdraws his hand from your chair. Your father holds up a hand, which Steve high-fives. “Good one Steve,” he says.

“Honestly!” you say to your mother. “The men in this household have no respect for the women in this household.”

“You're just figuring this out?” says your mother with a smirk. But then she says, “Steve, you really shouldn't still be doing that to your sister. You're both too old for such childishness.”

“Oh it's just harmless fun,” says your father.

“Is it?” says your mother. “It seems to me that you're teaching Steve that it's okay to grope girls. Sooner or later, that's going to get him into trouble.”

“I wouldn't exactly call it groping,” says your father.

“Oh? What else would you call touching a woman's bottom without her permission?”

“Groping, I suppose,” concedes your father. “But Steve knows there's a time and a place, don't you Steve?”

Steve nods. “Don't worry Mum,” he says. “I won't grope any of the girls at school or anything. Just Zoë.” And he slips his hand between your thighs, wriggling his fingers against your pussy.

“Hey!” you exclaim.

“Stop that, Steve,” says your father. “Enough's enough. Hurry up and eat your breakfast, or you'll be late for school.”

“It's your fault, you know,” says your mother to your father. “You shouldn't fondle Zoë's bottom so much.”

“Aww, but I like it!” you say.

“And who am I to argue with that?” says your father.

Your mother rolls her eyes, and gets up from the table. “Zoë, I'll be leaving in fifteen minutes. Make sure you're ready by then, or you'll have to walk to school.”

You finish off your breakfast, get ready for school, and go out to the car with your mother. As she drives, the pressure in your bowels builds to an intensely uncomfortable level. You grit your teeth and clench your buttocks, but the pain soon becomes unbearable, and you…

Ask your mother urgently to pull over at the next petrol station.

Tell your mother you are about to have an accident.

Holding in the rest of your poo, you waddle to the toilet, and shut yourself inside. Pulling down your tights, you gingerly lower your panties too, and stare with fascination at the heavy lump of poo inside. It is with a surprising amount of reluctance that you empty the poo into the toilet, and press down the flush lever. The poo slides partway around the U-bend, but gets stuck. You bite your lip anxiously, hoping the water flow will force it through, but alas it does not. Oh dear - what will you do now?

Retrieve your poo, dry it as much as possible, and put it back in your panties?

Or leave it where it is, wipe yourself, and quickly leave the toilet?

You grunt quietly, straining to expel more poo, and your anus expands around a truly enormous turd that makes your eyes water as you force it out into your panties. It is two-and-a-half inches thick, with lumpy parts that make it almost three inches thick in places. You clench your teeth and screw up your eyes, tears trickling down your cheeks as the behemoth slides, in fits and starts, through your aching sphincter. Six inches come out slowly, pushing your panties downwards and making the bulge in your tights even more noticeable. Five more inches, and then the poo begins to fold back on itself. As it collapses, you find it easier to expel, and you bear down hard, forcing another eight inches of this thick turd into the seat of your panties. You take a break, panting, and then strain again, pushing out another seven inches, whereupon it tapers off and your anus, much to your intense relief, closes up.

Your face red from your exertions, you glance back at the queue of people at the checkout. They are all staring at you in astonishment, as is the man behind the counter. More to the point, they are staring at the melon-sized bulge in your tights that is sagging well below your hemline.

“Sorry!” you exclaim. “It's been a while - there was a lot to come out.”

“Bloody hell!” says the man behind the counter. “You know what, I've changed my mind. Come and pay for your petrol, and then get out of here. I don't want you cleaning up in our toilet - you'll block it up!”

This, you have to admit, is probably true. But what concerns you more than anything else right now is the fact that your bowels are still not empty. Should you…

Go and pay the man, then head back to your car?

Or try to finish your poo first?

“I don't want to block up your toilet,” you say. “Can I just pay you now, and get out of here?”

The man sighs. “Fine!” he says.

You waddle up to the counter, the other customers hastily getting out of your way, and pay for your petrol. Then you make your way stickily back to your car, intrigued by the sensations coming from your bottom as your poo slides back and forth between your buttocks, massaging your anus. You get into your car, and shiver as the poo squishes beneath you, spreading up your gusset to nuzzle against your pussy.

You leave the petrol station, and drive the rest of the way to your office. Today is a special day: you and your boss will be catching a plane to Frankfurt to meet your counterparts in the German office. The flight is at noon, and you will be leaving the office at nine forty-five in order to get to the airport in plenty of time. That will leave you about an hour in which to clean yourself up in the office toilet, make a few important phone calls, and deal with any issues that may have arisen overnight.

Walking briskly into your office at ten to nine, you…

Go immediately to the toilet to clean up.

Go to your desk and sit down to check emails.

You sink to your knees, then fall forward on to your hands. Groaning in discomfort, you strain hard, and a second turd, even thicker than the first, begins to slide out of your anus. Fortunately it is not so lumpy, and although it is stretching your anus uncomfortably, it moves easily and quickly through your sphincter. The drivers gasp in disbelief as your pink satin panties bulge even further outwards, and one of them reaches down and pulls your skirt up around your waist, completely uncovering your panties.

Another driver pulls out his camera phone and begins to take pictures, sending them off to his friends. But you are oblivious to this as you concentrate on emptying your bowels into your panties. When nine or ten inches of the second turd has come out of your rectum, it starts to bend, and curls to the side as more poo slides quickly around the back of your left buttock. By the time the turd breaks off, almost two feet of it is curled up in the back of your panties, draped around the smaller lump of the first poo. Your massively bulging panties are starting to slip down your buttocks, but incredibly, you feel that there is more to come. After resting for a few moments, you…

Get to your feet, pull your skirt down, and start waddling towards your office.

Take a deep breath, and start pushing out a third poo.

You walk quickly, your poo bouncing around in your pink satin panties and slapping against your buttocks. As you enter the building, you start towards the toilet but pause as you hear your phone ringing. You hesitate for a moment, then you hurry into your office and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Zoë!” It is your boss, Shirley, the Director of Logistics. “We're having an emergency meeting in the main conference room. Can you get down here a.s.a.p.?”

You gulp. “I'll be there in a jiffy,” you say, and put the phone down. You badly want to clean up, but it will take time. After a moment's thought, you…

Hurry to the toilet for a quick clean-up before you head off to the meeting.

Grab a pen and a pad of paper, and head off to the meeting.

“Oh dear, this is so embarrassing!” you say. “I haven't had an accident in my panties since I was a little girl.” Despite the large amount of poo you have produced already, you still feel an intense pressure building up in your bowels, and you are shocked to discover that you are unable to keep your tired anus closed. You give your assembled co-workers a slightly stricken smile, and try to remember what you were talking about as you try, and fail, to keep a second turd from sliding out into your panties.

“Um, so … passion, yes,” you say awkwardly. “You need to genuinely believe in the quality and importance of the products you are selling. And if you don't, well, that's a problem…” You go slightly cross-eyed as a particularly large lump forces your anus open to a diameter of almost three inches, but then it pops through, and, with a rush, another ten inches of poo slither out into your panties. You try to close your anus, to at least stop any more from coming out, but it is too weak from its struggles, and you clench in vain as your second turd breaks off and a third immediately begins to emerge. This poo is softer and, despite being two inches thick, flows out of your rectum quite quickly, squishing as it pushes around your first two turds and fills out a bulge in your panties that rapidly approaches the size of a cantaloupe.

“Zoë, do you need to pause this presentation and, um, take care of your accident?” asks Gerry, the financial director politely. A number of people in the room are now holding their noses, and everyone looks highly uncomfortable.

You smile back at Gerry, rather sheepishly, and say,

“Yes, I think perhaps that would be a good idea. I'm so sorry - I'll be right back.”

“I think it's almost finished coming out. I'm sorry, I'll try to concentrate better.”

You waddle to the bathroom with more than a pound of poo in your pink satin panties. Locking yourself in one of the stalls, you take off your skirt and prepare to clean yourself up. But when you lower your panties, you are fascinated by the misshapen lump of poo in the seat, and to your surprise you find yourself rather reluctant to flush it away. A naughty thought occurs to you, that you could leave your poo-filled panties here, go back to work 'commando', and come back later for your panties, but you realise that in the meantime, your poo will stink up the toilet so badly that there will be complaints, and someone will come looking for the source of the smell. After thinking about this for a minute, you decide to…

Flush your poo, clean up, and go back to your presentation.

Clean up, sneak your poo-filled panties out to your car, and then come back inside.

You lift your bottom off the seat, and strain hard. Your anus opens up, and a torrent of soft poo pours out of your rectum, quickly surrounding your first poo and completely filling your panties. It feels so good to let it all out that you keep pushing, even when your panties cannot possibly hold any more. This is not diarrhoea - your poo is not liquid - but it is soft enough that as your elastic panty-seams part company with your skin, the poo begins to leak out, making rather a mess of your skirt. You can tell this is happening, but even now you are so anxious to empty your bowels, and so enjoying the experience of doing so, that you continue to push more poo out of your rectum. Several squishy lumps pop through your anal sphincter and collect in your panties, as the softer poo spreads out around your buttocks and between your thighs in front of your panties.

Then the smell hits you, and you start to panic. Clenching your anus shut, you stop the flow of poo despite feeling that there is a little more still inside you. You sit down, and feel mushy poo squishing around your buttocks and beneath and between your thighs. Your skirt, you realise, is ruined. But your shock and remorse are tempered by the fact that your pussy is surrounded by poo, which feels very interesting as it rubs against your clitoris.

Clearly you cannot go into work like this - you will be dropping mushy chunks of poo from inside your skirt, wherever you go. You consider your options, and then decide to…

Call in sick, and drive home to clean up.

Take off your skirt, use it to wipe off excess poo, and go into the bank to clean up.

You get out of the car, rather stickily, and head inside. A couple of your colleagues have arrived already, but you hurry past them with a muttered “Good morning”. You go into the toilet and lock yourself in a stall, then you hike your skirt up around your middle, and pull down your panties. There is quite a lot of poo in them, and you marvel at the fact that you still feel quite full. You take your panties off, and lay them carefully on the floor, then you spend a few minutes wiping your bottom and pussy until they are completely free of poo. You pick up your messy panties,

Empty them into the toilet, wipe them as clean as possible, and put them back on.

Put them back on, flush the toilet, and go back out to start your day's work.

You make it to the toilet and shut yourself in a stall. Gathering up your skirt around your waist, you pull down your panties and gasp at the amount of poo that they contain - the lump is the size of a large grapefruit. If you dump it into the toilet, it will surely block up the U-bend. And what is most amazing is that you still feel full. You pull your panties all the way down to your ankles and carefully step out of them, then you reach for some toilet paper to wipe yourself with.

To your dismay, there are only two sheets left on the roll, and one of them is practically glued to the cardboard tube at the centre. This will not be nearly enough to clean your bottom. You open the door of your stall, and hurry around the corner into the other stall. But there is no toilet paper there at all! Annoyed, you return to your own stall, and try to think what you should do. Eventually, you decide to…

Put your panties back on, pull your skirt down, and go and report the lack of toilet paper.

Take off your skirt and use it to clean your bottom.

The poo that is trying to get out of your rectum is enormous - over three inches thick at its widest. You groan in pain as your anus expands to an unprecedented width, and you push hard, trying to get rid of the poo as quickly as possible. But it slides out slowly and bumpily - comprising many firm lumps all squished together, it keeps stretching your abused anal sphincter in all directions. Tears run down your cheeks as you bear down as hard as possible, not caring in the slightest that the bulge in your panties is now sagging down well below the hem of your skirt.

The first six inches emerge slowly; the next five take even longer. But then the poo becomes a little smoother, if not any less wide, and for the next nine inches or so, it does not hurt quite so much. You stop to take a few deep breaths at this point, but you do not pause for long because it is painful to have your anus being held open so wide. Your panties are slipping down your hips, and you grab on to them through your skirt as you keep pushing out more and more poo. After another seven inches, it finally starts to taper off, and you heave a sigh of relief as your anus contracts to a more comfortable two inches in diameter.

The next fifteen inches slide out quite easily, and the poo actually feels soothing as it caresses your aching anus. But now you have a problem - your panties are terribly overloaded, slipping down your legs, and threatening to spill their contents all over the floor. You try to stop pooping, but your anus is worn out and has no strength left in it. You are both horrified and somehow excited to discover that you can't stop your poo now even if you want to. Another twelve inches slides slowly but inexorably out of your rectum and into your panties, and still it comes. You have produced over twelve pounds of poo now, and it is only a matter of seconds before disaster strikes and you lose it all over the floor. Thinking quickly, you…

Call a supermarket employee for help, and say you have a medical condition.

Start grabbing handfuls of poo and shoving them inside your bra.

You empty your panties into the toilet, then you wipe your bottom clean, and scrape out your panties as much as possible. When you have finished, they are quite brown, but there are no lumps of poo left in them. You pull them up and flush the toilet. It quickly fills up, and you beat a hasty retreat before it overflows. You feel guilty about leaving it like that, but it can't be helped. You have urgent shopping to do.

You go back out into the aisles, and pick up all the items on the list. Then you drive back to the nursing home, where Jenny is very glad to see you. “Thank you!” she says. “This lot will be a great help. Now would you mind seeing to old Mr McFarlane? He's feeling very poorly.”

“What do I need to do?” you ask. “I've never actually taken care of the inmates before.”

“Residents, Zoë!” says Jenny, shocked. “Good grief, don't let anyone else hear you call them inmates.”

“Okay, but what do I do?”

“Just see if he needs anything, take his temperature if he's feeling feverish, and … clean up any messes that you find.”

“Uh-oh,” you say. “All right - I'll see what I can do.”

You go to Mr McFarlane's room, feeling a sense of trepidation. You open the door, and…

Are hit with a nasty smell of fresh poo.

See Mr McFarlane sitting up in bed, holding his stomach and looking rather green.

You leave your poo-filled panties on the floor of one of the stalls, tucked behind the toilet brush holder, then you wipe your bottom clean with toilet paper, and leave the toilet to do your shopping. It does not take you long to collect everything you need, and after paying at the checkout, you pile your bags into the back seat of your car. Then you head back inside and hurry to the toilets, hoping that nobody has discovered your poo.

Fortunately, you find it exactly where you left it. You step into your panties and pull them up, shivering as the sticky poo, now slightly cool to the touch, comes into contact with your buttocks and pussy. Tugging your skirt down fails to cover your bulging panties, so you sneak very cautiously back through the shop and out of the front, taking care not to be seen.

The drive back to the nursing home is quite tricky, as you attempt to brace your back against the car seat and juggle the foot pedals without sitting down hard on your poo. In this you are mostly successful - it does get slightly squished after you have to break sharply at a traffic light, but when you finally reach the nursing home and get out of the car, your poo is still all in one lump and none of it has leaked out of your panties.

You carry the shopping inside, but it takes you two trips, and as you carry the last of the bags inside, Jenny is standing in the entryway with a look of concern on her face.

“Good heavens, Zoë, did you have an accident?”

You look back at the car. “No, the car's fine.”

“I'm not talking about the car!” says Jenny impatiently. “I'm talking about your very full underwear!”

“Oh,” you say. “That kind of accident. Well yes, I'm afraid I did.”

Jenny rolls her eyes and groans. “That's all I need - another employee going off sick!”

You put on a brave smile. “Don't worry Jenny,” you say. “You can rely on me. I'll stay and help.”

“Oh thank you Zoë!” says Jenny in deep gratitude. “You'd better go and clean up, and then come and find me, and I'll tell you what to do.”

As you hand the shopping bags to her, you say,

“Okay Jenny - I'll be as quick as I can.”

“Actually Jenny, it might be the first of several accidents - I might as well stay like this.”

You strain, and your anus opens up once again. This time, a thick and lumpy poo begins to emerge. It is quite uncomfortable, and you wince and push harder, to get rid of it as quickly as possible. After a few seconds it breaks off, and you relax a little. The next poo is slimmer and softer, and you push it out steadily for what seems like two minutes, rapidly filling the back of your panties to capacity. Fortunately the flow of poo now diverts forward along your gusset, and you shiver as it flows between your pussy lips, caressing your clitoris on its way to filling up the front of your panties.

You find yourself getting extremely horny - almost uncontrollably so, in fact. Closing your eyes, you spread your feet apart and arch your back, grinding your pussy against the poo in your panties. You feel naughty, delightfully naughty, and ever so sexy! As you continue to push out more poo, you…

Start taking off all of your clothes except for your panties.

Masturbate to a delicious orgasm.

The judge sighs. “Very well Miss Sterling, but please make it quick.”

“Thank you, Your Honour. Mr Barlow, can you explain to the court please why your car was photographed seventeen miles from your home that night?” You walk towards the witness box as you speak, and your poo squishes and rubs against your buttocks, anus and labia. It is quite a distracting feeling, and you want more of it. But you tell yourself sternly to concentrate - this is an important moment in the trial.

Barlow has clearly had time to think. “Ah, yeah,” he says, scratching his chin. “Now that you mention it, I do remember driving out that way. I was hoping our mate Danny would join us, you know, for a drink. But when I got there, he wasn't home.”

You smirk. “How extraordinary. So your friend Danny cannot corroborate this story in any way?”

“No, unfortunately not,” says Barlow, looking rather pleased with himself.

You begin to pace up and down in front of the witness box. “And at what time did you make this alleged trip to pick up your friend Danny?”

“Um, I don't recall, exactly,” says Barlow.

The poo caressing your nether regions is getting you feeling rather hot and bothered. You reach back and cup your bulge again, pressing it gently against your anus, and sliding the entire mass back and forth so that it rubs you more effectively. Your nipples erect inside your bra, and your cheeks flush with pleasure.

“Miss Sterling?” says the judge.

“Sorry Your Honour,” you say quickly, removing your hand. “Just making an adjustment. Mr Barlow, perhaps you don't recall exactly, but you must be able to give us an idea of the approximate time. Was it, for example, before or after you met up with Mr MacMillan?”

“After,” says Barlow confidently, and you mentally kick yourself. Of course Barlow would know at what time he drove to Buxton! This proves nothing, except that you are not concentrating on what you are saying. But your poo feels so nice…

“Mr Barlow, do you have a mobile phone?” you ask. A new urge to defecate comes suddenly upon you, and your vagina begins to moisten in anticipation of more poo flowing into your panties. You shiver in excitement,

Hike up your skirt a few inches, and start rubbing your pussy through your panties.

Relax your anus, and start pushing out some more poo.

Cursing at the fact that Barlow will now have a chance to talk to his counsel and figure out his new story, you hurry to the toilet, your large lump of poo sliding between your buttocks and against your labia as you walk. It feels so nice that you slow down and start to savour the sensations, adjusting your walk by putting a sexy wiggle into your hips that makes the poo rub you more intensely. People passing you in the corridor stare at you oddly, but you ignore them. It occurs to you that you have an hour before you have to be back in court, and a clean-up will not take that long. But how should you pass the rest of the time?

You pause by a drinking fountain, and bend over it to get a drink. Your skirt rides up over the bulge in your panties, and you hear gasps of shock behind you. But as you slowly scissor your thighs together, the poo squishes against your clitoris, and you shudder with pleasure. You find that you hardly care that people are staring at your poo-filled panties. In fact, it's actually quite exciting! Throwing caution to the wind…

You start to undress and play with your poo, right here in the corridor.

You relax your anus and start to push out some more poo into your panties.

You pull your skirt up around your waist, take off your panties, and run to the toilet.

You reach back and cup the end of your poo through your panties, then squish it flat against your buttocks. It is quite firm, but collapses under a little pressure. Then you push out some more poo, groaning with relief as it slithers out of your anus and starts piling up in the back of your white silk panties. You knead and squish the growing bulge with your hand, oblivious to the little crowd of onlookers who have gathered behind you and are staring in astonishment at your exposed, heavily loaded panties.

Part of the reason for your lack of awareness is the fact that the poo has crept forward along your gusset, and is rubbing against your pussy as you slide the bulge around at the back. You spread your feet apart and arch your back, grinding your clitoris into the poo and moaning with pleasure as you continue to push more poo into your panties. When your bulge approaches melon-sized proportions, however,

You decide enough is enough, and hurry indoors.

Your panties start to overflow.

You turn around and sit down, but the colour drains from your face as you see that a little crowd of onlookers has gathered at the foot of the steps and is staring at you with expressions ranging from amusement to disgust. Your poo spreads out against your buttocks as your bottom meets the cold steps, and you spread your knees apart a little so that you can take a look between your legs. One or two members of your audience shake their heads in disgust and leave at this point, but most of the rest are grinning men who seem quite happy to stay and watch. You rest your elbows on one of the steps and lift your bottom so that you can push out some more poo, which slithers out rapidly into your pretty white panties, forming a bulge that soon approaches the size of a grapefruit. Unfortunately you are concentrating so much on pushing out your poo that you unwittingly spread your legs wider apart, giving your onlookers a great view of your panties as they fill up with poo.

Finally you look up and realize with horror that several of them are taking pictures with camera phones, and one man even has a video camera with which he is delightedly filming you. “This is so going on MyTube!” he says, laughing. “Smile for the camera, Miss!”

The poo in your panties has spread up your gusset and is now sliding across your clitoris like a tongue, giving you conflicting feelings about your predicament. You know you should close your legs, but to your surprise you find yourself spreading them even further apart. Then you…

Come to your senses, get up, pinch off your poo, and run indoors.

Smile shyly at the cameraman, and pull your panties aside to show him your pussy.

Your poo squishes slightly as you sit down on it, but the seat cushions are soft and yield beneath your bulging panties, so that none of the poo leaks out. “Millie,” you say warmly, “you're looking lovely today. I like your dress!”

“Thank you!” says Millie. “You're looking very nice yourself.”

“Now, in the six months since you joined The Sampson Empire, you've become one of the nation's favourite daytime television stars. That must have really changed your life, hasn't it?”

Millie's nostrils flare slightly, and you realise anxiously that she has smelled your poo. But fortunately she is much too nice to say anything about it. “It really has, you know? I get recognised everywhere - I must have signed at least a thousand autographs! But it's great, you know - I'm having a wonderful time. The show is fun to do, and of course there's Matt…”

“Oh yes, Matt Lyman, your new boyfriend!” you enthuse. “It sounds like the two of you are getting pretty serious!”

You continue the interview, but soon it is time to move on to the next item, which is…

A wet and messy obstacle course game, featuring yourself and Millie.

A cartoon, which will give you some much-needed time to clean up.

Tucking your right foot beneath your bottom, you sit down on your right buttock, with your left buttock perched on your right heel. This tilts you to the right, so you lean your right elbow on the arm of your chair. In this position, there is a space beneath the middle of your panties, into which your poo-bulge fits with room to spare. You relax your anus, and more poo starts to slide slowly out of your rectum, enlarging the bulge.

“Millie,” you say warmly, “it's an absolute thrill to have you here with us today. A year ago we'd never heard of you; now you're in all the papers and magazines! What's it like … mmph … to be so suddenly thrown into the public eye?” The 'mmph' was because a particularly large lump of poo was trying to get through your anus, and you had to strain a bit to push it out.

Millie wrinkles her nose slightly and looks at you rather oddly, but she says, “It's been wonderful, Zoë. My fans are so sweet, and I just love working on the show.”

“Now,” you say, “you just started dating Matt Lyman, who plays your brother on the show. Does that feel weird at all?” You can feel the bulge in your panties getting bigger and bigger - it is now completely filling the space beneath you, so you lean a little further to the right and raise your left buttock a little higher, to make more room.

“Not really!” laughs Millie. “When we're not acting on the show, he's just like a really good friend, or at least he was at first. Now he's a really good friend that I get to kiss!”

You laugh yourself. “And more, I hope!”

Millie blushes. “Perhaps, but this is a children's programme.”

“Indeed it is,” you agree. “Well as our guest co-host, perhaps you would like to introduce our next item?”

Millie nods, and turns to smile brightly at the camera. “Oh, how interesting!” she says. “In a change to our usual format…

…National Judo champion Jim Batten will be demonstrating some of his techniques on Zoë!”

Zoë, Toff and I will be undertaking dares chosen by our studio audience!”

The silence is deafening as you waddle to the edge of the set, tugging your skirt down to cover as much of your bulging panties as possible. You sense that you have made a terrible spectacle of yourself, but you dare not think too hard about that, or about the future consequences. All that matters right now is getting to the toilet, masturbating yourself to the biggest orgasm ever, and then cleaning yourself up.

Unfortunately, reality intrudes all too quickly. The show's producer, Wilbur Drake, runs after you in a fury, narrowly avoiding slipping on a piece of your poo that you left behind. He catches up with you and says, “Zoë, that was a disgusting display, and a horrible thing to do to our young viewers. You're fired! Get out!”

“Oh please don't fire me, Mr Drake,” you beg. “It was an accident!”

“It may have started out that way, Zoë, but I saw what I saw! I might have fired you just for the accident itself, but stopping to enjoy it … that was just appalling! You'll never work in television again!”

You burst into tears. “I couldn't help it!” you wail. “It felt so nice - I just lost control of myself! It was all I could do to drag myself off the stage, when what I really wanted to do was stop and masturbate! Mr Drake, none of it would have happened if I hadn't taken so long to get through make-up this morning. There just wasn't time to go to the loo before the show started! And once I got out there, the pain was just so much - I couldn't take it! I couldn't hold it in!” You put your face in your hands and sob for a minute, while Wilbur glares at you, clenching his jaws and frowning. Eventually you drop your hands from your face and stare at the floor. “At least let me go and clean up before I leave.”

Wilbur shakes his head,

And says, “I'll not have you messing up our toilets too. Get out this minute!”

And says, “Dear me, Zoë, well at least you seem repentant. Go and clean up then.”

You pull your skirt up around your waist, and sink your hand into the front of your panties. Your fingers plunge through mushy poo until they find your clitoris, which you begin to rub furiously while more soft poo continues to flow out of your anus. Unfortunately your panties are soon holding as much as they can carry, and the new poo merely spreads out around your buttocks, oozes out past the elastic seams of your panties, and slides down the backs of your thighs. But you are beyond caring about this - you are enjoying the sensation of pooping, and there is still plenty more to come.

You roll over on to your back, spreading your legs wide and masturbating for all you are worth. But then you open your eyes, and gasp to see your producer standing over you. He is livid. “What the hell has got into you?” he demands in a hoarse whisper. “Get up, and get out of this studio! Now! You're fired!”

Embarrassed beyond all words, you…

Nevertheless ignore him, and keep pooping as you start to rub poo all over your clothes.

Get up and run to the nearest emergency exit.

“Richie!” you exclaim at the young lad who stuck his hand up your skirt. “That's not appropriate behaviour! Just because I'm wearing a tiny little microskirt that hardly covers my buttocks, doesn't mean you can touch my bottom. Besides, I'm far too old for you.”

Your next lesson is with the upper sixth form, and they are far bolder. As you are passing by the desk of star football player Charlie Hughes, you gasp as he suddenly pulls you on to his lap. One of his arms encircles your waist, while his other hand reaches between your legs to cup your pussy through your panties. His friends all cheer him on, and the entire class gathers around to watch. Spluttering with indignation, you utter ineffectual protests as your legs are pulled wide apart. Your breasts are grabbed by a couple of different boys, and Charlie now slips his hand inside the front of your panties. You feel his fingers probing between your labia. Fearing you are about to be raped, you…

Ask the boys to be gentle with you.

Make a deal with them by offering to teach in just your panties if they will let you go.

“You really must try harder, Jonathan,” you say sternly, as the hand starts to caress and knead your left buttock. You hear excited whispers behind you, but continue, “I've seen you do better work than this, so I know you're capable.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Sterling,” says Jonathan, looking uncomfortable. Then his eyes widen as your skirt is hoisted up a few inches, and your panties come into view at the front. “Wow!” he breathes, staring at the exposed white satin material.

You fold your arms, put on a stern face, and say,

“It's rude to stare at a woman's panties, Jonathan.”

“Boys, pull my skirt back down, if you please!”

You crouch, pick up the chalk, and start teaching. The lesson goes uneventfully, but you cannot help feeling that the boys are not really concentrating much on what you are saying. A few lessons later, you have to admit that the excuse you gave to Mr Pringle for wearing this outfit is not really supported by the evidence. Nevertheless, you soldier on until lunchtime, when you go out for soup and a sandwich with a fellow teacher, Lynn Berkeley. As you eat at one of the tables, you can see a handsome young man eyeing your legs beneath your table.

“Don't look now,” you say to Lynn, “but I think that guy over there fancies me. He's been looking at my legs for the past five minutes.”

She chuckles. “Nice-looking?”

“Not bad at all!” you say with a grin.

Lynn grins. “Then what are you waiting for? You're available, aren't you?”

“I am,” you admit. “But what do you expect me to do? I can't exactly go over to him and say 'Excuse me, but I couldn't help noticing that you were staring at my legs, do you want a date?', now can I?”

“Why not?” says Lynn impishly. “Or at least give him a signal that you're interested.”

You ponder this for a moment, then…

You pluck up your courage, get up, and go over to talk to the man.

You spread your legs apart so that the man can see your panties.

Your skirt rises up over your bottom as you bend over, and the boys gasp at the sight of your white satin panties. You take your time about picking up the chalk, giving the boys a show they are not likely to forget. Then you stand up, and start teaching. It soon becomes clear that the boys are not paying much attention to what you are saying. All of them are staring at you, however, and are soon feeling quite turned on by their obvious arousal. Walking around to the front of your desk, you hoist yourself on to it and sit there, facing the class, with your knees wide apart and your panties fully visible to the boys.

You continue to teach, but the boys are fascinated by your panties. Some even get up from their desks and come forward to get a better look. When Willie Newcomb, a particularly bold young man, actually crouches down in front of you with his head just a foot or so from your panties, you…

Say, “Okay boys, show's over, back to your desks.”

Spread your legs even wider, and start rubbing your pussy through your panties.

You unbutton your blouse, biting your lip nervously, and then you throw it off your shoulders and pull your arms out of the sleeves. Handing your blouse to Tommy, you say, “Quickly please Tommy, I don't want to stand here in my bra for too long.”

“Oh dear,” says Tommy, looking at your chest. “Looks like the tea soaked through to your bra. I'd better wash that, too.” He looks down at your skirt. “Your skirt's got tea on it, too! I'd better wash that as well!”

You feel your vagina moistening. “Thank you Tommy,” you say in a small voice. “It's very kind of you to wash my clothes for me.” You unzip your skirt, let it fall to the floor, and step out of it. The entire class gasps at the sight of you standing in nothing but your underwear and shoes. Then you reach behind your back, unclip your bra, and pull it off your shoulders. Holding one arm over your breasts, you hand your bra to Tommy, who grins at you lustfully. He stoops to pick up your cup, which by chance is still almost upright, having fallen into a pocket on the side of Jeremy Baxter's bag. There is still about an inch of tea in the bottom of the cup. With a swift motion, Tommy thrusts the cup towards your pussy, and its contents fly out, soaking instantly into your white cotton panties.

You stare at Tommy for a moment, then…

Say, “Not a chance, Tommy. Just wash my bra, blouse and skirt, and be quick about it!”

Slowly take off your panties, and give them to Tommy.

You leave the classroom and head to the staff toilet, where you take off your blouse and start scrubbing it under the hot tap. You cannot help noticing, however, that your bra is also stained brown - the tea obviously soaked right through your blouse. Your skirt, too, has not escaped, and you sigh as you contemplate washing all three garments. It will take valuable time away from your class, but on the other hand, you don't particularly want these stains to become permanent. After a moment's consideration, you…

Take off your bra and skirt in addition to your blouse, and wash all three.

Decide to wash only your blouse.

You take off your skirt behind your desk, and hold it up for Tommy to take. But he does not move from his seat, and you say impatiently, “Come on Tommy - are you going to wash this or not?”

“Sure, if you bring it over here,” says Tommy.

“Nice try,” you say, “but I'm not about to let you see my panties. Here.” You toss your skirt towards Tommy, but it falls just short of his desk.

Tommy does not move from his seat, but merely grins at you. “I can't reach it from here,” he says. “You'll have to come and pick it up.”

You growl in annoyance. “All right!” you say, and you get up, holding one hand over the front of your panties. Hurrying over to Tommy, you pick up your skirt and hand it to him.

As he takes it, he says, “Thanks Miss!” and puts it down on the floor on the other side of his desk.

“Well?” you say. “Aren't you going to wash it, after all that?”

“Give us a little twirl, first,” he says.

“Don't be ridiculous, Tommy!” you snap. “I'm not going to give you a twirl.”

“Then I suppose I'll just have to take my time when washing your skirt,” says Tommy. “It might take me ages and ages.”

You frown at him. “Forget it,” you say. “Give me back my skirt.”

“Oh no,” he says, shaking his head. “You gave me a job to do, and I intend to do it.”

You glare at him angrily, then you say, “Oh fine!” And you turn around quickly on the spot.

“Not like that,” he says. “Turn around slowly - and lift your blouse up a bit, so we can see your panties properly.”

You scowl at Tommy,

And then you run around his desk and make a grab for your skirt.

But you do as he says.

You leave the room and go to the staff toilet, where you take off your skirt and wash the tea out of it under the hot tap. Eventually you are satisfied that the garment will not be permanently stained … but it is now soaking wet, and will not be comfortable to wear back to class. There are pegs on the wall here, perfectly suited to hanging your skirt up to dry, but you do not particularly want the boys in your class to see your panties. Or do you? The thought makes you shiver…

After considering your dilemma for a couple of minutes…

You decide to hang up your skirt, and return to class without it.

You are surprised by the entry of your colleague Karen, the art teacher.

“But who will teach my lessons?” you gasp.

“That's for me to worry about,” says Mr Pringle. “Go on - get out of here!”

Fighting back tears, you head back out of the building, once again taunted by jeers and laughter as you walk down the corridor thronged with schoolboys, holding your skirt down so that it doesn't ride up to show your panties. Outside, you go to your car, climb in, and take a deep breath.

“Well, I have the day off,” you say to yourself. “What shall I do with it?” To go straight home would seem like a waste of a wonderfully sexy outfit. You think about various possibilities for a few moments, then decide to…

Go shopping.

Pretend to be a Jehovah's Witness and go door-to-door in a posh neighbourhood.

Pretend to be a Jehovah's Witness and go door-to-door in a rough neighbourhood.

The other staff members are staring at both you and Mr Pringle, open-mouthed. You are not sure if they are more shocked by your outfit, or by Mr Pringle's suggestion. You are not quite sure how you feel about the latter yourself. But perhaps this might be the only way to avoid getting fired.

Your loins tingle with excitement as you quickly assess the locations of your colleagues. There are nine people in this room, spread about unevenly, but with the greatest concentration being in the direction of the main window, where, amongst a cluster of five male teachers, stands young Desmond Wallis, on whom you have a bit of a crush. You turn until you are facing away from that group, then you bend down with your legs straight and your feet about ten inches apart, and touch your toes. Your skirt rides up over your bottom as you bend, so that nothing prevents the men from seeing your thong as it nestles between your buttocks and widens out to cover your pussy. You smile at the men's barely-audible collective intake of breath.

Then WHACK! You gasp as Mr Pringle's hand smacks against your left buttock.

“Mr Pringle!” exclaims Janet, one of the female teachers. “I can't believe you're actually doing this!”

“Why shouldn't I?” asks Mr Pringle, spanking your right buttock this time. “Zoë has opted to receive corporal punishment rather than suspension without pay as a disciplinary measure for minor infractions, per the terms of her contract. The same clause is in your own contract, Janet.” He spanks you again, even harder, and you squeal.

“Yes but I never imagined you would actually go through with it, and in front of all of us!” says Janet. “Well I'm not staying here for this - I'll see you all later.” She marches out, as the headmaster continues to spank you.

After twenty spanks, your buttocks feel like they are on fire. But then Mr Pringle…

Stops spanking you, and says, “All right Zoë - get to your class.”

Pulls your feet further apart, and starts to spank your pussy.

You try to make a run for it, but you are grabbed around the waist and lifted off your feet. Your wild kicks are soon brought under control as your legs are caught and pulled wide apart. Your top is pulled up to your armpits by eager hands, which then start squeezing and caressing your exposed breasts. Someone pulls your thong to one side, and you gasp as two fingers are pushed inside your vagina.

“Come on, lads,” says Clyde. “Let's get her on to a desk!”

You are carried into the nearest classroom, and quickly stripped of your clothes. Naked, you are laid down on a desk and your legs are pulled apart again. Hands knead your breasts as other hands hold your arms firmly, and Clyde stands in front of you, grinning while he unbuckles his belt. Then, to your horror,

He takes out his erect penis, and plunges it into your vagina.

He starts to whip your pussy with his belt.

Your scream has an electrifying effect on the boys, who immediately release you and stand back, looking uneasy. You glare around at all of them, relieved that you seem to have regained control of the situation.

“That's better!” you say. “My dressing this way does not give you permission to manhandle me.” And without pulling down your skirt, you continue on down the corridor, and eventually reach the staff common room. Your microskirt by now is bunched up around your hips, and showing off almost all of the front of your thong, and your entire bottom at the back. Any number of teachers might be in the common room, including the headmaster…

But you resist the urge to pull your skirt down, and walk right in as you are.

So you tug your skirt down to cover your thong and buttocks, and walk in.

Clyde grins, and pulls down the front of your peasant top, exposing your breasts to the gasps of all the boys around you. Then suddenly more hands are reaching for you, groping your breasts, pulling your top off your shoulders and down your arms and body. Your skirt is pulled down, along with your thong.

“Hey!” you exclaim in annoyance. “This is no way to treat a teacher! Stop undressing me this minute!”

Fingers are probing between your pussy lips, and then one of them slides up into your vagina. Your feet are lifted up one by one, and your clothes are pulled off completely. You even lose your shoes, and you are rather disturbed to see your clothing wrapped into a bundle, which is passed from boy to boy, getting further away from you all the time.

“Give me back my clothes!” you say, as you are lifted off your feet and into a horizontal position about three feet above the ground. Your legs are pulled wide apart, and hands caress your entire body. Your nipples are being pinched, and three fingers are being rapidly thrust in and out of your vagina. Feeling completely helpless, you attempt to regain just a little control of the situation by saying,

“As long as you all use condoms, I won't report you to the headmaster for this.”

“Look, if you don't rape me, I promise I'll wear whatever you want me to wear from now on.”

You smile at Walter's touch, and undulate your hips while he rubs your pussy. Then you feel him pull your panties aside, and slowly insert a finger into your vagina. After finger-fucking you for half a minute, he inserts a second finger alongside the first. Then, to your surprise, he withdraws his fingers, and you feel his tongue lapping your pussy, and even probing a little way inside you.

Neither of you is paying enough attention to realise that the company's managing director, Jessica Brandon, is currently marching down the aisle between your cube and Walter's. She nods to Tasha in greeting, and Tasha, who cannot see you and Walter from her position, does nothing to warn you of Jessica's approach, merely smiling and nodding back in response.

Jessica does a double-take as she passes Walter's cubicle, and she stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth agape in astonishment, she…

Descends upon you and Walter in a fury.

Watches Walter licking your pussy with growing arousal.

You hastily emerge from underneath Walter's desk and turn around to face Travis, your boss.

“Nothing!” says Walter, his cheeks bright red. “I didn't do anything!”

“I was just fixing Walter's connection!” you say. “Why, what's wrong?”

Travis stares hard at you. “Just be mindful of what you might be showing, Zoë, when you're bending over in a miniskirt.”

“Oh my God!” you say, putting your hands to your cheeks. “You couldn't … see my panties, could you?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes!” says Travis. “But never mind that. Zoë, I need you to go to the warehouse to supervise a stock check. I don't necessarily trust the numbers we get back from those chaps, and I need you to oversee what they're doing. Do some spot-checking yourself, to make sure you get the same results that they do.”

“Sure,” you say, nodding. “I can do that.”

“You may want to go home and change first, though,” Travis adds. Then he shrugs. “Just a thought.”

“Point taken,” you say. “I'll get down there as soon as I can.”

“Good. The production line's going down for scheduled maintenance at nine o'clock, and they start the stock check at ten. That gives you a little time.”

You grab your handbag, and leave the office. As you get into your car, you contemplate Travis's words, and giggle to yourself as you decide…

To go to the warehouse dressed as you are.

To go home and change into something skimpier.

“Oh my God!” you exclaim, as you tip tea all over the front of your blouse.

“Oh no! I'm so sorry!” cries Nigel. “I didn't mean to startle you! Oh heck, look at your blouse!”

“Ugh! It's hot!” you exclaim, and you pull hard on the front of your blouse. Buttons fly off, and your bra-clad breasts bounce into view as the two sides of your blouse part company.

“Zoë, what are you doing?” demands Travis, your boss, in an exasperated tone.

“My fault, Travis,” says Nigel. “I startled her, and she spilled hot tea all over herself.”

“Ugh, my blouse is ruined!” you sigh. “Travis, I can't wear this now. If you like, I'll go home and change, but I don't mind staying and working in just a bra if you need me to.”

Travis purses his lips, then says, “We have a lot of work to do, and very little time before the morning meeting…

But I can't have you sitting at your desk practically topless. Go home and change.”

So if you don't mind working with no blouse on, then I suppose that's fine with me.”

Back at your desk, you start on your day's work, and the first half of the morning passes rather uneventfully. But then you receive an email from Dirk, one of your Dutch customers. The email reads:

“Hey hey, good morning Zoë! I hope you're feeling very well today. Please see my order details below. I would have ordered a sexy photo of yourself too, but I didn't know the product code for that, haha!”

You smile to yourself - Dirk loves to flirt, and the two of you banter back and forth in quite a risqué manner sometimes. But it is all just light-hearted and totally non-serious. As you compose your reply…

You ask him what kind of sexy photo he would like.

You tell him about the outfit you are wearing today.

You swivel your chair around to face Travis, acutely aware of how much of your white lace panties you are showing. He glares down at them, then looks back at your face. Your cheeks are turning bright red, you think quickly, trying to decide what you can say that will persuade Travis to let you keep your job. But your thoughts are sluggish; your brain does not seem to be working properly.

“Well?” demands Travis.

You fight down a rising sense of panic, then…

You spread your thighs apart, and say, “Happy Birthday Travis. This is my present to you.”

You say, “I enjoy showing off my panties, Travis. If you don't like it, then you can fuck off.”

You swivel your chair around to face Travis, acutely aware of how much of your white lace panties you are showing. He stares at them hungrily, and comes into your cubicle. Bending down, he cups your panty-clad pussy with his hand, and begins to slowly rub your labia through the flimsy material. You find yourself spreading your legs, and then you gasp as he worms a finger beneath your panties, and slides it up into your vagina.

“I realise this isn't exactly appropriate office behaviour,” he whispers in your ear, “but you look insanely sexy and I can't help myself.”

Somewhat breathlessly, you reply,

“Would you like me to always wear skirts this short in the office?”

“Strip me naked, and fuck me - right here, right now.”

You swivel your chair around to face Jessica. “That's the average transit time for the past twelve months, by customer,” you say. “In days, obviously.”

Jessica is staring at your panties. The corner of her mouth quirks upward, and she says, “That's hardly an appropriate look for the office, Zoë.”

“Sorry,” you say, blushing, and you reach for the hem of your skirt.

“Don't you dare,” says Jessica. “Leave it like that.”

“Oh!” you say in surprise, and let your hands fall to your sides.

Jessica smiles at you. “Tell me Zoë, what are you doing after work this evening?”

“Um, I don't have any plans…” you say cautiously.

“Would you care to come to dinner with me?” asks Jessica.

“Oh, goodness!” you say, feeling quite stunned. “Um … wow…”

“Think it over,” she says. She winks at you, then walks away.

For the next couple of hours you remain at your desk, except for a brief visit to the toilet, for which you tug your skirt down almost enough to cover your panties. By four o'clock, you have made a decision on Jessica's offer, and you email her to say…

That you would be glad to go to dinner with her.

That you are immensely flattered, but must unfortunately decline.

You cover your panties with your hands, and swivel around to face Jessica. “That's the average transit time for the past twelve months, by customer,” you say. “In days, obviously.”

But Jessica is not fooled for a second. “Good grief, Zoë,” she says. “Just how short is that skirt?”

You stand up and tug your skirt down. “Sorry,” you say, blushing, “it must have ridden up a bit when I sat down.”

“Still too short for the office, though!” says Jessica.

“Sorry,” you say again. “It won't happen again.”

Jessica shrugs. “Well it's your funeral. You're not forgetting about our charity event today, are you?”

The colour drains from your face. “Oh my God!” you say. “Yes, I had forgotten!”

“Well I'm afraid I can't let you go home and change - I need you at this morning's meeting. And don't even think of backing out of the hospice event - the children are counting on us, and I'm counting on my employees.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” you say, “but … oh my God!” You shudder at the thought of running around, climbing over obstacles, and getting dunked, and sprayed, and gunged … all in this ridiculously short skirt which doesn't stay put for more than a few seconds of ordinary walking. “Don't you think … it would be slightly inappropriate … you know, with children watching?”

“Nice try,” says Jessica sternly, “but you've made your bed and you'll have to lie in it. See you at the meeting!”

You sit down and put your head in your hands. But there is nothing to be done - you have committed to taking part in this televised charity event, and you cannot back out now.

You hold your skirt down as you walk to the morning meeting, and then you and six other volunteers head out in two cars to the venue for the charity event. It is being held in a local park, and a large crowd is gathering as you arrive. Jessica leads you all to a tent where the contestants and organisers are making final preparations.

“Aha!” says Noel, the event director. “Our office ladies. Welcome, welcome! You'll each be doing one event, but I can't have more than two of you on any one event, so please choose carefully. The events are on the board over there - take a look and sign up for the event you want to take part in. I may have to change some people around afterwards, depending on the numbers, but we won't make anyone do anything they're not comfortable with.”

You and your colleagues go and study the board. Your colleagues soon start signing up for events, but you cannot make up your mind - everything sounds like it would put you in rather compromising positions. You eventually decide to sign up for the Egg and Spoon Race, which seems like the challenge with the least potential for embarrassment, but you are too late - two of your colleagues have already signed up for it. In fact, as more people sign up, your choices rapidly shrink to just three. Panicking, you grab a pen and hurriedly sign up for…

The Multi-Tank Dunking Challenge.

The Slime Race.

The Muddy Mayhem Obstacle Course.

Your brow furrows. “Is that a trick question?” you ask.

Simeon shakes his head irritably. “All right, I can see WHAT you're wearing - the question is WHY are you wearing it?”

“I felt like a change,” you say. “Don't be such a prude, Simeon. Come on - let's get back to the office.”

“I'm not a prude,” he retorts, “but I know what's suitable office attire and what isn't. You may be young and attractive, Zoë, but that's no reason to flaunt … everything.”

“Why thank you Simeon!” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. “Listen: you're welcome to come to my office and lay down the law about a dress code if you like, but Theo did tell me that I'm responsible for the running of our office, and so far I think I've done a pretty good job. It won't be terribly helpful to have you come in and second-guess my decision-making.”

Simeon snorts. “I'm not interested in laying down a dress code. You can run your office how you like, as long as you get results. But I'd be surprised if this outfit of yours doesn't prompt at least a few official complaints - in which case it's my problem too.”

“We'll see,” you say.

As you walk through the airport with Simeon, you find yourself getting stared at a lot - sometimes with disapproval, but more often with either amusement or desire. The lustful looks you are getting from some of the men you pass start to get you quite excited, and you start to wish, crazily, that your skirt were even shorter than it is. Halfway back to your car, with a group of men walking about thirty feet behind you…

You stop and bend over to get an imaginary stone out of your shoe.

You subtly hike your skirt up and fold the waistband over a couple of times.

“Whoa! Steady on,” you say, as you feel your buttock clasped through your skirt by Simeon's large hand.

“What's the matter?” asks Simeon as he kneads and strokes your buttock. “Wearing a skirt like that, you're inviting trouble.” He works your skirt upwards until your panties are uncovered, then he starts massaging your bottom in earnest, pushing your panties between your buttocks with his chubby fingers.

You glance around nervously, and reply,

“Simeon, this isn't the Middle East. No matter how I dress, I'm not inviting anything.”

“I suppose you're right.”

Freddie sighs. “Well, I suppose if they don't like it, they can always wear trousers.”

“Hmm, good point!” you say. “We can't have that. Make skirts mandatory, and no more than knee-length. By which I mean the top of the knee. Okay?”

Freddie groans. “They're all going to hate me!” he says.

“Put my name at the bottom, so it's clear you're sending it on my behalf,” you say. “I'll deal with any protestors.” And with that you head back to your own office.

The protests are not long in coming. Marge Braddock, your thirty-two-year-old, raven-haired operations director, storms into your office and says, “Zoë, what the hell is this email about a maximum skirt length? And you're making skirts mandatory? Have you gone crazy?”

“Marge, let's face it, morale is low in the office,” you say. “Everyone's worried about their job, and I need to give them something else to think about. The men will love it, and the women…”

“Will hate it!” exclaimed Marge.

“Will they?” you inquire shrewdly. “Oh, they'll have a blast with their righteous indignation, of course, and they'll complain like mad about it … but those that are genuinely uptight about the matter will quit. The rest will comply, and they might even enjoy it. They'll claim that they're only wearing short skirts to avoid unemployment, but they'll have the perfect excuse to flaunt their legs, and somehow I think that most of our female employees will secretly be glad of that.”

“Zoë, what the hell are you talking about? This isn't the fifties! These days women like to be in control of their own destiny! They don't like being dictated to!”

“In some cases, yes,” you concede. “But some sexual hardwiring just can't be got around.”

“Speak for yourself,” snaps Marge. “You're deluded. Nobody's going to go along with this!”

“So am I to understand that you will not be complying with the new rule?”

“No I will not!”

“Then,” you say calmly, “you're fired. Get your stuff together, and get out.”

Marge gapes. “You're not serious!”

“Deadly serious,” you say with a completely straight face.

“You're firing me because I won't wear short skirts? Are you crazy?”

“I'm firing you because you're being insubordinate. Go on - get out of here.”

“I'll sue!” cries Marge furiously.

“Sue away. Your employment here, like everyone else's, is at will - no notice or reason is necessary for termination by either party. Goodbye Marge - you were a good operations director. I'm sure Jeremy will ably fill your shoes, however.”

Marge's jaw works up and down in speechless fury. Then she slumps into a chair in front of your desk. “All right Zoë, you win - you know I can't afford to be out of work right now. I'll wear a fucking short skirt.”

You grin. “You'll do more than that,” you say. “If I'm to keep you on, despite your insubordination, I insist that every day you wear…

Some kind of tight, see-through top with no bra underneath.”

A skirt at least as short as the one I'm wearing now.”

“Oh God,” mutters Freddie, looking anxious. “How short then?”

“Let's say, an inch below the buttocks?” you suggest impishly.

“What?” exclaims Freddie. “That's obscene! That's…” Then he glances at your skirt, and stops talking.

“Obscene or not, that's the maximum length,” you say firmly. “And no trousers, or shorts! Make that clear in your email. Every woman in this building must from now on wear microskirts no longer than one inch below the buttocks. Okay?”

Freddie shakes his head in disbelief. “Zoë, you can send out that email yourself. I won't do it. There'll be a riot! I'll be lynched!”

“Just put my name at the bottom of the email, Freddie, and they'll come and complain to me, not you.”

“But…”

“No buts!”

“But what about Trish?”

You pause. “What about her?”

“Well, she's…”

“Yes?”

“She's … rather…”

“Fat?”

Freddie grins apologetically. “Well - you don't think maybe an exception should be made…?”

“Freddie,” you say severely, “we don't discriminate at this company on the basis of body shape. Trish will be subject to the new rule just like everyone else.”

Freddie looks uncomfortable, but then he says, with a slight chuckle, “At least she can take comfort from the fact that she'll be able to wear longer skirts than anyone else, by virtue of her buttocks, uh, sagging, um, lower…” He falters as he notices your withering glare. “Sorry.”

“Send the email, Freddie,” you say.

“I will,” he says with a sigh. “Just be prepared for all hell to break loose.”

It does not take long. You have not been back in your own office five minutes before a delegation of directors and managers knocks at, then opens, your door. You count one man and five women, all of whom look furious as they enter the room.

“What the hell is this?” demands Pam Partridge, your forty-year-old marketing director. She waves a piece of paper in the air - presumably a printout of Freddie's email.

“You can't expect us all to wear microskirts!” adds Marge Braddock, operations director. At thirty-two years old she is quite a beauty, but she has a keen mind and a flair for management that has seen her quickly climb the company ladder.”

“Oh but I do,” you say, smiling calmly. “And I'll happily fire anyone who refuses to.”

“You can't fire us for refusing to wear microskirts!” cries Pam.

“Look here, Zoë, you just can't do this,” says John Morvern, sales director. “What would Theo say?”

“Are you threatening to report me to Theo?” you inquire politely.

“No, of course not! But he's bound to hear about this nevertheless!”

“He'll back me up,” you say dismissively. “He and I go way back, and he owes me. Moreover, he recognises as well as I do that in today's economic climate, morale is low…”

“This is how you go about improving morale?” says Pam in disbelief. “By treating your female staff like bimbos?”

“The men will enjoy it,” you point out.

“No we won't!” says John.

“Well John, you're gay, you don't count,” you say. “But proper men…”

John gasps in astonishment, as does everyone else in the room. “For a start, I'm not gay!” he yells. “And as for 'proper men' … could you be ANY more offensive?”

“Probably,” you say. “All right, my mistake I suppose, but if you're not gay, then what have you got against microskirts?”

“Nothing, but they don't belong in the office!” he says.

You are getting tired of this conversation. “John, you're fired,” you say irritably. “And remember your employment is at will, so don't even think about trying to sue. Pack your things together and get out. Quite frankly you've been underachieving lately, and I think Antonia would do a much better job in your position.”

John's jaw has dropped, and everyone else looks shocked. “You … can't do this!” says John in a strangled tone. “You're insane!”

“Get out John!” you yell at him, half rising from your desk so that your panties peep into view beneath your hemline.

John, after a moment's stunned silence, turns and walks out of the room with as much dignity as he can muster.

“Now,” you say to the others in the room, “contrary to John's opinion, I'm quite sane, and I know what I'm doing here. Look, it's not like I'm requiring you to do anything I'm not willing to do myself. Now are you all going to swallow your pride, and go along with it, or do I have to fire anyone else?”

“Sorry, Zoë,” says Pam. “I won't do it. You'll just have to fire me.”

“Fine,” you say. “You're fired. Gwen, I believe you have seniority in Pam's department - would you be interested in her job? That is, unless you'd rather be fired as well…”

“No!” says buxom blonde Gwen nervously. “I'll … I'll wear a microskirt, if everyone else has to.”

“They will,” you assure her.

“You're replacing me with Gwen?” says Pam incredulously. “That's ridiculous!”

“Pam, I'm fairly sure you don't work here any more,” you say. “Which means I don't give a crap what you think. Now get out of here.”

Shooting you a hostile look, Pam turns on her heel and marches out of your office.

“Anyone else?” you inquire. The remaining four women all stare at the floor in silence. “So I take it you are all willing to wear microskirts from tomorrow onwards?”

“Yes, Zoë,” says Gwen.

“I suppose so,” says Marge.

“If everyone else is going to, then I will,” says Tamara.

“I will too,” says Dawn.

“Good!” you say, pleased. “The new dress code will be effective as of tomorrow…

For the rest of the office. For you rebels, however, it is effective immediately.”

And I'm relying on you to ensure compliance among your respective teams.”

You jump on to Mr Hardacre's lap before he has time to push you away, and throw your arms around his neck. Pressing your pussy against his crotch, you undulate your hips, and whisper in his ear, “Wouldn't you like to strip me naked and make love to me, sir? I wouldn't tell a soul…”

“Zoë!” he gasps. “You really must get off me this instant! If anyone were to walk by … I'd be fired!” He vainly tries to push you off, but your grip around his neck is tight. “Please!”

You like Mr Hardacre, and don't want him to lose his job, so you say, “I'll get off you if…

You put your hand in my panties, right now, and finger-fuck me for ten seconds.”

You promise to meet me after school, in the gymnasium storage room.”

You tuck your hands up beneath the sides of your skirt, grab hold of your panties, and then tug them down to the floor. Mr Hardacre utters an anguished cry as you pick them up and toss them on to his lap.

“For heaven's sake, Zoë!” he says. “Here, take them back, please!” He hands them to you.

“Keep them,” you reply, winking at him. Then you turn and walk out of the classroom. In the corridor, you feel a hand on your bottom, and whirl around to see Heath, your boyfriend, staring at you suspiciously.

“What were you doing in there?” he asks.

He would not be asking if he had actually seen anything incriminating, so you shrug. “Oh, Hardacre just wanted to give me a lecture about the length of my skirt. Apparently it's 'inappropriate' or something.” You roll your eyes, for effect.

Heath chuckles. “Well I think it looks very nice. Want to hook up at break?”

“Sure,” you say. “Usual place?”

Heath nods, and you go your separate ways. After the next lesson, you head out to the bike shed, and slip behind it to meet your boyfriend. He is there waiting for you, standing beside a three-foot-high tree stump that couples often use as a support during sex. You grin at Heath, and walk towards him seductively. “I took off my panties,” you purr.

Heath laughs. “Nice!” he says. “Now let's see you take everything else off.”

You raise an eyebrow, and say,

“Jeez Heath, we don't have a lot of time. Just bend me over the stump and fuck me.”

“Well if you insist…”

Nick nods excitedly, and does not try to touch you again. After the second lesson of the day, you head outside and make your way to the back of the bike shed, where you are joined almost immediately by Nick. He takes you in his arms, and kisses you a little clumsily. As you kiss him back, he reaches down, lifts up your skirt, and slides his hand into the back of your panties. His fingers are soon between your buttocks, and probing forward to find your vagina.

You pull away from him at this point, and…

Take off all of your clothes.

Tell Nick a fuck will cost him twenty pounds.

Nick's hand reaches your panties, and he starts to stroke your pussy through the flimsy material. You spread your legs, and he pulls your panties to one side so that he can stroke your pussy directly. Despite the awkward position, he manages to get a finger inside you, and you moan slightly as he finds your g-spot (quite by accident). One or two of your classmates notice what is happening, and snicker quietly. After that, the radius of your audience grows, as boys and girls nudge each other and point towards you. Fortunately the teacher is still oblivious…

So you unzip Nick's trousers, take out his erection, and lower yourself on to it.

Until one of your classmates puts up her hand and says, “Sir, Nick's fingering Zoë!”

Your father takes you by the wrist, and leads you into the living room, where he sits down on the sofa and roughly hauls you across his lap. As he usually does on these occasions, he pulls up the back of your skirt, then tugs your panties down to your knees. He begins to rain down blows on your bottom with the flat of his hand, and you squeal with pain. Both of your buttocks are soon feeling very hot and sore, but you know that this is just phase one of your spanking, and you are dreading phase two.

After giving your buttocks twenty spanks each, your father tells you to assume the position for phase two of your spanking. You reluctantly climb off his lap, taking your panties off completely, but then you turn to him and say, “Dad, I'm sorry … please don't do phase two…”

His look is stern as he pulls a long wooden ruler out of his desk drawer. “You made your bed, Zoë - now it's time to face the consequences! Now assume the position!”

It is no use arguing with him. With a little whimper, you…

Bend down with your legs straight, and touch your toes with your fingers.

Lie down on your back, and pull your knees wide apart.

Strip naked, and present your breasts to your father for spanking.

Your heart pounds excitedly as your mother drives you to school, and you thank her for letting you wear this skirt. She smiles at you.

“Well, dear, you have awfully nice legs - I can quite understand you wanting to show them off. It's only natural at your age. When I was at school, I too used to wear the shortest possible skirts … though I have to admit, none of them were quite that short…”

You are curious to hear more about this unexpected side of your mother's history. “Did you ever … you know … let boys see your panties?” you ask.

Your mother chuckles. “All the time,” she says. “I was quite the little exhibitionist. Sometimes I would sit in the front row with my legs apart, so the teacher could see my panties. And sometimes, I wouldn't even wear panties!”

You both giggle. “Wow!” you say. “I had no idea you were so naughty when you were younger!”

“You don't know the half of it,” says your mother. “Once I turned up to our P.E. class wearing only my bra and panties - I told the teacher I'd lost my gym kit. Horny old bugger let me stay like that for the entire class! He copped a good feel while 'helping' me to climb a rope. And sometimes I would shower in the boys' changing rooms rather than in the girls' changing rooms, and I would let the boys wash me from head to toe, and of course they would totally feel me up.”

You gasp in astonishment. “Didn't they … rape you?”

“Not even once. I had a boyfriend, you see - Hugh - he was six foot seven and built like a tank, and although he was as gentle as a lamb, nobody dared to piss him off. He didn't mind me showing myself off and getting groped and fingered, but he didn't want me having sex with anyone but him … and the other boys all knew that. Still, there were some close calls - the boys always liked to push their luck and get a little further with me each time. I had plenty of penises rubbed against my pussy and between my buttocks … but none of them got inside me except for Hugh. Well maybe a couple of times … okay, a few times … but I made them get straight out again, and I never let them come inside me.”

“Wow!” you say. “So … what happened to Hugh?”

“Well, I went off to university, and Hugh … didn't. We wrote to each other for a while, but I was rapidly becoming the campus slut, and there wasn't much room in my life for Hugh any more.”

“Oh my God!” you exclaim, scarcely believing your ears. “So how the heck did you end up with Dad?”

“Well you know the story of course, darling - he found me passed out in a lift in one of the boys' halls of residence, and carried me back to my room. He was such a gentleman… Of course, the part of the story you haven't heard before is that I was half-naked with my panties around my ankles at the time, having just been fucked silly by a few of my male friends. God, I must have stunk. But your dad had made it his mission to reform me, and I … I don't know, he was kind of charismatic, and I knew I was out of control. He brought some much-needed structure and discipline to my life. So there you go. Your mum is an ex-slut.”

These revelations have got your head spinning. It sounds like your mother led quite an exciting life before your dad came along and spoiled it all. Your vagina is getting quite wet, imagining yourself in her position, doing all of those exciting things. And then it occurs to you that you could be just as sexy as your mother was at your age. You could do the same things she did - or similar things, at any rate. In fact, you decide that you will start this very day! Today you will…

Shower in the boys' changing rooms.

Turn up to your swimming class wearing only your panties.

“You little shit!” you exclaim, rounding on your brother. “What did you put in my panties?”

He practically doubles over with laughter as he runs out of the room clutching an empty glass jug. You pull down your panties, and grimace with disgust as you see that Steve has poured the remains of last night's custard in there. You storm downstairs into the kitchen, where you mother is making sandwiches.

“Steve dumped the custard in my panties!” you exclaim.

Your mother turns rather red, and says, “Oh dear. I told him to throw it away because we forgot to put it back in the fridge last night.”

“Aren't you going to punish him?” you demand.

She looks uncomfortable. She does not like confrontation, least of all with Steve, who gets away with murder as a result. “Oh don't be silly dear, it's just a harmless little prank. You've done worse to him, as I recall. Now hurry up, or you'll miss the bus.”

You sigh, and look at your watch. Your mother is right - the bus could arrive at any minute. You don't have time to clean up properly and put on fresh panties, so you…

Grab your school bag and head out to the bus stop with custard still in your panties.

Take off your panties, wipe your bottom with a paper towel, and go out to the bus stop.

“Hey!” you exclaim, whirling around and making a grab for Steve's camera. But he is too quick for you and runs out of the room. “What are you going to do with that?” you demand.

“Sell it at school!” he replies gleefully.

You run after him, but he locks himself in his room. A moment later, you hear his computer starting up. Scowling with annoyance, you go downstairs and find your father in the living room. “Dad, Steve just took a picture of my bottom! And he's going to sell it at school!”

Your dad clears his throat and looks rather embarrassed. “Dear me,” he says. “Well, you know, you should try to resolve these sorts of things between the two of you, don't you think?”

“No!” you reply hotly. “I think you should punish Steve!”

Your father laughs nervously. “Ahh, ah, well, um, you know, he's just … curious, you know…”

“Curious?” you exclaim in disbelief. “He's going to show my bottom to all his friends! For money!”

“Well,” says your father wretchedly, “I don't know, maybe you could make a deal with him or something?”

“A deal?” you repeat in puzzlement. “What kind of a deal?”

“Um … I don't know … offer to clean his room for him?”

“Why should I clean his fucking room?” you shout.

“Language, Zoë! Um, well, I don't know, maybe you could demand fifty percent…”

Your jaw drops in astonishment. Rolling your eyes at your father's uselessness, you turn on your heel and march out of the room. But as offended as you are, you cannot help but wonder if there might be money to be made here. After all, it is likely that many people at school today will see your panties anyway. After a moment's thought, you…

Decide to spoil Steve's plan by showing your panties to everyone at school, free of charge.

Go upstairs and offer to pose for lots of photos in exchange for fifty percent of Steve's earnings.

When nobody is looking, you hurry to the front door, open it, and slip through unnoticed. You trot to the bus stop, where a couple of people are already waiting. They stare at your panties in surprise, and one of them, a woman in her seventies, says, “Have you forgotten something, dear?”

You smile and say, “No, I just thought I'd spend the whole day like this.” When she looks rather shocked, you add, “Don't worry Mrs Beattie, I'm only joking. I accidentally left my skirt in my locker at school. As soon as I get there, I'll put it on.”

“Oh,” she says, but she does not look very reassured.

The bus arrives, and you board it, much to the consternation of the bus driver. “Hey, you can't come on board like that!” he says.

“Oh don't be silly,” you say. “I'll sit with my bag on my lap - nobody will know the difference.”

He does not look happy, but he shrugs and waves you along. You find a seat at the back as the bus sets off, and a few minutes later, you arrive at school. As you walk towards the front entrance, howls of laughter erupt all around you, and you are soon surrounded by people asking you what you are doing.

“Where's your skirt?” asks Jenny Holborn, who is in your year.

“Nice knickers!” shouts Billy French, two years below you.

A dozen other questions and taunts are fired at you, and you begin to feel slightly overwhelmed. You know that you must choose your manner of response quickly, and you try to get your brain to think clearly. Then, at last, you tell everyone around you that…

You are protesting the skirt length clause of the school's dress code, by not wearing a skirt at all.

You lost a bet with your brother.

“Oh dear!” says your father. “Well can't you wear something else - another skirt, or some jeans, or something, until you get your school skirt?”

“Jeans at school?” you say, feigning shock. “I'd get into heaps of trouble!”

“More than if you weren't wearing a skirt at all?”

“Yes!” you say firmly. “Now would you please drive me to school?”

“Well, I suppose I can … but I think you might get into trouble going in like that…”

“Let me worry about that, Dad,” you say to him.

You follow him out to the car, and climb into the passenger seat. Your dad sets off, and is soon stuck in rush hour traffic. You find yourself getting rather excited at the thought of showing up at school without a skirt, and begin to subtly rub your pussy through the front of your panties. As your arousal grows, you slip your hand inside your panties and start properly masturbating. You look up at your dad, and almost laugh when you see that he is staring fixedly ahead, with the reddest cheeks you think you have ever seen.

Abandoning all pretence at subtlety, you slouch down in your seat, spread your legs wide, and masturbate for all you are worth. You gasp and moan in pleasure as your orgasm approaches, but you keep yourself back from the brink, for now.

Your father clears his throat, and practically squeaks, “Zoë, I really don't think you should be doing that in the car, or in front of me for that matter!”

“Oh but Dad,” you whine, “I'm so horny!” You draw your knees up and rest your feet on the dashboard, then you pull your panties to one side and start sliding two fingers slowly in and out of your vagina.

“Zoë!” your father exclaims. “That's quite enough of that. Whatever has got into you?”

You are about to reply “my fingers” when suddenly there is a horrible jolt and a sound of crunching metal. You slide forward sharply, the lower part of your seatbelt catching you painfully around the ribcage. “Agh, Dad, what the hell?” you exclaim as you struggle to pull yourself back upright.

Your father is looking shocked. “Oh my God!” he whispers.

You feel rather guilty. “Sorry for distracting you, Dad.”

You stay in the car while insurance details are exchanged between your father and the driver of the car he hit, but you start to notice a funny smell, and then you notice that smoke is rising from the bonnet. “Dad!” you shout, but he does not hear you. Then smoke begins to seep into the car through the fan vents, and you begin to panic. Getting out of the car, you shout, “Dad! I think the car's on fire!”

Your father turns around, and stares in horror at the dark grey smoke now pouring thickly from the radiator at the front of the car. The other driver takes one look and says, “Run!” Then he jumps into his car and starts to drive away.

You and your father hurry to a safe distance, and then turn to watch your smoking car. A police car arrives, and parks next to you. A female policeman gets out and starts talking into her radio, reporting a car on fire. Then she turns to you and your father, and says, “What happened?” She glances at your panties, but says nothing about them.

Your father explains that he was not paying attention when he hit the car in front. The policewoman asks you why you are half-naked, and you reply that you left your skirt at school. She is not satisfied by this explanation, but fortunately at that moment a car that you recognise pulls in to the kerb.

“Aha!” says your father, relieved. “It's Mr Templeton. Perhaps he'll give you a lift to school.”

You nod. “If you'll excuse me?” you say to the policewoman.

“You're letting her go off alone with a man, looking like that?” says the policewoman sharply to your father.

Your dad replies, “Oh I think she'll be safe with Mr Templeton.”

You nod, and walk over to Mr Templeton's car, which, you can now see, contains not only Mr Templeton but also his three grown-up sons, one of whom winds down the passenger window. You bend down to peer in, and say, “Hi Mr Templeton - any chance of a lift to school?”

Mr Templeton,

Your creepy middle-aged neighbour, says delightedly, “Oooh, yes, of course - please get in!”

The minister of your local church, says, “Good heavens, child, whatever are you wearing?”

Steve heads out to the car with your mother, while you watch cautiously from upstairs. Once your mother has unlocked the car, Steve starts to climb on to the bonnet. “Steve! What are you doing? Get down from there!” says your mother, but Steve stands up and begins to gently bounce up and down, shaking the car.

You see your opportunity, and run downstairs, avoiding your father as you slip through the front door. While your mother is busy trying to get Steve to get off the car, you open one of the back doors and slide into the back seat, right behind the driver's seat. Steve grins at you and jumps down.

“Silly boy!” your mother scolds him. “Hurry up and get in. Oh look, your sister's letting you have the front seat today.”

After a short drive to your school, Steve says, “Mum, I've got something in my eye - could you take a look please?”

“Of course,” says your mother, and she leans over to examine Steve's eye.

“Bye Mum!” you say, getting out of the car.

“Bye darling,” she replies, not looking up.

You trot towards the front door of the school, accompanied by laughter and mockery. “What's happened to your skirt, Zoë?” jeers Kat Langford, an attractive but rather unpleasant girl in your year. You ignore her, but inside the building, you are immediately spotted by Mr Pringle, the headmaster.

“Zoë!” he says sternly, coming over to stand in front of you with his arms folded. “What is the meaning of this?”

You gulp nervously, but try to sound nonchalant as you reply, “I like showing off my panties, sir, so I thought I wouldn't bother with a skirt today.”

There are gasps from the boys and girls around you, but Mr Pringle's expression does not change as he says,

“Get out, Zoë - you're suspended for the day. Come back tomorrow with the proper uniform!”

“I ought to punish you, Zoë, but actually you've unwittingly anticipated our new dress code…”

Steve's eyes widen. “All right!” he says. “Wow, this is going to be so cool! Wait till I tell my friends!”

“Only if you distract Mum enough that I get to school without her noticing I'm not wearing a skirt,” you say.

“Okay,” he agrees.

A few minutes later, he heads out to the car with your mother, and pretends to stumble and fall on to the path. It is a terribly fake stumble, but fortunately he is behind your mother and she does not see it. She turns around, however, when he starts howling about how he has hurt his knee. You seize your opportunity, and sneak outside. While your mother is rolling up Steve's trouser leg, you slip into the back seat, behind the driver's seat.

“There isn't a mark on you!” says your mother.

“Well actually it doesn't feel so bad now,” admits Steve.

“Then stop wasting time and get in the car,” she says. “Look, Zoë's letting you sit in the front.”

After a short drive you reach your school, and Steve says, “Mum, do I have something in my teeth?”

“Bye Mum!” you say, and quickly get out of the car.

“Bye darling,” says your mother, without looking up from peering at Steve's teeth. “I don't see anything.”

“But I can feel it!” says Steve. “Look again.”

You hurry towards the front door of the school, quickly attracting a small crowd of astonished boys and girls. “Where's your skirt, Zoë?” exclaims Annie, your best friend.

You grin. “Decided not to wear one today,” you say.

“You'll get into loads of trouble!” says Annie.

Inside, you go to your first lesson of the day, which is Maths with Mr Gamble. He stares at you in surprise as you enter his classroom. “Miss Sterling, wherever is your skirt?” he asks.

“At home,” you reply impishly, before taking your seat.

“Um… oh,” says Mr Gamble, looking rather nonplussed. “Well, um, I suppose I should really send you to the headmaster…”

“Please don't, sir,” you say. “I'll wear a skirt tomorrow, I promise. Let me stay - I don't want to miss anything. You're such a great teacher.”

Mr Gamble looks rather flattered. “Hmm, well, I suppose one of your other teachers will send you to Mr Pringle… All right, you can stay.”

“Wow, I can't believe you got away with that!” whispers Annie to you, as Mr Gamble starts teaching.

“Neither can I!” you reply. “I don't suppose I'll be so lucky in my next lesson, though…”

But in fact, by using similar tactics in your other lessons,

You make it all the way to your fifth lesson before you get sent to the headmaster.

You make it right through the day without getting into any trouble at all!

You grimace as you reach into the fat man's underpants, your fingers sliding between sweaty folds of skin until you reach an object that, you realise with disgust, is the man's penis. There are other, harder objects in there too, which you immediately conclude are cockroaches. You pull out as many of them as you can find, and then go back for more. You find the man's penis again - it is now hard, though rather small despite that. You find yourself feeling a little sorry for him - you don't imagine he has a girlfriend, or will ever find one. After hesitating for a moment, you…

Close your hand around his erection, and start to stroke it up and down.

Reach back between his buttocks to find more roaches.

The man grins. “I would if I could reach.”

You imagine him trying to reach around his enormous flabby belly to put his hand into his underpants, and you shudder in disgust. “Well I'm sorry,” you say, “but putting my hands into men's underwear was definitely not a part of the job description.

The man's grin broadens. Then…

He says, “I was only joking. I'll go to my bedroom and keep out of your way.”

His entire body starts to change, right before your very eyes…

You crawl underneath the bed, but instead of running away from you, the roaches swarm all over you, even in your hair and on your face. They soon find their way underneath your t-shirt, and then into your bra. Meanwhile some of the roaches in your jeans have been pushing beneath the elastic of your panties, and you can feel them moving against your pussy. Then you gasp as one of them starts to crawl inside you. Another roach crawls into your open mouth, and you spit it out. This is a horrible situation…

And in a panic, you crawl out from under the bed, and start stripping off all your clothes.

But you decide that you rather like the feeling of the roach crawling around in your vagina…

You tuck your t-shirt into your jeans, and then start to gather up handfuls of cockroaches, pulling open the neck of your top and dropping the roaches inside. There are a great many of the horrid creatures, and after ten minutes of catching roaches, your t-shirt is bulging with them. You can feel that some of them have crawled into your bra, and are squirming against your bare breasts. Meanwhile, yet more roaches have been scuttling up inside your jeans, and many of those have now found their way inside your panties. You can feel them crawling between your buttocks, and against your pussy. Then you gasp as one of them starts to crawl into your vagina. You hurriedly stick your hand down inside your jeans and into your panties, and reach for the cockroach … but it has disappeared inside you. You shudder with disgust,

Run through to the other room, and ask Dan if he will help you get it out.

And make a mental note to empty your vagina of cockroaches when you get home this evening.

You climb up the ladder, acutely aware of Liam's eyes looking up your miniskirt. The thought that he can see your panties, stretched tightly across your most intimate areas, is quite arousing, and you feel yourself getting quite wet. But then you are at the top of the ladder, and you realise that there is quite a loud noise of scuttling insects up here.

“Light switch on your right,” says Liam.

You fumble around for the switch, and find it. As the rather dim light comes on, you gasp at the sight of a seething carpet of cockroaches covering the floor of the attic, which has been only partially finished. A cockroach drops on to your head, and you shriek and brush it off. Then you…

Say, “Okay, I've seen enough,” and go back downstairs to report to Dan.

Start crawling across the carpet of roaches to investigate further.

Liam heads up the ladder and disappears into the attic, switching on the light when he gets up there. You follow nervously, and gasp as you get to the top and see a seething carpet of cockroaches stretching from one side of the attic to the other. They are already crawling up Liam's legs - he is stamping his feet and swatting at them constantly to prevent them from climbing past his knees.

“Come on in,” says Liam. “I don't want to stay up here any longer than necessary, but I just want to show you where they seem to be coming from.”

As you reluctantly climb into the attic and stand up, cockroaches drop on to your head and back from the sloping ceiling, and you shriek and flick them off. But more are swarming up your legs, and though you try to get rid of as many as possible, some are soon crawling up under your skirt and on to your panties. Others climb over your skirt and up your tank-top, dropping into your cleavage or crawling inside via the armholes. You keep trying to get them out, but they keep coming, and your clothing is making it hard to get at them. Rather reluctantly, you…

Decide that the effort is futile, and let the cockroaches crawl wherever they want.

Strip down to your panties, so you can keep your body as free of roaches as possible.

Clothes and cockroaches fly everywhere as you frantically strip off your tank-top, miniskirt, bra, panties, shoes and socks in front of Liam, Dan, and the astonished television crew. You stick two fingers into your vagina and fortunately catch a cockroach before it gets too deep inside you. “Sorry!” you wail. “They were getting everywhere! I couldn't take it any more.” Now feeling rather foolish and exposed, you cover your breasts and pussy with your arms.

Bob clears his throat. “Well, um, this should make the program interesting…”

You suddenly realise that one of the camera crew is filming you with a Steadycam. You also realise that you can feel movement inside your vagina - apparently more than one cockroach managed to get inside you. You shudder in horror, and…

Say, “Dan! There's a cockroach inside me - please get it out!”

Subtly insert two fingers into your vagina and hold it open in the hope that the roach will leave.

Dan grins. “Sorry,” he said. “Must have slipped my mind. Surely you don't mind being on television, though? On Blue Peter, no less!”

You shudder as the cockroach in your vagina crawls deeper, and another one starts to push its way inside. The skin over your entire body feels like it is crawling - there must be at least a thousand cockroaches on you now. Several are in your hair, and one runs down your forehead and perches on the bridge of your nose. You flick it off, and notice with discomfort that you are already being filmed by a man with a Steadycam.

“Okay,” says Bob. “Well let's get started. Dan, perhaps we could begin with a short piece to camera.”

The equipment is set up, and Dan is filmed describing his work and the operation of his PestVac. You stand off to one side, feeling rather uncomfortable while more and more cockroaches crawl up your legs and tuck themselves away beneath your clothing. Your white silk panties are becoming so full of the insects that they are sagging almost down to the level of your skirt's hemline. There are now at least half a dozen roaches inside you, and more are forcing their way in all the time. One plucky individual is even trying to push through your anal sphincter into your rectum.

Dan finishes his piece to camera, and Bob turns to you. “You're a pretty little thing,” he says with a smile. “Let's get some footage of you. What is it that you do, exactly?”

“This is her first day,” says Dan. “She's my assistant - she'll be flushing out the roaches from their hiding places so that I can suck them up with my PestVac.”

“I see,” says Bob, nodding. “Well Zoë, if you wouldn't mind describing that for the camera, and then actually doing it…?”

The main camera is set up in front of you, and you fidget nervously until Bob gives you a signal. Then you say, “Hi, I'm Zoë, and I'm Dan's assistant. My job is to flush the cockroaches or other pests out from their hiding places so that he can collect them with his PestVac.” And then you add,

“Rather like this,” and get down on your hands and knees to check beneath the sofa.

“But I never imagined I'd have to deal with anything this bad. I'm out of here!”

Justine, looking rather anxious, leads you down into cellar, where the hiss of swarming cockroaches is surprisingly loud. The entire floor of the cellar is seething with a carpet of roaches, and as Justine gingerly steps down among them, they immediately start scuttling up her bare legs. Within seconds they are crawling over her panties, and even trying to get inside. Justine shrieks and swats at them, her breasts bouncing wildly as she flaps her arms. After watching her for a moment, you…

Tell Justine you will wait here while she demonstrates the extent of the infestation.

Step down on to the roach carpet, put an arm around Justine, and tell her to just relax.

Justine shows you to the cellar door, but that is as far as she will go. You start down the steps, switching on a rather dim light that illuminates what appears to be a moving carpet covering the floor of the cellar. As you reach the bottom of the steps, you see that the carpet consists of a thick mat of cockroaches, all climbing over each other and seeming very busy, though you cannot tell what exactly they are doing.

Then the door behind you clicks shut, and locks. “Hey!” you cry, running back up the steps and pounding on the door. “Open this door!” But there is no response. “What the hell?” you demand. “Stop messing around - open this door!”

But no amount of shouting or pounding does any good. After ten minutes, your hands are sore. It occurs to you that perhaps Justine and Dan are in collusion, and their plan all along was to trick you into coming down here. But to what purpose? It would probably not be a good idea to wait to find out. You think hard for a minute, and then…

Go down the steps and search the cellar for another exit.

Stiffen with fear as you hear a disgusting squelching sound coming from somewhere below.

You slide your hand down inside the front of Justine's panties, and find yourself cupping a newly-shaved pussy. Cockroaches scuttle around your hand as Justine parts her legs and leans back, giving you easier access to her nether regions. You press your middle finger between Justine's labia, and slide it downwards until your fingertip reaches her vaginal opening. You curl your finger and push it in slightly, which makes Justine gasp. She clutches your arm with both hands, and closes her eyes. The message is obvious, but as you slide your finger deeper inside her, she murmurs, “I don't think you'll find any cockroaches in there…”

You are not at all sure about this. Already the cockroaches in your own panties are beginning to find their way into your vagina - you can feel at least two of them crawling over your g-spot as they head for your cervix. But so far you have not encountered any in Justine's vagina. Withdrawing your finger a couple of inches, you…

Trap a cockroach in your fingers and push it into Justine's vagina.

Kiss Justine on the lips as you start to finger-fuck her in earnest.

Justine bites her lip nervously at this suggestion, but then she nods. “I suppose you're right,” she says. She hooks her thumbs into the sides of her panties, and pulls them all the way down her legs, and off. She shakes several cockroaches out of them, then she leans back along the length of the sofa, and says, “I think … I think there may be some inside me. Would you mind checking?”

You smirk a little. You suspect that Justine is correct - already you can feel some of the roaches in your panties trying to get inside you - but this naked young woman no longer seems particularly bothered about the roaches climbing over her belly and breasts. Her real motives are painfully transparent…

But you decide to play along, and reach for her shaved pussy as she spreads her legs.

But you decide to have a little fun with her, and tell her to pull her vagina open so you can look.

Frozen in terror, you watch helplessly as the earwigs scurry all over your t-shirt and shorts. Dozens of them pour into the loose-fitting neckline, while others find their way up your shorts. You gasp as you feel some of them sneaking under the elastic leg-bands of your panties, and crawling over your pussy lips and between your buttocks. Many others are swarming into the cups of your bra, and your nipples tingle as they are brushed by earwig bodies.

Your father comes over. “Are you all right?” he asks. Then he notices all of the earwigs. “Crumbs!” he exclaims. “That's a lot of earwigs!”

“They're … they're inside my clothes!” you wail in distress. Then you add…

“They're even in my panties - please stop them from going inside me!”

“I'm afraid to move in case they start pinching me with their pincers!”

You flap your t-shirt wildly, which succeeds in flinging most of the earwigs off your t-shirt, but a lot of them land on your thighs and fall or scurry up your shorts. You feel them crawling over your panties, and even trying to get inside. Frantically you unzip your shorts and pull them off, then you brush off as many earwigs as you can see, while your father looks over in amusement. “Oh Zoë,” he says, “they're just harmless little things. Anyone would think you'd run into a wasps' nest!”

The earwigs all scuttle off to dark corners, leaving you alone. Knowing that there could be other nasty surprises, however, you decide that your baggy shorts provide too tempting a refuge for nervous earwigs, and leave them off. As you peer at the rest of the items in the cardboard box, you hope that no other nasty surprises await you. Fortunately you do not discover anything, and you move on to the next box. Unfortunately there is something very nasty indeed waiting for you inside this box. As you open it…

Large cockroaches pour out of it, swarming up your arms and legs with surprising speed.

You are horrified to find it full of large, squirming maggots.

In a panic, you scream at your father to come and help you, but although he rushes to the eaves as fast as he can, it is far too late - you wince as your vagina is stretched wide open by the rat that is forcing its way inside you. It crawls deep, and then begins to force its snout into your cervix as a second rat, its hind legs flailing, grimly hauls its upper body into your vagina behind the first rat. You grimace in pain as your cervix is dilated wide enough for the first rat to crawl through it into your womb.

Your father arrives, and says, “I can't see a thing!”

“Quick!” you say urgently. “There are already two rats inside me - one's way deep, but try to get the other one out!”

Your father gingerly slides his hand up one leg of your shorts, but he is too tentative and too slow, and the second rat tucks its tail inside, out of the way, as it tries to follow the first rat through your cervix and into your womb. A third rat starts trying to get into your vagina, but your father stops it.

“Come on!” he says. “Let's get out of here.”

You both back out of the eaves, and head down the ladder. You clutch your abdomen, feeling rather sick. “Dad, get them out of me, please!”

“What's going on?” demands your mother, running up the stairs.

“Zoë was attacked by rats,” says your father. “She thinks two of them may have got … inside her…”

Your mother stares at you in shock. “Oh my God!” she exclaims. “Quick - get her to the hospital!”

“No!” you gasp, feeling movement in the recesses of your vagina. “They'll think I put them up there deliberately!”

“That's probably true,” admits your father. “Whoever heard of rats intentionally invading a woman's … personal … space…?”

“Well we have to do something!” says your mother.

“I think,” you say, “I think they're coming out…”

Indeed, you can feel one of the rats crawling out of your vagina now. It emerges into your panties, and claws its way back between your buttocks, where it curls up and goes to sleep. A moment later, the second rat slithers out of your vagina. It curls up against your labia, then it, too, falls asleep.

“They're out,” you say in relief. But then you feel a subtle squirming deep inside you - within your womb. With a growing sense of horror, it occurs to you that perhaps the two adult rats gave birth to lots of little baby rats while they were in your womb. You turn to your parents and say…

“I think the rats may have implanted lots of rat babies in my womb!”

“Well this has been quite traumatic - I think I'll go to bed if you don't mind.”

You hurriedly shove your hand down the front of your shorts, into your panties, and clamp it tightly over your vaginal opening. This seems to enrage the rats, and they start biting you all over. You squeal and shriek and flap at them with one hand, but there is not much you can do to defend yourself, with one hand covering your pussy. Fortunately your father arrives and, despite the darkness, does a pretty good job of sending the rats packing. But there are still a great many rats underneath your clothing, including five or six that are actually inside your panties, just waiting for you to move your hand.

“Come on Zoë,” says your father. “I didn't expect this to happen, and I'm certainly not going to subject you to any more of this nightmare. Come on out of the eaves - then you can go downstairs and shower, or whatever you want.”

You back out of the eaves after your father, manoeuvring awkwardly with one hand still clamped against your pussy. The rats in your panties start biting your hand in an attempt to persuade you to move it. You put up with this only as long as it takes for you to get out of the eaves, then you…

Say, “Dad, get these rats out of my panties, quickly!”

Remove your hand from your shorts, and keep quiet about the rats in your panties.

Your hopes dashed, you can do nothing but sit and wait. More spiders come over to you, insert something deep into your vagina, and squirt fluid into your womb. You shudder to think why they are doing this. Other spiders do the same thing to your mother, but they leave your father and brother alone.

Hours pass, and no rescue appears. Your father says that come Monday morning, when he is missed at work, and you are missed at school, the police will come looking for everyone. But this is only Saturday afternoon, so you could potentially be here for another two days. As the afternoon turns to evening, with nothing to do and no way even to move, you drift off to sleep.

When you awake, you feel different, somehow. You look across at your mother, and are astonished to see that her belly is bulging hugely, as if she is in the late stages of pregnancy. It takes you only a moment to realise that your own belly is in the same condition. You struggle with renewed vigour, but it is hopeless.

“Hang in there, Zoë,” says your father.

“Easy for you to say!” you snap back at him.

A couple of hours later, you are groaning in pain as your belly reaches gigantic proportions. It is now the size of a large beach ball - way larger than a normal pregnant belly. Your mother's is the same way, and she is whimpering with discomfort. Then you gasp as something inside you shifts towards your vaginal opening, which then begins to expand as something tries to pass through it. You grit your teeth and push, but just as the pain is becoming more intense, it abates suddenly as the object slips out of you. A few seconds later, another object slips out the same way.

Then your mother, too, begins to give birth. As the first object pops out of her, you see that it is an egg, pearly white and about the size of an orange. Another one follows soon afterward, and for the next hour or so, both you and she continue to produce more and more eggs, until they are practically filling the floor space between you and the other members of your family. By the time the last egg has emerged from your vagina, you estimate that there must be at least a thousand of them.

“Shit, they're hatching!” exclaims your brother.

Sure enough, the eggs are beginning to break open, and large spiders are emerging. After flexing their legs and orienting themselves, they…

Scuttle away into the dark corners of the attic, and disappear from view.

Scuttle over to your brother and father, and, to your horror, begin to eat them.

“Okay,” says your father, “I just dialled 999… Hello! Yes, my name is Trevor Sterling. I'm afraid I'm trapped in my attic along with my entire family. My daughter's unconscious - please come quickly!” He gives the operator your address, and then hangs up. “Didn't want to mention the spiders,” he says, “in case they thought it was a hoax.”

This is very sensible of him, although you can't help thinking that the police and ambulance people ought to be warned about what they will be facing. You hope they hurry - another spider has just inserted something deep inside you, and squirted more fluid into your womb. As it pulls out and scuttles away from you, another takes its place, and more are waiting behind that one.

Twenty minutes later, you hear voices downstairs. By this time at least three dozen spiders have squirted some kind of liquid into your womb, and you dread to think what it is.

“Up here!” yells your father. Thudding footsteps approach, and then you hear the rungs on the ladder creaking. “Be very careful as you come up here!” he calls out. “There are large, venomous spiders here.”

“Jesus!” exclaims a man who has just stuck his head up through the opening. “You're not kidding!”

“I hope you'll understand why I didn't mention that on the phone - you might not have come,” says your father. “We're all bound up with spiders' webs, and the spiders have been doing unspeakable things to my wife and daughter. So if you wouldn't mind freeing us, we'd be grateful! Just be warned - their bite seems to induce a deep sleep.”

“I think we need reinforcements,” says the man on the ladder. “I'll call for backup and some specialist equipment.”

Your hopes for immediate rescue fade, and more spiders come over to have their evil way with you. After another hour, you hear the rescuers ascending the ladder again, and this time they come right up into the attic, wearing protective yellow suits. Spiders immediately jump all over them, but they hurry over to your mother and start pulling at the web that is binding her. It is obviously strong, springy stuff, because it is a couple of minutes before they manage to pull her free. By this time, your own bonds are being cut, and you are picked up and carried towards the hatch. You feel weak … and rather strange somehow.

Ten minutes later, your entire family is downstairs in the living room. The hatchway into the attic has been shut, and any spiders falling through it have been ruthlessly dealt with. You and your mother are now wrapped up in dressing gowns, your clothes having been mostly eaten away by the spiders. You could not help noticing that both of you appear to be pregnant.

You are taken to the hospital, where an ultrasound confirms your fears: you are indeed pregnant, with what looks like several hundred eggs. The doctor tells you that they appear to be growing at a rapid rate, which is not much of a surprise to you since your belly has already swelled to the size of a football. You ask him if the eggs can be removed, and the doctor replies…

That the operation has already been planned, and the anaesthesiologist will be along shortly.

That it would be safer to let nature take its course.

You start to open up and look through cardboard boxes, but the cockroaches crawling all over you are quite distracting. Hundreds of them are now under your dress, and some of them are sneaking into your bra and panties. You close your eyes and shiver at the sensations of roach bodies scraping over your nipples and clitoris. The roaches seem particularly attracted to your panties, which soon become quite full of the scuttling creatures. But then you gasp as one bold cockroach starts to push its head into your vagina. As exciting as this experience is proving, you are a little nervous about the thought of cockroaches actually crawling around inside you. You hike up your dress and slip your hand down the front of your panties, and manage to catch the cockroach before it fully enters you. But then, whether because the cockroach releases some kind of chemical, or for some other reason, the roaches in your panties start to determinedly try to force their way past your fingers and into your vagina. You shriek in alarm and clamp your fingers tightly over your vaginal opening…

But cannot prevent the cockroaches from slipping through your fingers.

And manage to keep the cockroaches out until your father returns.

You hike up your dress and tug your panties down, exposing several inches of your buttock cleavage. Cockroaches immediately swarm into the gap, and you shiver as they crawl between your buttocks and then forward over your labia and into the front of your panties. Within half a minute, your panties are bulging with a seething mass of roaches, some of which begin to push their way into your vagina. You moan softly as their hard bodies scrape over your clitoris and, inside you, over your g-spot. Elsewhere, the roaches are covering your whole body beneath your dress, and your bra cups are full of them.

For the next few minutes you writhe in pleasure, feeling your vagina filling up with cockroaches. Some of them are even forcing their way into your anus and scuttling around in your rectum, creating very strange sensations. Then you hear your father coming back up the ladder, and you quickly pull your dress down. It does not fully cover your bulging panties, however, so you quickly turn towards the ladder. When your father appears, he immediately notices the hundreds of cockroaches crawling on your dress, and on your arms and legs, and in your hair.

“Good grief!” he exclaims. “Zoë, I'm so sorry! I had no idea they would climb all over you. I'm sorry I was so long - after I spoke to the exterminator, your friend Florence called - she was hoping you could go over there this morning. I told her you were busy, but now I don't think I have the heart to keep you here! You'd better go outside and shake off all of those cockroaches. And we'll postpone cleaning out the attic until the exterminator's been.”

You smile at your father, and reply,

“No, it's okay Dad - they're not hurting me. Let's get this job done.”

“Thanks Dad. I'll go and get these roaches off me, then go and see Florence, if that's okay.”

“Zoë,” says your father gently, “that's not a very ladylike way to climb a ladder…”

You blush. “I thought you might enjoy the view,” you say. “I know you've been under a lot of stress lately - I just wanted to do something for you.”

“But you're my daughter!” says your father uncomfortably.

“So?” you reply obstinately. “A pussy is a pussy, Dad, and I know you like upskirt photos. I've seen your collection on the computer.”

Your father gasps. “What were you doing snooping around on my computer?”

“I had to borrow it for my homework when mine wasn't working. Mum said I could. And your little porn collection was … well it was right there!”

“Oh God!” groans your father. “I'm so sorry, Zoë - you shouldn't have seen that.”

“Don't worry about it Dad! I don't mind. You're a wonderful dad, and I love you to bits. And if I can give you a little bit of pleasure by flashing my panties for you, then I'm happy to do that.”

Your father sighs. “It's just wrong, though! I can't deny it's a pretty sight, but it's wrong!”

“Dad,” you say, “never mind what society tells you is right or wrong. This is between the two of us. Now reach up my dress and cup my pussy with your hand, and then we'll go on up into the attic and start the day's work.”

Your father sighs again, then…

Says, “Thank you for the lovely view, which I can't resist looking at … but I won't touch you.”

He reaches up, cups your pussy with his hand, and begins to rub it gently through your panties.

“Lovely,” breathes your father, and you feel his fingers rubbing your pussy through your panties. Then he pulls your panties aside, and slides two fingers into your vagina as you gasp with pleasure. Then he starts to pull your panties down, and you let him take them off. He puts them into his pocket, and says, “Go on up, honey.”

You obediently go up into the dark attic, and lie down on your back, spreading your legs for your father. But you are puzzled by the texture of the floor - rather moist and squelchy. Then you shriek as something touches your bare thigh. Your father switches the light on, and his jaw drops. “Good grief!” he exclaims.

You turn your head, and gasp at the sight of thousands of black and brown creatures that look like worms, which are slithering about or else 'walking' across the floor with arching movements of their bodies. You start to sit up, but your father pushes you back down.

“Don't worry about them,” he says, unzipping his trousers and pulling out his erection. He lies on top of you and, having positioned his penis appropriately, thrusts deep inside you. You shiver at the familiar sensation of his thick erection filling your vagina, and you grip his shaft by clenching your vaginal muscles. But the worms all around and underneath you are starting to freak you out.

“Dad!” you whimper. “I'm lying on hundreds of worms! What are they?”

“Don't know, and don't care,” he grunts, fumbling to unbutton your dress while he fucks you. Then, to your horror, he starts picking up handfuls of worms and stuffing them into both cups of your bra. “Hehe,” he chuckles.

The sensation of the worms writhing against your nipples is disgusting, but also strangely arousing. You try to ignore the worms, even when you realise that some of them are wriggling through your hair, and wait for your father to come inside you. It does not take long.

“Ohhhhh God!” he groans, as he climaxes and pumps you full of his sperm. “Hehe - I think I'll fill your cunt with these worms now.”

You shudder, and decide that this is probably a good time to tell him…

That you came off the pill weeks ago, and just discovered that you are pregnant with his baby.

That you think these creatures might be blood-sucking leeches.

You chuckle at your parents' reactions to your state of undress, and take your place at the breakfast table. Your brother Steve snorts with laughter. “I think you forgot to put your clothes on!” he remarks wittily. You give him a withering look, and pour out your cereal.

Having eaten and then brushed your teeth, you head up into the attic with your father. It has been a long time since anyone was up here, and you are not sure what you will find. Both of you are very surprised, however, when your father switches the light on, illuminating…

Thousands of little white eggs covering every available surface.

A cavern with glistening walls and slime dripping from the ceiling.

“Hi Mum, hi Steve,” you say as you pass the two of them on your way to the breakfast table. Steve stops spanking your mother just long enough to whack your bottom with his ruler, then he turns back to your mother and slides his hand between her legs.

Your father is already sitting at the table. He looks up and grins at you. “Nice outfit!” he says. He unzips his trousers and takes out his erection. “Come and sit on my lap, darling.”

You straddle his lap, facing him, and kiss him on the lips as you pull your panties to one side and lower your vagina on to his penis. It sinks deep inside you as your tongue wrestles with your father's, and you begin to bounce up and down on his lap. After ten minutes of this your legs are getting tired, but then your father groans as his semen spurts inside you.

“Thank you Daddy,” you say as you climb off him. You give him a lingering kiss, then you pull the gusset of your panties back across your pussy.

Steve comes over to the table just as you are sitting down to eat, and he reaches over your shoulders to squeeze and massage your breasts. He is quite rough, and you wince a couple of times, but you know better than to complain. Eventually he gets bored and sits down, whereupon he says, “Mum! Come and give me a blowjob while I'm eating.”

Your mother dutifully trots over, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, and she crawls underneath the table. A moment later, Steve begins to breathe more rapidly as his erection is expertly sucked.

Once you have finished eating, you go back upstairs and brush your teeth. Then your father opens up the hatch that leads into the attic, pulls down the ladder, and you follow him up. But when he switches the light on, your father gasps at the sight of millions of ants swarming all over everything. “Jesus!” he exclaims.

“Oh my God!” you say. “Are those ants? They're huge! What kind are they?”

“No idea,” says your father. He grabs one of the ants and examines it. It is almost an inch in length, mostly reddish-brown in colour, with darker brown patches on its head and at the tip of its abdomen. “They look like biters. I'm buggered if I'm going to stay up here and get eaten alive.” He follows you back down the ladder.

“So what now?” you ask.

Your father looks puzzled. “Well the attic still needs to be cleaned out, Zoë. Get on up there and do it!”

Your eyes widen. “But … the ants!”

“You'll just have to put up with them,” he says. “Oh, and take off your panties before you go back up there.”

“No!” you exclaim. “I don't want to be eaten alive!”

“They won't literally eat you alive,” your father snaps. “They might bite and sting you a bit, that's all. But don't be a wimp - I want you to stay up there until the job's done. In fact, I'll lock the hatch once you're up there, and I won't open it for two hours! By that time, you should have got the job done. And if you haven't, you'll be punished severely!”

“No!” you cry, tears coming to your eyes. “Don't make me go up there, Daddy!”

But he is unmoved. “Get your panties off, and get up there!” he shouts at you. “Or else get out of this house, and don't even think about coming back!”

You stare up at the hatch in mounting panic. Then, with a sob, you…

Run downstairs to the front door, and leave the house in just your panties.

Take off your panties and climb up the ladder, naked, into the ant-infested attic.

You hurry upstairs and grab the first top that comes to hand, which just happens to be a cut-off t-shirt that stops just below your breasts, and then you run back downstairs and out through the front door. But you stop in your tracks at the sight of what you can only describe as a flying saucer - a broad, slowly-spinning, round, metallic object that is about the size of a football stadium and is hovering right above your street.

Hundreds of long tentacles are hanging down from it, and they are grabbing people as they try to flee screaming. You look for your parents, but can only see Steve. He turns towards you and shouts, “Get back inside! Mum and Dad got grabbed!” He starts to run towards you, but one of the tentacles grabs him around the waist and he is hauled skyward, struggling.

“Steve!” you scream, running out into the street and staring up at his receding form.

“Zoë!” cries a familiar voice. You turn around, and see your friend Florence Byerly beckoning to you. She and her family are getting into their car. Her father is trying to push her into the back seat, but she cries out, “Zoë, come with us!”

You run towards Florence as fast as your legs will carry you…

But then a tentacle grabs you around the waist and you are pulled upwards.

And climb into the back seat after her.

You run outside, your breasts bouncing wildly, and then stop in your tracks at the sight of what you can only describe as a huge flying saucer which is hovering over your street. It is about the size of a football stadium, and hundreds of tentacles are dangling down from it, extending all the way to the ground. As people flee in terror, the tentacles are picking them up and carrying them upwards into the saucer.

You run over to join Steve and your parents, who are trying to get into the car. But your father is checking his pockets in vain for his keys. “They must be inside!” he yells. Then he screams as a tentacle comes out of nowhere and grabs him around the waist.

“Trevor!” your mother wails as your father is carried upwards. But then another tentacle grabs her, and she too is hauled away screaming and kicking her legs.

“Come on!” says Steve, and he starts to run down the street.

“We have to save Mum and Dad!” you shout after him.

“What can we do?” he demands. “The army will have to sort it out. We just need to get out of here, now!”

“What can the army do,” you cry, “except blow it up? If they succeed or fail in that, either way, we've lost Mum and Dad!”

“Well I don't intend to be lost along with them!” exclaims Steve. “Come ON, Zoë!”

You are torn, but after a few seconds' hesitation,

You run after Steve.

You run towards the nearest tentacle.

Lester gasps and ducks to avoid the thong, but it hits him squarely in the cheek. Now naked, you stand proudly in front of him and say, “I can be naked in my own house if I want! Can't I, Dad?”

“Yes, indeed you can, Zoë,” says your father soothingly. “Now why don't you sit back down and eat your breakfast? Lester, if you can't handle Zoë's nudity, perhaps you should leave.”

“I believe I shall!” says Lester, getting to his feet. He pauses on his way to the door, and turns. “I shall be praying for all of you!”

Once he has left, your mother sighs. “Great,” she says. “Thanks a lot, you two.”

“What?” says your father, aggrieved. “I'm not going to apologise for my daughter's free-spiritedness.”

“Well perhaps you should, once in a while,” says your mother. “Zoë will get herself into real trouble one of these days if she's not careful.”

“She's a smart girl and can take care of herself,” says your father firmly. “She knows not to wander around the streets in the nude, don't you Zoë?”

“Exactly,” you say. “But in this house, I don't see the harm in it.”

Your mother sighs. “All right, all right,” she says. “I just wish you hadn't upset poor Lester. He's been very kind to us.”

“This is true,” admits your father. “Well, I'll make it up to him.”

After breakfast, you head up into the attic with your father. It is filthy, and you jump as a huge silverfish dashes across the floor and disappears behind a cardboard box. “Wow Dad,” you say, rather nervously. “Have you ever seen a silverfish that big?”

“No, I missed it,” he says. “How big was it?”

“Like, three inches long, maybe?” you guess.

Your father chuckles. “No silverfish are that big,” he says. “The biggest they get is about an inch.”

“I know what I saw, Dad!” you insist.

“All right darling,” he says. “Let's see if we can find the little bugger then. Or big bugger, rather.”

You crawl over to the cardboard box and, rather nervously, peer around the back of it. You suddenly realise that in this position, your father can no doubt see everything from your labia to your anus, but he is much too nice and wonderful a man to say anything about it. You move the box, and at once an entire swarm of huge silverfish erupts out of the top of the box, scuttling with incredible speed in every direction. Some of them crawl up your arms and over your back, descending over or between your buttocks, looking for a place to hide. You gasp as one of them pushes its way into your vagina.

“Dad!” you say urgently.

“I can see them!” says your father. “Wow, those things are huge! But they're definitely silverfish - probably an undiscovered species!”

“Yes but Dad…”

“Yes, I saw one of them go inside you,” says your father. “Hmm, I can't imagine it'll like it much inside you. It'll probably come out soon enough of its own accord. And I don't suppose it'll do you any harm in the meantime.”

You bite your lip anxiously, and say,

“All right Dad - if you say so.”

“All the same … would you mind having a go at getting it out?”

Feeling thoroughly annoyed, and hungry but too stubborn to return to the kitchen and get some food, you open the attic hatch and pull down the ladder. You climb up into the attic and switch the light on, then gasp at the sight of thousands of slimy objects covering just about every surface in the room. Closer examination reveals them to be slugs, of a dark brown and particularly large variety. The air up here is warm and humid, and you are soon glad to be wearing so little, but as you crawl towards a stack of boxes, carefully avoiding squishing any of the slugs, you wonder how it has got this way, and what the slugs are finding to eat.

You have assumed two things about these slugs, however, that are quickly proved wrong. Firstly, that they will recoil at your touch, and secondly, that their top speed is a rather slow crawl. In fact, they seem energised by your presence, and quickly start swarming towards you. They glide up your knees and thighs, over the backs of your legs, and up your arms, before you have a chance to react. You shriek and try to pull them off, but they stick like glue to your skin and you have a great deal of trouble prying them loose. By the time you do succeed in getting one off and throwing it away, several dozen are slithering over you. One of them plunges between your labia, sliding slimily over your clitoris, and two others are making their way between your buttocks. Others are on your chest, and you shiver as one envelops your left nipple. Then you gasp - one of the slugs is oozing into your vagina! Your micro-thong providing little to no protection, it quickly disappears inside you, though you frantically try to stop it. You stick two fingers into your vagina, but they cannot grip the slug's slimy body. A second later, another slug pushes into your vaginal opening, and although you try to grab it, it too slips through your fingers and is soon deep inside you.

You try to prevent more slugs from entering you, but as more and more of them slither up your thighs from the floor, your entire body gradually becomes covered with the slimy molluscs. Your large breasts are sagging lower than usual under the weight of at least a dozen slugs each, and more are crawling over each other in their eagerness to join them. Whether or not your nipples are secreting something undetectable that is attracting the slugs, you have no idea, but your breasts seem to be acting like catnip to the horrible creatures.

Your thong suddenly falls to the floor, and you stare at it in puzzlement. Its sides appear to have been cut, and you cannot help thinking that the slugs must have eaten through the elastic. But why?

Another time, that might be an interesting question, but you have more pressing concerns. Your attempts to prevent more slugs from getting inside you are proving fruitless, and your vagina is quickly filling up with squirming bodies. At this point, giving up on your hopeless efforts to control the situation, you…

Crawl over to the hatch and climb down the stairs to get help from your parents.

Lie down, spread your legs, and let the slugs do whatever they want.

You purse your lips, and then you gather up the skirts of your long dress, and pull them up around your waist, exposing your panties to the whole classroom of excited teenage boys. One or two of them start to massage their crotches through their trousers. As the boys nearest to you gather round to look in the back of your panties, you pull the waistband away from your bottom, and twist your torso so that you can see whatever it is that you can feel wriggling against your buttock. Unfortunately, as you pull the waistband further back, the wriggling object drops down between your buttocks, and you have to lower your panties even more, until your entire bottom is exposed. At this point the object rolls back into the seat of your panties, and into view.

It is a maggot. Not a mealworm; just a plain, ordinary maggot, albeit a large one. Your cheeks turn red as you realise you have been tricked.

“See, Miss?” says Alan gleefully, pulling it out and showing it to you. “It's not a mealworm. It's just a maggot. You lose the bet!”

“You tricked me!” you accuse him as you pull your panties back up and let your dress drop down.

“Doesn't matter!” he says with a broad grin. “Now I get to shove this handful of mealworms in your panties.”

“No!” you exclaim hotly. “That's not fair, I…”

“Did you or did you not agree to the bet?” asks Alan politely.

Your shoulders slump in defeat. “Yes,” you admit sullenly.

“And did you win the bet?”

“No,” you reply with a sigh.

“And what was the agreed-upon consequence for losing the bet?”

“For you to put mealworms in my panties,” you say miserably.

“Then hold your panties open for me, and let's get this over with,” says Alan.

You reluctantly gather up your dress around your waist again. Then you start to pull open the back of your panties, but Alan shakes his head. “No,” he says, “in the front I think.”

You glare at him…

And say, “Don't push your luck. In the back, or you and I go straight to the headmaster.”

But pull open the front of your panties, just a little so that he won't be able to see much.

“Hey, but you already agreed to the deal!” protests Alan as you march towards the door. You ignore him and fling the door open, then you hurry down the corridor towards the staff toilets.

Inside, you lock the door and then gather up your dress around your waist. You reach into your panties, and find the wriggling object. It is a maggot. The blood drains from your cheeks as you realise that Alan has tricked you. You bet him that he put a mealworm in your panties, and now it seems he did not. But how can you let him put a handful of mealworms in your panties? The idea is ridiculous … and yet … strangely you find yourself becoming a little aroused at the thought. Here in the safety of the toilet, you let your imagination run riot, and begin to masturbate as you imagine Alan filling your panties with mealworms. But there is no time to bring yourself to orgasm, and you force yourself to stop masturbating.

Now feeling very horny and frustrated, you return to the classroom and find the boys all looking at you expectantly. Your nerve almost fails you, but then you clear your throat, and say, “Well, it seems I lost the bet. Apparently I can't tell the difference between a mealworm and a maggot. I'm rather ashamed about that, actually. Alan, you should…

Go ahead and put that handful of mealworms in my panties - I deserve it.”

Fill my panties with mealworms AND maggots, so that I can learn the difference.”

You look back and see a grinning face. “Alan,” you tell him sternly, “kindly get those things, whatever they are, out of my panties please.”

“Only if you can guess what they are,” he says.

You frown at him. “I'm not playing your little game, Alan. Just do it!”

“Guess!” he insists.

You sigh. “Mealworms?” you hazard.

“Wrong!”

“Maggots, then,” you say.

“Correct!”

“All right, get them out please.”

You carry on picking up ticks as you feel Alan's hand reaching into the back of your panties and feeling around. After a few seconds, it is withdrawn. Then it returns, and this time it slips between your buttocks, and you feel fingers brushing against your anus. The fingers probe further forward, and one of them slides a little way into your vagina.

“Hey!” you say sharply.

“I'm just looking for the maggots!” says Alan. “I don't think I got them all.”

You finish collecting ticks, and stand up. Then you say to Alan, who still has his hand in your panties,

“That's enough Alan. If there are any more in there, I'll find them myself.”

“All right then, do what you have to - just make sure you find them all.”

You ignore the wriggling sensations between your buttocks, and neither say nor do anything to indicate that you have even noticed that one of the boys has put a handful of insects inside your panties. You also ignore the whispers and giggles that you can hear behind you, and when your panties are pulled open for a second time, you ignore that too, even when a much larger quantity of wriggling creatures suddenly lands in your panties, spreading out around your bottom.

You take your time about picking up the last of the ticks, and only when your panties receive a third helping of wriggling critters do you finally stand up. Your panties feel very full, bulging with larval insects of whatever kind, some of which are now crawling forward along your gusset and causing rather intriguing sensations as they brush against your vaginal opening. You turn around, your dress falling back into place, and stare hard at a trio of smirking boys. Another boy, looking puzzled, says, “Miss, didn't you even feel that? Don't you realise you've got a whole load of maggots in your knickers?”

You turn to the boy and reply, “Ah, so they're maggots, are they? I was wondering. Well, if you boys think you can get me to take off my panties in front of all of you, you've got another think coming.” You stare down at Alan, no doubt the ringleader, and his two accomplices Barry and Mitch. “I assume it was you three?”

After looking at each other for a moment, Alan nods, still grinning. “Sorry Miss,” he says, not looking sorry in the slightest.

“Well,” you say, “you three can jolly well…

have detention on Saturday.”

get these maggots out of my panties!”

It takes the entire remainder of the lesson to catch all the cockroaches, and you are exhausted by the end. Fortunately, the rest of the day's lessons pass by without incident, and you go home to relax. But as you sit down to watch television, you stiffen in shock as something slithers out of your anus and into your panties. You frantically pull your skirt up and shove your hand into the back of your panties, but whatever it was, it has now disappeared back inside you.

This is not the first such incident. Yesterday you thought you felt something similar while you were in bed. But on that occasion it was not very obvious, and you chalked it up to your overactive imagination. Ever since you cooked yourself some pork a couple of weeks ago, and found it still cool in the middle when you ate it, you have been rather paranoid about getting a tapeworm. Now you are beginning to think that your paranoia was well-founded.

The following morning you call your doctor to make an appointment…

And fortunately he can see you right away.

But unfortunately he is busy and cannot see you for several days.

You catch another cockroach and, rather reluctantly, lift up the front of your skirt and shove the roach into your panties. You capture two more, and both go into your panties after the first. They immediately start crawling around and wriggling against your pussy, which makes you shudder, but Harry was right - this is indeed a practical solution.

After catching a few more cockroaches and putting them into your panties one at a time, you soon find that it is a pain to have to lift your skirt every time you need to put a cockroach in your panties. Though you do not like the thought of letting these boys see your panties, for the sake of convenience you roll up the front of your skirt and tuck it into your waistband. Your bulging, roach-filled panties are now entirely exposed at the front, and the boys snicker as they watch you run around, collecting cockroach after cockroach.

You quickly realise of course that there is more room in the back of your panties than in the front, which is now getting overcrowded. So you roll up the back of your panties too, until your entire skirt is just a rolled-up bunch of material around your waist. The next few roaches go in the back, and begin to crawl between your buttocks. As you continue to collect more of the insects, you gasp as one of the roaches in your panties starts to crawl into your vagina. Not wanting the boys to know about this, however, you valiantly maintain your composure, even when a second roach, and then a third, follow the first one inside you.

Harry comes up to you with his hands clasped together around several roaches. “Here Miss,” he says, “shall I put these in the front or back of your knickers?”

“What's wrong with the tank?” you ask exasperatedly.

“They keep escaping from the tank,” Harry replies. This is somewhat true - in fact, whenever you are not looking, the boys have been opening up the tank and letting cockroaches escape from it, so that they can prolong your roach-collecting activities.

“All right,” you sigh, “put them in the back.” You hold open the back of your panties, and Harry dumps four or five roaches inside. You let the elastic snap back into position, and continue your hunt for more roaches. After this, several other boys come to dump handfuls of cockroaches into the back of your panties. Some of them have actually collected their roaches from inside the tank.

When just ten minutes of the lesson remain, your panties are bulging all over with a huge seething mass of cockroaches. The constant traffic of roaches over your clitoris is proving very distracting, and not at all unpleasant. In fact, your vagina has been lubricating like crazy for the past fifteen minutes or so, making it much easier for the roaches to slip inside you. You have lost count of the number of cockroaches that are now inside you, but you guess it must be at least two dozen.

No cockroaches have been found for a couple of minutes, and you start to wonder if perhaps all of the roaches have been found. It is time to get them back in the tank … but you find yourself strangely reluctant to empty out your panties.

“Here's another one!” says young Alex Lydon, holding up a struggling cockroach. He brings it over to you and tucks it into the back of your overcrowded panties.

“Well done,” you tell him. A particularly hyperactive cockroach is currently pressing against your clitoris, and your knees buckle slightly. You hold on to a desk for support, trying to appear nonchalant, and decide…

That you had better empty out your panties into the tank without further delay.

To drag out the roach hunt until the end of the lesson.

Laughing, Chandra and Dominic walk away, and you reach into your panties to check for cockroaches. Needless to say, you do not find any, which confirms your suspicion that the boys never actually saw a roach go up your skirt. You drop your skirt, to the disappointment of all the boys around you, and continue chasing the escaped roaches. It is tricky and tedious work, but eventually you manage to recapture them all.

The next lesson of the day goes more smoothly. But then, at ten-thirty, the entire lower sixth form assembles outside, where two coaches are waiting to take them all on a biology field trip. You, the other three biology teachers, and Mr Grace, who teaches geography, are taking them to Cheel Marsh, a wildlife preserve. The journey takes an hour, and the boys are rowdy and obnoxious as always, so you are glad when your coach finally pulls into the car park at the edge of the marsh.

The other coach is already there, and the boys, having disembarked, are quickly assembled by you and your colleagues into five groups of fifteen or sixteen. Mr Wight, the head of biology and deputy headmaster, assigns you a group of fifteen, which includes, you can't help noticing, a couple of the most unpleasant boys in the year. You gather them around you, and say, “Now I know we're outdoors and it's a nice day and everything, but I must emphasize that you are NOT to go running off away from the group and larking about. Stick to the group, and stick to the pathways - there are rare plant and animal species here, and I don't want you disturbing them. Anyone misbehaving will be getting three weeks of detentions - understood? Now, follow me, please!”

Chattering and laughing, the boys follow you as you head along a boarded pathway into the marsh. For a while all five groups are close together, but as the paths fork and fork again, each group takes a different route, and your group is soon isolated from the others. Then the wooden planks that you have been walking on come to an end, and for a while the path proceeds along trampled grass, which gradually becomes more and more squishy underfoot. Then you reach another fork in the path, and you stop in puzzlement - you have been following signs for Heron Lake, but there is no sign at this junction to indicate which path you should take.

Looking as far as you can down both paths, you eventually decide to head…

Left.

Right.

As you lie back and spread your legs, the boys gather around to stare excitedly at your damp panties. Then Chandra pulls your gusset aside, and a collective gasp is heard as the boys goggle at your shaved pussy. Chandra now teases your labia apart, and pulls back your clitoral hood, exposing your clitoris. Dominic meanwhile puts his finger against the opening of your vagina, and slowly pushes it inside.

“Hey, stop that!” you say to them in annoyance. “You're supposed to be looking for a cockroach, not feeling me up!”

“I'm looking, I'm looking!” says Chandra. He pulls up the front of your panties and peers around inside, then he pulls open the back, and checks around your buttock area. He slips his hand in, cupping your left buttock, then he pushes his fingers between your buttocks and slides them all the way from your coccyx up to your vaginal opening, pausing briefly to dip slightly into your anus.

More hands now find their way into your panties, as all of the boys are anxious to have a go at feeling you up. Your buttocks and pussy are thoroughly stroked, prodded, caressed, kneaded, squeezed, fondled and probed. One finger slides deep into your anus, and several are pushed into your vagina as you moan with pleasure. You cannot help it - this is intensely exciting, and despite your better judgment you do not want this to stop. You close your eyes and simply enjoy the hands on you, the fingers inside you, and you smile as you feel other hands on your breasts, your blouse being unbuttoned, fingers sliding into your bra…

But then you are unnerved by the sound of…

The door opening.

A zip being undone.

You hike up your dress at the back, and slide your hand down into your panties to retrieve the worms. There are at least fifty of them, all earthworms between five and ten inches in length. You pull out a handful and drop them into Clyde's tank, then you go back for the rest. Once your panties are empty, you say to Clyde, “Now stop being so naughty.”

The rest of the lesson passes uneventfully, except for several of the boys lifting up the hem of your dress to look at your panties as you pass their desks. You suppose you should punish them for this, but you actually rather enjoy the attention, so you let them get away with it.

During the twenty-minute break between the second and third lesson of the morning, you head outside to take a walk in the woods behind the school, as you are fond of doing. Some of the boys accompany you, holding your dress up at waist level so that they can gawk at your panties, but when you reach the fence that marks the edge of the school grounds, you tell the boys that they cannot go any further. They look disappointed, and stare wistfully after you as you climb over the stile and continue along the path.

You are soon alone and out of sight of anyone. You cannot go much further before you will have to turn back, but as you look around for signs of interesting wildlife, you spot…

A rotting log, likely to be home to all kinds of interesting insects.

The rotting corpse of a fox, seething with maggots.

“Lugworms,” you tell Brian, leaning down again to talk to him while shivering slightly at the feeling of the worms wriggling between your buttocks, “actually use their legs, or 'parapodia', for breathing as well as for locomotion. They live in U-shaped burrows, which consist of an L-shaped section that they line with mucous…”

Bending over like this is causing the worms in your panties to slowly shift forward along your gusset as they squirm about, and soon they are writhing against your vaginal opening and labia - not entirely an unpleasant sensation. Then you hear giggles behind you, and feel your panties being pulled open again. Another, larger quantity of worms is dumped into your panties,

But you ignore it, and continue talking to Brian while Clyde fills your panties with worms.

And you turn around to tell Clyde he really should not put worms in the back of your panties.

“Clyde!” you exclaim, turning around to glare at the mischievous boy who lifted up your dress. You are surprised to see that he is holding a handful of earthworms. “Were you planning to put those in my panties?” you demand.

Clyde grins and nods as you fold your arms and frown at him. Strangely, the idea of having earthworms in your panties is not entirely unappealing - their bodies squirming against your pussy might feel kind of nice. Your dream of last night resurfaces in your mind, and you shiver slightly. But you certainly do not want to admit to any of these boys that you would actually like to have worms in your panties, so you say to Clyde,

“Just put them back in the tank, and behave yourself!”

“You wouldn't dare!”

“Actually,” you say to Brian, “the legs of a lugworm are called parapodia, and they are used for breathing as well as for locomotion.” Then you gasp as your panties are pulled open at the back, and a slimy mass of worms slaps against your buttocks and begins to slide down between them. You get up quickly and turn around to see who the culprit is. Clyde Turner, who is sitting closest to you, has a particularly guilty-looking grin on his face.

“Clyde!” you exclaim. “Did you just put worms in my panties?”

He giggles and nods, and you look at his tank to see what type of worms are in there. Your eyes widen as you see that his tank contains a glistening mass of Zambian corkscrew worms, a species of giant nematode that parasitises cattle and, occasionally, humans. Typically, in the wild, it enters the body either through ingestion of the eggs or, as an adult, through the anus. Once established in the intestine of its host, it breeds hermaphroditically and prolifically, feeding on faecal matter until the population grows too large for the host to support it. From that point on, several dozen worms are expelled with each defecation, for the rest of the host's life or until it is cured of the infestation. Those worms that are expelled seek out new hosts, generally at night while they are asleep, entering them via the anus, and so the cycle begins again. If the host dies, for whatever reason, any nematodes in its intestines will burrow through its entire body, laying vast numbers of eggs within its muscular tissue before leaving through any available orifice to seek out another host. These eggs are resistant to heat, but usually do not survive the cooking process, so human infestation is not a common occurrence.

All of this runs through your mind as you realise what Clyde has put into your panties. Already you can feel the worms wriggling against your anus. You…

Frantically reach into your panties to stop any worms from getting inside you.

Decide to take this opportunity to demonstrate the life cycle of the Zambian corkscrew worm.

You disembark from the bus along with some of your school friends, and head inside. Your best friend, Annie, looks at you rather oddly and says, “Zoë, you don't look very well. Are you okay?”

“I just really need to poo!” you gasp, struggling to keep your anus closed.

“Well silly girl, you'd better get to the bathroom then! First lesson is about to start.”

“There's no time,” you groan, clutching your abdomen. But then something shifts in your large intestine, giving you some relief, albeit briefly. “I'll try to hold on until break.”

“Well be careful, or you'll end up having an accident in one of your lessons!” laughs Annie, and you smile. That would indeed be awful…

As you head to your first lesson, the pressure begins to build back up, and you clench your anus tightly shut. It is only a matter of time before you lose control - in fact it will almost certainly happen in your first lesson, which today is…

Gym, in which the girls' uniform is a blue cut-off t-shirt and white silk panties.

English, in which you are taught by the kindly Mr Greaves.

Maths, in which you are taught by the tyrannical Mr Hardy.

You struggle to hold the poo back, but it is impossible - it keeps coming out, despite your best efforts. Sweat breaks out on your brow as you clench as hard as you can, but three, four, then five inches emerge from your anus, pushing out the back of your white cotton panties. The bus stops, but it is not your stop yet, and you desperately wish that the driver would hurry up. Now your poo is curling around in the back of your panties, and still it comes, though you are trying hard to pinch it off. A whole foot of poo has now slid out of your rectum, and it is making a sizeable bulge in your panties, though fortunately your skirt is easily long enough to hide it.

What it can't hide is the smell, and several of the passengers around you start to sniff the air and then hold their nose. You do the same, so as not to be conspicuous, and at last, with eighteen inches of poo now in your panties, the bus finally arrives at your stop. You walk rather stiff-legged, still trying and failing to clench your anus closed as your poo keeps on sliding out. So far its diameter has remained fairly consistent at about one and a half inches, but now it actually starts to get wider, and your eyes water in discomfort. As you get off the bus and join your friends near the entrance to the school, you…

Decide to just go for it, and push out as much poo as there is inside you.

Keep trying to hold it back, and tell your friends you are just going to the toilet.

The groper leaves you to fill your panties in peace, and you quietly grunt as you push out a few more inches of poo. Your first turd breaks off, and you start on a second, which is softer, and slithers out quickly into the back of your panties. You follow it up immediately with a third poo, which is thicker and longer, but still quite soft. By the time it pops free and your anus closes up, your panties are sporting a very large bulge, which is fortunately hidden by your skirt. At this point the bus arrives at your school, and you get off. Walking carefully while trying not to look as if you are waddling, you head for the school's main entrance.

“Hi gorgeous!” says your boyfriend Rick, who has been waiting for you. He gives you a hug, then pulls back with a…

Grimace, and says, “Ugh, Zoë, have you crapped in your knickers?”

Smile and says, “Zoë, have you done a poo in your panties, you naughty thing?”

You carry on pooping while the groper strokes your bottom, but when your first turd breaks free, he catches it, and positions its tip at the opening of your vagina. With one long, steady thrust, he slides it up inside you, making you gasp. Then he starts fucking you with your own poo, while you start pushing out a second turd. The experience is incredibly arousing, and you feel an orgasm approaching. You wish he would slow down, but his thrusting is actually increasing in speed, bringing you perilously close to a noisy climax. You bear down hard, forcing out three more turds in quick succession, which fill up the back of your panties and heap over your groper's wrist. Undeterred, he fucks you harder still, and finally you shudder and moan in the throes of intense orgasmic ecstasy.

Finally, the hand is withdrawn, but you reach back and catch the groper by the wrist, desperate to know his identity. Whoever it might turn out to be, you are determined to give him a big long French kiss for the awesome pleasure he has just given you. You turn around quickly, and gasp in shock as you see that your groper is…

A horrid little man with brown teeth, greasy grey hair, and warts all over his face.

Your best friend, Annie.

Your friend Annie is waiting for you as you disembark from the bus. “Just wait until you hear this!” she says excitedly. “Pringle's called an emergency assembly - something big must have happened!”

“Something big is about to happen … in my panties,” you mutter.

“What?” says Annie, startled.

“Oh nothing - sorry,” you say. “It's just that I really badly need to poo. But what do you think the assembly is all about?”

“Well, Bianca thinks that it's because Ross and Jeannie got caught having sex in the boys' locker room, but Rhona says it's about the economy - she thinks they're going to sack some of the teachers and make the classes bigger.”

“That would suck,” you say. “Well, let's go and see what it's all about then.”

You both head to the gym, where a podium has been set up. Most of the school's pupils are already here, and you join the ranks at the back, hoping you manage to keep control of your bowels until after the assembly is over.

The teachers file in, with Mr Pringle, the headmaster, coming in last. He strides up to the podium, walks over to the microphone stand, and says, “Good morning everyone. I'm sure rumours are rife as to what this is all about, so I'll come straight to the point. As you know, the economy is a mess right now, and while this school is not in immediate financial trouble, we are having to make some changes in order to save money. The most significant of these changes, from your point of view, is that…

The uniform for the girls has undergone a radical redesign, which is effective immediately.”

The girls' toilets have been closed, permanently, to save cleaning costs.”

The bus stops, but although some of your friends get off, you remain on board, and as the doors close, your groper reaches up with one hand underneath your blouse, and beneath your bra to caress your right breast. You are loving this experience, and you feel your orgasm approaching. But then a coarse male voice whispers in your ear, “You're enjoying this, aren't you, you little slut? I bet you'd like my cock deep inside you, wouldn't you?”

You spread your feet further apart, gasping with pleasure as your groper thrusts his fingers rapidly in and out of your vagina. As the bus approaches the next stop, you are on the brink of your climax, and feeling wild and out of control. What your groper said is true - you would love to feel his cock inside you - but on the other hand, you really do need to get to school... Feeling conflicted, you hesitate for a moment, then say,

“Sorry, this is my stop. Bye - it was fun!”

“God yes - take me somewhere quiet, and fuck the living daylights out of me!”

You hurry to the girls' toilet, and lock yourself in a stall. Pulling down your panties, you are surprised at how much poo they contain. Fortunately, after you have dumped the poo into the toilet bowl, you find that your panties are surprisingly clean, with just a few brown streaks here and there. You are worried that your poo is too large to get around the U-bend, and you try flushing the toilet. As you fear, your poo merely blocks up the U-bend and the water climbs up almost to the rim of the bowl before gradually starting to subside.

Time is pressing; you need to get to your first lesson. After staring down into the toilet bowl for a moment, you decide to…

Wipe yourself clean, toss the paper into the toilet bowl, and go to your lesson.

Reach into the toilet, retrieve your poo, dry it off, and put it back in your panties.

Your first lesson is History, with Mr Scott. As you walk into his classroom, you are acutely aware that you smell pretty awful. Your classmates are not slow to notice this, and some of them start teasing you and laughing at you. Others have a more hostile reaction.

“That's disgusting, coming in here with shit in your knickers!” exclaims Martha Willis, holding her nose as she stands well back from you. “Go to the toilet, you stupid bitch!”

But then Mr Scott arrives, and he sniffs the air. “What the…?”

“Sir, Zoë's done a shit in her knickers!” says Martha. “Tell her to go and clean up!”

Mr Scott stares at you with a frown. “Is this true, Zoë? Have you really done a poo in your panties?”

There is no point in denying it. “Yes sir,” you say in a small voice.

“Well I never!” says Mr Scott. “How disgusting!

Now come on up to the front, lift up your skirt, and show the class what you've done.”

But if this is a cunning ploy to get out of taking today's test, it won't work. Sit down, Zoë.”

“Right,” says Ben, looking at his watch. “Come on - we don't want to be late.”

Mike points a finger accusingly at you. “Got something to hide, have you Zoë? I think it was you!”

“Idiot,” you say. “Would I be heading to first lesson if I'd taken a big dump in my panties?”

His cheeks turn red. “All right then, if you've got nothing to hide, lift up your skirt and show us your panties.”

“Nice try!” you reply. “I'm not showing you my panties, Mike, now or ever!” And with that, you turn on your heel and head indoors with as natural a walk as you can manage. You know you should head straight to the toilet to clean up, but the poo squelching around your clitoris is starting to feel very nice indeed. You think quickly, and decide to…

Go and hide your poo-filled panties somewhere, so that you can retrieve them later.

See if you can get away with going to your first lesson of the day like this.

“Presumably,” agrees Mike. “All right then, let's go inside. First lesson is about to start - I suppose one of us is probably starting to panic.”

“This is stupid,” says Suzy. “If one of us really is the culprit, why do you feel the need to expose and humiliate that person?”

“Aha! So it's you!” says Mike triumphantly, turning on Suzy.

“No it isn't, as I can easily demonstrate,” says Suzy coldly, “though not to you.”

“To who, then?” asks Mike.

“Whom, you moron,” says Roddy. “Thought you were supposed to be good at English.”

“Fuck you!” says Mike angrily.

“Look, I don't want to be late for first lesson,” you say, and add,

“I don't care if you think I did it, but I need to pee so I'm going to the toilet, damn it!”

“And just to prove I didn't do it, I'm going straight into my French class.”

“Oh Trevor, leave the poor girl alone,” says your mother. “She's young! Let her enjoy her youth. There will be plenty of years ahead in which she can grow up and be sensible about what she wears.”

“But damn it, woman, look at her!” exclaims your father. “I can see her panties!”

“When I was her age, I used to wear skirts that short all the time,” says your mother, “if you recall. I don't remember you objecting then.”

“Precisely my point!” says your father. “Like all the other boys of your acquaintance, I was filled with lust and was constantly trying to get into your panties!”

“And you succeeded,” says your mother. “Bravo.”

“But I don't want that happening to Zoë!”

“Zoë can take care of herself,” says your mother. “And she's old enough to make her own mistakes, if mistakes they are.”

“Thanks Mum,” you say gratefully. “Don't worry Dad, I won't let the boys touch me or anything.”

“I still don't like it!” growls your father. “But I don't have time to argue about it - I need to get to work.”

“Bye Trevor,” says your mother, and kisses him.

Mumbling to himself, your father leaves the house, and a moment later, you hear his car drive away. You and your mother go into the kitchen to have breakfast, and your brother Steve grins when he sees your tiny skirt. “You're going to get into heaps of trouble at school,” he says.

After breakfast, you brush your teeth, and then get into the car with Steve. Your mother drives you to school, and you head into your first lesson of the day, which is Maths. The urge to defecate has been growing stronger ever since you got up, and now it is becoming unbearable. You gasp as your anus begins to open up, despite your best efforts to keep it closed. The rounded tip of a thick turd begins to emerge, and you…

Put up your hand and ask to be excused.

Lift your bottom off your chair.

“Zoë!” exclaims your mother. “That's a ridiculous thing to wear! How dare you! Oh Trevor, punish her!”

“I believe I shall!” says your father. “Come here, Zoë!”

You meekly descend the stairs, your vagina lubricating in anticipation of your imminent spanking. At your father's instruction, you turn around and bend over, resting your hands on one of the stairs. Given the fullness of your bowels, this is an uncomfortable position, and you start to feel an intense pressure building in your rectum. With your panties exposed, you squeal as your father brings his hand down upon your left buttock with a mighty 'SMACK!' He continues to rain down blows on your bottom, until both buttocks are bright red.

But then disaster strikes, as…

You completely lose control of your bowels.

Your brother comes out of the kitchen with his friend Barney, who stayed here last night.

It is your turn to be surprised. “Really?” you say. “You want to see me do a poo in my panties?”

Your father nods. “Yes - I think it would be quite sexy.”

“Well, okay then!” you say. You turn around and bend over, so that your skirt rides up over your bottom, exposing a large portion of your buttocks, and a couple of inches of your panties. You close your eyes and strain, and your anus immediately starts to open up.

“Are you coming to breakfast or what?” asks your mother, coming out of the kitchen. Then she stops and says, “Oh my goodness!”

“Hush,” says your father. “Let her concentrate.”

Your mother giggles. “Oh, Steve's going to want to see this!”

“Oh Mum!” you complain. “I don't want Steve seeing me do a poo in my panties!”

But she ignores you. “Steve!” she calls through to the kitchen. “Come out here and see this!”

Your annoying little brother comes out of the kitchen and says, “What's going on?”

“Zoë's about to do a poo in her panties,” says your father.

“Ugh!” exclaims Steve. “What for? Can't she use the loo like a normal person?”

“Fine,” says your mother. “If you don't want to see, go back and finish your breakfast.”

But Steve does not leave; instead he watches your panties with fascination. Your eyes begin to water as your anus slowly expands to…

An uncomfortable diameter of one and a half inches.

A highly uncomfortable diameter of two and a half inches.

A terribly painful diameter of four inches.

“Wow!” says your mother as you enter the kitchen and make for the breakfast table. “I love the sexy new look.”

Your brother Steve laughs. “You'll get into a ton of trouble at school!” he says.

Your mother tuts in disapproval. “Such prudes,” she says. “There's absolutely nothing wrong with a teenage girl showing off her legs. If I was the headmaster of your school, Zoë … or headmistress, I suppose I'd be … I would make it compulsory for the girls to wear skirts that short.”

“Yes but Mum, you're a total lesbo perv,” you say, smiling at her fondly.

Your mother blushes. “No need for name-calling,” she says. “Eat your breakfast.”

After breakfast, your mother drives you to school. “I do hope you won't get into trouble,” she says anxiously. “Should I write you a note, do you think?”

“No!” you reply. “Then YOU'LL get into trouble. Better for you to remain in blissful ignorance. But honestly, I don't think I'll get into trouble, because…

I can wrap Mr Pringle around my little finger.”

The teachers here are all complete pervs like you.”

“Whew!” you say, relieved. “That was close.”

You somehow manage to keep holding in your poo until you get to school, where Steve runs off to join his friends, and you meet up with your best friend Annie. “Holy shit!” she says. “That's a very short skirt, Zoë!”

You grin. “It is, isn't it? I wonder what Mr Heaney will say?”

Mr Heaney is your rather stern and prudish Chemistry teacher. As you enter his classroom, you are immediately surrounded by a little cluster of boys, and have to fend off some groping hands. But then Mr Heaney enters, and says, “Come on, come on everyone, sit down, this isn't social studies.” As the boys disperse to their seats, he stares in astonishment at your skirt.

“Miss Sterling, I presume there is a good explanation for your wholly inadequate clothing coverage today?”

“Yes sir,” you reply. “The zip on my other skirt broke - this is all I could find.”

“Well I should send you to the headmaster, but I don't want you to miss my class. What lesson do you have next?”

“Geography, sir,” you say.

“Less important than Chemistry,” says Mr Heaney. “Very well - go and report to Mr Pringle at the end of this lesson.”

“Yes sir,” you reply, before taking your seat.

It is very hard to concentrate on the lesson, though, because your bowels feel like they are about to explode. After about twenty minutes, you gasp as you feel your anus opening up, and no amount of clenching can stop it. The tip of a large turd starts to protrude through your sphincter, and you put up your hand urgently.

“Yes? What is it, Miss Sterling?” asks Mr Heaney.

“Sir, please may I go to the toilet? I'm about to have an accident!”

Your classmates roar with laughter, but Mr Heaney does not look amused. He says, “Certainly not - you should have gone before the lesson.”

You whimper as your poo thrusts slowly out of your rectum and starts to push out the seat of your panties. You lift your bottom off your chair, and grit your teeth, trying to stop your poo from coming out any further. But its passage is inexorable, as inch after inch slides out into your panties, tenting them out and then folding and collapsing slightly to produce a lumpy bulge that grows steadily over the next minute or so.

By this time, some of your classmates have noticed the smell. Those that look at your bottom can see the bulge in your panties sticking out beneath the hem of your ridiculously short skirt. Laughter erupts, and noses are tucked inside shirts.

“What on Earth is going on back there?” Mr Heaney demands angrily.

“Zoë's crapping in her knickers!” exclaims one of the boys.

“Oh for heaven's sake!” says Mr Heaney angrily. “Zoë, you seem determined to disrupt my class today, and I've had enough of your antics! But if you think I'll just let you spend the rest of my lesson cleaning yourself up in the toilet, you can forget it! Instead, you can…

Jolly well go and tell Mr Pringle what you've done - at once!”

Jolly well sit there in your poo, and serve you right!”

“Oh my God!” you groan, as your poo starts to slide out of your anus. “I can't stop it!” Your poo is thick and solid, but suddenly it pops free, and is followed by a rush of soft poo that slithers out of your anus very quickly, filling the back of your panties in seconds.

“Whoa!” exclaims your brother.

You shiver with pleasure as the poo pours out of your rectum, caressing your anus with a gentle touch. Then you become alarmed at the growing weight of poo in your panties, and clench your anus closed, despite the fact that there seems to be plenty more to come. Reaching back, you cup your bulging panties with your palm, and realise with a shudder of fear that it is sagging at least three inches below your hemline.

“That's a lot of poo!” says Steve, wide-eyed.

You have to agree. The thought of walking to school with your panties visibly full of poo is rather scary. On the other hand, you rather like the feel of the poo's sticky warmth against your buttocks.

“Aren't you going to empty them out?” asks Steve in puzzlement, as you stand there in contemplation.

“Yes,” you reply, “of course I am.”

“No,” you reply, “I think I'll wait until we get to school.”

You feel very uncomfortable as you walk into school, clutching your abdomen as you are followed by a small cluster of boys who are staring with amusement and interest at your peeping buttocks. Then your best friend Annie catches up with you and says, “Nice skirt, Zo-zo! Are you all right? You don't look well.”

“I just really need a poo,” you tell her with a grimace of pain.

“Uh-oh,” she says. “Well I'd tell you to go and take care of that, but unfortunately it seems someone played a prank last night and flooded the girls' toilets. They're closed until the mess has been cleaned up.”

You groan. “That's not good!” you gasp. “I'll try to hold it in, but I can't make any guarantees!” As you reach the lockers, you double over, moaning in pain.

Annie puts an arm around your shoulder, and says,

“Come on, Zoë - let's get you to your French exam.”

“Don't torture yourself, Zoë - if you're in that much pain, just let it out.”

“Oh no!” you exclaim, as a thick turd starts to creep out of your anus. “Dad, I'm having an accident!”

Your father tuts in disapproval. “That's what happens when you hold it in too long. Well I'm not going back home - you're just going to have to clean up at school.”

You wince as the lumpy, two-inch-wide poo slides out of your rectum and into the back of your panties. You lift your bottom off the seat, and brace your feet against the floor. “Ow, it's so big - it hurts!” you gasp.

“Well then push it out!” says your father. “Once you've started, the damage is done; you might as well finish.”

“You're not upset with me?” you ask.

“Not at all,” he replies. “I'm not keen on the smell, of course, but you're the one who's going to suffer worst because of your accident. Getting angry with you on top of that would be like kicking you when you're down.”

“Ugh!” says your brother in the back seat. “It does smell awful though.”

“Then open your window,” says your father.

Your poo is very straight and rigid, and as it reaches a foot in length, you sit down on it in order to compress it. It squishes into a misshapen mass, and you lift your bottom in order to push more out. Soon it becomes less firm, and starts to fold up and curl around as it fills it any available spaces it can find. Your panties balloon outwards as the bulge of poo swells to the size of a grapefruit, and you are thankful for the fact that you decided to wear tights today - they will catch any poo that escapes from your panties. You continue to push, and a sludgy brown tongue of poo creeps up your gusset, sliding over your vaginal opening and then pushing between your pussy lips to stroke your clitoris. Your cheeks flush slightly, and you push harder. The elastic seams of your panties part company with the skin of your buttocks, but as yet the poo is too solid to leak out. The front of your panties is rapidly filling up now, and as you undulate your hips, your clitoris rubs back and forth in the warm poo, sending little sparks of pleasure shooting through your loins.

“Well,” says your father, “we're here.”

You feel slightly disappointed as the car stops. On the other hand, this is probably a good place to stop pooping - you do not think that your panties could hold any more poo. You hesitate for a moment, then…

You stop pooping, and say, “Well, I'd better go inside and clean up. Bye Dad.”

You say, “Dad, could we just wait here a minute while I finish my poo?”

“What for?” asks your mother.

“I'm about to have an accident?” you exclaim through gritted teeth.

“Oh no! Hold on, Zoë!” says your mother, and she scans the road ahead for a petrol station. “There's one!” she says. “Almost there - keep clenching!”

She pulls into the petrol station and parks. You quickly get out and hurry towards the front door, but then you notice a sign saying 'Toilets', with an arrow pointing to the side of the building. You trot around the side of the building, only to find another sign directing you around the back. You continue on until you find a couple of half-rotten wooden doors, one saying “Gents” and the other saying “Ladies”. You open the door to the ladies' toilet, then retch as a foul smell hits you like a ton of bricks.

“What the…?” you mutter as you peer into the gloom. To your disgust, the entire floor is covered with poo to a depth of several inches, and the toilet itself is buried under a large mound of poo. There are flies everywhere, and you notice, with horror, maggots swarming in clusters on the surface of the poo. If you were not so desperate, you would go and complain, but your anus is already beginning to open up, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Grimacing with disgust, you…

Kick off your shoes, and step into the poo.

Close the door and go into the men's toilet instead.

“Good heavens!” exclaims your mother. “At your age, Zoë? Well it's not far to school - you'll just have to hold on a few minutes longer.”

But you cannot hold on, though your eyes water from the effort of doing so. “It's no good!” you gasp as your anus opens up and a thick poo starts to push through. “It's coming out!”

“Oh no!” squeals your mother. “Quick, get something underneath you - I don't want you peeing all over the seat!”

“It's not pee, Mum!”

“Oh!” your mother says, startled. “Well good grief, Zoë, why did you wait this long? Look, we're nearly there. You'll just have to clean up the mess when you get to the toilet at school.”

You groan as your poo continues to slide out, squishing against your buttocks as it flattens out under the combined pressure of your panties, tights, and the car seat beneath you. You lift your bottom off the seat, and your poo starts to flow more quickly out of your anus. After about fifteen inches, your first turd breaks off, but another one immediately begins to emerge from your rectum. By the time you reach your school, you have pushed out into your panties four large turds, which have squished together into a lumpy mass about one and a half times the size of a grapefruit.

Your mother stops the car. “Bye darling,” she says, leaning over to give you a kiss. “I do hope you manage to get to the toilet without anyone noticing.”

“Not much chance of that, with this skirt being so short,” you reply ruefully, “but thank you.”

You get out and start walking towards the school. It is not long before the huge bulge in the seat of your tights is noticed by the other pupils, and soon you are surrounded by a jeering crowd. “Zoë's crapped herself!” you hear one boy say. “What a baby - maybe one of the teachers should change her nappy!” says another. “What a disgusting bitch!” sneers one of the girls. You feel close to tears.

“Hey! Fuck off, you lot!” exclaims Max Floyd, the captain of the football team. He is a well-built and handsome boy of seventeen, and all of the girls have a crush on him. Recently he split up with his long-time girlfriend, and his availability is currently a hot topic throughout the school. “Leave her alone! How would you like it, if this happened to you?” He puts an arm around your shoulders. “Are you all right, Zoë?”

You pull out a tissue and wipe your eyes. “Yes,” you reply in a small voice. “Just feeling rather sorry for myself.”

“Don't pay any attention to these idiots,” says Max, as the idiots in question gradually disperse. “Narrow-minded fools, condemning anything they don't consider to be 'normal'. Arseholes - making fun of anyone that's different, just so that they can seem normal themselves. Well believe me, Zoë, nobody's normal.”

“Easy for you to say,” you retort. “You're the very definition of normal. You're the person everyone wants to be like.”

“They only think they do,” he says. “But I'm no more normal than anyone else. Fortunately I'm good at hiding my quirks, and so outwardly I seem very normal. But everyone has quirks, Zoë, and if they were honest with themselves, they wouldn't ridicule someone who is unfortunate enough to have their quirk exposed.”

“But this isn't a quirk!” you say, somewhat indignantly. “I just had an accident. This isn't some secret fetish for me.”

“Isn't it…?” he says, turning you to face him. “Can you honestly tell me that you could have prevented this from happening, if you'd really wanted to?”

You blush, and say,

“No I couldn't! Seriously, Max, this was just an accident - nothing more!”

“Well … maybe you're right. You see, I had this dream last night…”

You roll up your sleeve, then shudder as you reach into the toilet and unclog the U-bend with your hand. Lifting your poo out of the water, you grab a handful of toilet paper and start drying it off. It is quite soggy, but eventually you get it to the point where it is merely mushy and sticky, rather than dripping wet. You carefully place the smelly lump into the back of your panties, and then you pull them up, shivering as the cold mass squishes against your buttocks and oozes between them. Then you pull up your tights as well, and tug your skirt down.

As you wash your hands, you feel more pressure in your bowels, and it occurs to you that a little more poo would not make much difference. You let your anus open up, and push out a couple of large, warm turds. There is plenty more to come,

But you decide to go and pay for your petrol, saving the rest of your poo for later.

And in a fit of wild abandon, you decide to see just how much poo you can produce.

You pay for your petrol, get back in your car, and continue your drive to work. The pressure in your bowels is still there, but it is less intense, and you are not currently in danger of having an accident. But the fact that you have pooped in your panties in a public place, in front of witnesses, is exciting and arousing, and you are surprised to find yourself wanting more of that rush.

You get to your office building, and take the lift up to the seventh floor. The insurance company at which you work is large and impersonal, and of the seventy people who work on your floor, you have met maybe just half in your two years there. Today, however, people who usually barely acknowledge your presence stare at you in shock as you enter the office with your tiny skirt barely covering your bottom.

You take your place in your cubicle, and put your hand between your legs, rubbing your clitoris through your tights and panties. With your other hand, you start up your computer, and once you have logged in, you wonder where and when you will next poop in your panties. Your nipples grow hard in your bra as your mind runs through various scenarios, and you decide to leave the matter to chance. You start a new spreadsheet, and set up a little system whereby a random number will be generated, and the result will correspond to a panty-pooping option. When you have finished, you refresh your spreadsheet, the formulas recalculate, an option is picked, and your instruction is displayed. You shiver as you read, and then re-read, the words…

“Here in my cubicle, at ten o'clock.”

“During the team meeting at eleven o'clock.”

“In the lift when I leave at five o'clock.”

The other customers stand well back from you as you waddle slowly up to the counter and pay for your petrol. Then you make your way outside, acutely aware of the stares that are fixed on your enormously bulging tights. Some of the poo in your panties has leaked out via the leg-holes, but your tights have fortunately caught it all.

You get into your car and sit down, shuddering as your poo squishes all around your buttocks and up between your legs, ballooning out the front of your panties. Your clitoris presses into the poo, and you squirm in your seat, rubbing your clit into the mess and sending ripples of pleasure through your loins. A lot of your poo has been forced out of your panties, but your tights are managing to contain it all. You are a complete mess,

So you decide to call in sick, and go home to clean up.

But, feeling reckless, you decide to go into work anyway.

You strain hard, and your anus opens back up. Another poo starts to emerge, just over two inches in diameter but not as lumpy as the previous poo. In fact it feels quite smooth and soft as it rapidly slithers out of your anus, squishing and spreading outwards upon contact with the more solid mass already in your panties. You groan with pleasure as a full two feet of this turd leaves your rectum and adds to the enormous bulge in your tights. Your panties can no longer hold it all, and it oozes out of both leg-bands, forming bulges in your tights that grow larger as the poo oozes down the backs and sides of your legs.

More poo is filling up the front of your panties as a thick ridge of poo thrusts forwards along your gusset. Your labia are pushed apart, leaving your clitoris exposed to the gentle caress of your warm faeces. You moan softly, and put your hands on your hips as you force out still more poo. Three large, solid turds follow the long soft poo, and still there is more to come. You find that you are glad about this - pooping into your panties is proving to be an exciting and addictive experience, and you are not anxious for it to end. As the next turd starts to emerge from your anus,

However, you realise from the empty feeling in your bowel that it is going to be your last.

You are excited to discover that it is your largest yet - and you still feel quite full!

You head to the toilet and lock yourself in one of the stalls. Emptying your poo into the toilet, you flush it away, and start to wipe out your panties with toilet paper. It is an arduous and unpleasant task, but eventually they are looking as clean as they are going to without actually washing them. You wipe your bottom, and pull up your panties and tights. Tugging your skirt down, you flush the toilet again, then you wash your hands and go to your desk. Your bowels still feel very full, and you cannot help wondering if you will lose control on the plane… The thought makes you shiver!

Your boss, Henry, comes over to your desk and says, “Hi Zoë. Good grief - what's that you're wearing?”

You turn around and smile at him. “Do you like it?”

Henry wrenches his eyes away from your inappropriately tiny skirt. “It's a little short!” he exclaims. “Are you seriously planning to wear that to the Frankfurt office?”

“You want them to envy you, don't you?” you say, winking at him. Henry is short, paunchy, fifty-ish, and balding, and his wife is a severe, grey-haired, domineering woman ten years his senior. You are guessing that Henry would not mind being seen with an attractive younger woman such as yourself.

Your gamble pays off. Henry licks his lips nervously. “Just don't make any suggestion that there's anything going on between us,” he says.

“Of course not!” you say. “Although, if you feel like you would score some points by playfully slapping my bottom at any point while we're there, go for it.”

Henry's jaw drops. “I couldn't do that!” he says. “I'd get into terrible trouble! Also, I'm married!”

“All right, all right!” you say, holding up your hands. “If you're not comfortable doing that, then that's fine. The offer still stands, though, if you change your mind.”

Henry looks nonplussed for a moment, then he turns and walks away, shaking his head. You massage your distended abdomen with one hand, and start checking emails. All too soon, though, the time comes for you and Henry to leave for the airport. Two hours later, you are boarding the plane. As it takes off, you feel the pressure in your bowels abate somewhat, but as you reach cruising altitude, it returns with a vengeance. You grimace, and…

Turn to Henry, saying, “Henry, I need to go to the toilet - number two.”

Then gasp as your anus opens up, despite your best efforts to keep it closed.

You have several emails, and it takes you a while to get through them. In the meantime, it does not take long for people in nearby cubicles to smell your poo. You smirk as you hear whispered comments and theories as to who the culprit might be. A couple of times, you hear your own name mentioned. It is actually quite exciting, you discover, to sit here so brazenly, with poo in your panties. It feels nice to squirm around on your chair, grinding your anus and pussy into your poo.

Your boss, Henry, comes over to talk to you at twenty past nine, and he immediately pulls a face as he sniffs the air. “What on Earth?” he says. “Has someone around here had an accident?”

“Smells like it,” you reply. “Isn't it awful?”

“It is!” he agrees. “Well, I just came to ask you if the Hopkins report is ready - we'll need to take it with us to Frankfurt.”

The Hopkins report! You had completely forgotten about it. You think quickly, and realise…

That you can leave it running while you clean up, and print it off in time before you leave.

That you will not have time to clean up if you run the report. And you have to run the report!

You stand up and tug your skirt down, but it only comes halfway down the huge bulge in your panties. The drivers laugh and tease you as you waddle, crimson-faced, towards the building in which your office is situated. As you walk, your panties keep slipping down your hips, and you have to hold them in place by pressing your hands against your hips through the material of your skirt. At one point, you hike up your panties a bit, but in doing so you inadvertently hike up your skirt as well, so that your panties can be seen beneath your hemline even at the front. At the back, your hugely bulging panties are now mostly on display.

Once inside the building, you take a deep breath, and head to the toilet. To your dismay, however, you see a sign hanging on the door which says, 'Out of Order - Please Use Toilet in Main Office'. The thought of crossing a busy road to get to the main office is bad enough, but the main office is usually full of directors and visitors and all kinds of people that you wouldn't want seeing you like this.

On the other hand, you really don't fancy the idea of spending the entire day here with your panties bulging enormously with poo. After considering your problem for a minute, you decide to…

Keep your poo-filled panties on for the whole day, and remain in your own office.

Brave the journey to the main office so you can empty out your panties in their toilet.

You strain again, and your third poo begins to push through your anal sphincter. This one is about two and a half inches in diameter, but fortunately it is quite smooth, and slips out easily enough despite its girth. With no more room in the back of your panties, it forces its way down between your perineum and the mass of poo already in your panties. It oozes over your vaginal opening, spreading out as it flows over your labia, and then it begins to fill up the front of your panties. You grunt as you push out more and more of this turd, and the frontal bulge quickly swells to the size of a flattened grapefruit. From this point, with no more room anywhere in your panties, your poo climbs up over the top of the bulge in the back of your panties, pushing your waistband away from your skin, and slowly building a ridge that rises up out of the top of your panties, eclipsing your exposed buttock cleavage.

The drivers stare in amazement. “How the fuck are you producing so much shit?” asks one of them, a middle-aged man by the name of Wally. “Where's it all coming from?”

“I hadn't been for … quite a while!” you gasp. “I was quite … full!”

Another of the drivers, named Bob, says, “We should probably help you out of your clothes before they get messy.”

This is an outrageous suggestion, but with your poo caressing your clitoris in a most distracting way, you are feeling quite horny and not thinking particularly rationally. As the drivers reach for your jacket,

You say, “Hands off!”, before struggling to your feet and waddling to your office.

You do nothing to prevent them from taking it off, along with your skirt and blouse.

You walk to the toilet and lock yourself into one of the two cubicles. Pulling down your panties, you empty out a lump of poo the size of a small grapefruit. Fortunately your panties are not too messy, and after a quick wipe of your bottom and the inside of your panties, you flush the toilet, wash your hands, and head to the meeting.

“My goodness!” says Alvin, the managing director, when he sees you. “I don't think I've ever seen you wearing such a short skirt.” He smiles, to show you he is not displeased with your outfit.

Shirley, however, frowns at you. “Indeed,” she says. “I'm not sure what's got into you, Zoë.”

“It's a nice day,” you say. “I just felt like showing my legs.”

“Good for you!” says Alvin. “Too many women in today's offices are so anxious to be respected that they are afraid to be sexy. I'm glad to see you are not one of them.” He turns to smile at Shirley, then coughs uncomfortably at her stony expression.

You sit down with Alvin, Shirley, and four other people at a large conference table, and the meeting begins. New transportation rules have just been announced which will affect not only your drivers and how they operate, but also the company's bottom line. In truth, you have very little to contribute to the meeting, until Alvin asks how the drivers are likely to alter their driving habits in response to the new regulations.

The pressure in your bowels has been growing again, and although you are not currently in danger of having another accident, you are feeling considerable discomfort. You quickly consider Alvin's question, and decide that the drivers are unlikely to change their ways unless the new regulations are thoroughly enforced, thus scaring the drivers into compliance. You start to say all this,

While keeping your anus tightly shut to prevent another accident.

While pushing out another turd into your panties.

When you arrive at the meeting, you find that you are only the third person to arrive. Shirley is already there, as is Leonard McKinley, the finance director. Both of them stare in shock at your tiny skirt, and then they sniff the air, and wrinkle their noses in disgust.

“Have you had an accident, Zoë?” asks Shirley candidly.

“What the hell?” says Alvin, the managing director, as he comes into the room behind you. “Zoë, you seem to have had a bit of an accident!”

Other directors and managers enter the room, and each of them utters an exclamation of disgust as they realise what you have done. You smile sheepishly at them all, and say, “I'm sorry! It happened on the way here. I was about to clean up when I got Shirley's call telling me to come here immediately. I really wanted to clean myself up, but if the boss needs me urgently, that becomes my top priority!”

“Very commendable,” says Alvin,

“But couldn't you have taken just five minutes to clean up, Zoë? Go and do so immediately!”

“That's the kind of team spirit we need more of! Sit down Zoë - and nice skirt, by the way.”

You hurry to the toilet, and lock yourself in one of the stalls. Someone is in the stall next to yours, but you soon hear her flush, wash her hands, and leave the room. You hike up your skirt around your waist, pull down your panties, and stare in fascination at the huge amount of poo contained therein. You are reminded of your dream last night, which, you now recall, also involved a really large amount of poo. With a little shiver of excitement, you pull your panties back up, savouring the sensations as your pussy and buttocks sink into the warm poo.

“Zoë? Is that you in there?” The voice belongs to Natalie, a co-worker who happens to be one of your best friends. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes it's me,” you say, pulling your panties back down guiltily. The sheer amount of poo in your panties is boggling your mind … as is the fact that you can feel that there is more still inside your bowels.

“Anything I can do?” asks Natalie.

You consider the question for a moment, then reply,

“I'm okay thanks Natalie - just tell them to take a ten-minute tea break while I clean up.”

“Natalie, come on in here - you've just got to see this!”

You clear your throat. “If you don't believe wholeheartedly in our products,” you say, “then I would venture to suggest it is because you don't know enough about them. Raise your hand if you have read the research and development histories for our core products that were published last summer.”

A couple of hands are raised, and you nod. “Two. Just two of you. Well, nice job you two, but all of you need to read those documents. How can you enthuse about … mmmph … a product you know very little about? Who can tell me, for example, what is so special about the elastic used in the waistbands of our Flower Fairy line?”

Just one hand is raised this time, but you are distracted by another large lump of poo that is trying to pass through your anus. You grimace and strain harder, and after a few seconds it pops through. But it is followed by a particularly thick and knobbly poo that makes you clench your eyes shut and grunt through gritted teeth as you push through about sixteen inches of this monster.

Unfortunately, your panties simply cannot hold this extra volume of poo, and you gasp as you feel a chunk of poo brushing against your thigh as it falls to the floor between your feet. Then the knobbly turd ends, and it is followed by a long, softer and smoother poo that is just an inch and a half in diameter. This poo also escapes from your panties and falls to pile up against the heels of your shoes.

“Oh god,” you mutter, and then you notice the raised hand. “Yes - Alan!”

“It's made from a hypoallergenic elastomer,” says Alan. “I can't remember its name, but I think we were the first company to start using it in clothing.”

“Right!” you reply, as your latest poo continues to descend in a long rope between your legs and pile up around and on top of your shoes. “Um, sorry about all the poo, everyone - there seems to be no end of it!” You laugh weakly, then stop as you see all of the disapproving looks and hands held over noses. “All right, well, thank you Alan. Anyway, my point is that all of our products have had a lot of work and a lot of passion put into them by our design and manufacturing people, and it's up to all of you to translate that into passionate salesmanship.” You glance down, and notice to your disgust that your shoes are almost completely buried, and a mound of poo several inches high is still growing between your legs as more poo piles on top of it. After staring at it for a moment,

You sigh in great relief as, finally, your poo comes to an end.

You crouch down and start stuffing poo inside your blouse as you continue pooping.

Good sense prevails, and you empty your panties into the toilet, flush it away, and return to your presentation. You sense that everybody is rather distracted by your accident, but you manage somehow to regain their attention, and the rest of the presentation goes quite well.

Afterwards, you are cornered by your boss, Jeff. “Good presentation,” he says, “but what the hell, Zoë? You crapped yourself in front of everyone!”

“I'm sorry!” you say to him. “It was an accident! It won't happen again.”

“Of course it won't!” he says. “It shouldn't have happened at all! My confidence in you has taken quite a knock, Zoë, I have to say.”

“I'll make it up to you,” you reply. “Just wait until you see the fruits borne by the seeds I planted today.”

“Hmm,” he says. “We'll see.”

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, although as the afternoon wears on you become more and more desperate to poop again. What makes matters worse is that Jeff keeps you working late, and it is not until nearly eight o'clock when you leave. You call your sister, whose birthday is today.

“I'm sorry Mel,” you say to her. “I had to finish up some stuff for Jeff. But I'm leaving now, and I'll be there in an hour. I won't even go home to change, okay? I'll come straight there.”

“Please do!” she replies. “I can't keep Lily up indefinitely, but she does so want to see her Auntie Zoë before she goes to bed.”

“I'll be there!” you promise. “An hour from now, max.”

You shut down your computer and hurry out of the office. It is raining, and getting dark, but you have fortunately parked close to the front door, and you do not get too wet before you make it into your car. You set off on your journey, and are soon on the motorway, heading west.

But your desperation is increasing, and several times you have to fight to keep your poo in. You are so distracted that you almost miss your exit, but you spot it just in time and head down a long, curving ramp until you reach a set of traffic lights. From there you take a minor country road, which is the quickest way to get to the town where Mel lives. Your bowels feel like they are about to burst…

But somehow you make it to your sister's house without messing your panties again.

And eventually, as you are rounding a sharp bend, disaster strikes!

Fortunately one of the building's exits is located very close to the toilets. Once you have cleaned yourself up, you peek out of the toilet to check if the coast is clear, then you hurry around the corner and slip through the door unnoticed, carrying your messy panties. You trot across the car park to where your Ford Mondeo is parked, and carefully place your panties in the boot. Then you head back inside, return to your presentation, and say brightly, “Now, where was I?”

The rest of the presentation goes well, but afterwards, all anyone can talk about is your accident. You return to your office, where your boss, Jeff, comes to see you a few minutes later. “What the hell, Zoë?” he demands. “Crapping yourself in front of everyone? What's got into you?”

“I'm sorry Jeff!” you apologise. “I felt really rotten this morning, and I was seriously thinking of calling in sick, but I didn't want to let everyone down so I came in anyway. Perhaps that was a mistake.”

“Hmm, yes, perhaps it was. Well if you're feeling so unwell as to mess yourself, you should probably go home.”

“Thanks Jeff,” you say gratefully, excited at the thought of imminently putting on your messy panties again. :I think I will.”

You shut down your computer and head back out to the car park. Retrieving your panties from the boot, you get into the driving seat, and carefully put feet through the leg-holes of your panties. You pull them up slowly, and sigh with pleasure as your poo, still slightly warm, squishes against your anus and buttocks. You tug your skirt down, and sit down firmly, squealing excitedly as the poo spreads outwards, even as far forward as your pussy. You wiggle your hips, grinding your clitoris into the poo, and gasp at the pleasure this brings you.

You feel so naughty, and adventurous! But whatever will you do now? After thinking for a moment, you decide, with a little giggle, to…

Let out some more poo into your panties, then go clothes-shopping.

Go swimming, and stage an accident in the pool area.

Go home, climb into bed in just your panties, and push out all of your poo.

You call your boss on your mobile phone, and he is very understanding. Turning your car around, you head home, and carefully climb out of your car. Chunks of poo drop to the ground as you stand up, but you pick them all up, moulding them into a ball which you carry in your left hand while fumbling for your keys with your right. Finally you get inside, and you carefully climb the stairs and head for the bathroom. Taking off your skirt, you turn around and check yourself out in the mirror, marvelling at the huge amount of poo in your panties. Pulling open the front of your panties, you drop into them the ball of poo that you are still carrying. Then you let your waistband go, and use your palm to squish the ball through your panties, so that it spreads out all over your pussy and to several inches either side.

You know you should probably clean up, but it feels very nice to have all this poo in your panties, and it seems a shame to waste it. You are at home, alone, so why shouldn't you enjoy yourself? Smiling to yourself, you decide to spend the whole day like this, and maybe even wear your messy panties to bed tonight.

Taking off everything but your panties, you put on a short white t-shirt with a picture of Wallace and Gromit on the front, and then you open your bedroom window, and a window in the spare bedroom, to let some air circulate through the house. If you are going to be staying messy all day, it would be as well to minimise the build-up of the smell of poo. You slowly descend the stairs, glancing behind you every few steps to make sure you have not dropped any poo along the way. The poo in your panties caresses your pussy with each step - it feels like a squishy tongue is licking your clitoris, which is a very nice sensation indeed!

But as you reach the foot of the stairs, the doorbell rings, and you freeze in shock. For a moment you consider pretending to be out, but then you realise that your car in the driveway would suggest otherwise. On the verge of panic, you rush to a decision, and…

Say, “Just a minute!”, climb the stairs quickly, put on a skirt, and come back to answer the door.

Answer the door just as you are.

As you pull your skirt down your thighs and over your knees, the full extent of the mess becomes apparent. Your panties are caked with poo on the outside, and packed with a great depth of poo on the inside. As you lift your shins and shake your skirt, more poo drops out of it and lands with a splat between your thighs. You gather up as much poo as you can find outside your panties, and stuff it into the front, patting it down against your pussy. Then you open your door, get out, and turn around to pick up a few stray chunks, which you drop into the back of your panties.

You use your skirt to carefully wipe all the excess poo off the outside of your panties, then your thighs, and finally your hands, and then you toss your messy skirt into the passenger seat. Your panties bulging hugely with at least four pounds of poo, you head inside and make your way towards the toilet. But your boss, Piers Wythenshawe, blocks your way and looks you up and down with a contemptuous sneer.

“Where do you think you're going?” he demands.

“To the toilet, to clean up,” you say.

“And how long do you think that will take?” he asks.

You shrug. “I don't know - fifteen minutes?”

Piers taps his watch. “Your window is supposed to be open in three minutes,” he says. “You don't have time to clean up. Go and take your seat, Zoë.”

“You can't be serious!” you exclaim. “Look at me! My panties are full of poo!”

“And whose fault is that?” he inquires. “Certainly not the bank's.”

“But I'm not even dressed to meet customers!” you protest. “My skirt's a complete mess - I left it in the car.”

“And what were you planning to do once you had cleaned up?” asks Piers, frowning and folding his arms.

“I don't know - go and get my skirt, and bring it in to clean it up I suppose!” you say exasperatedly.

“Then why didn't you bring it in with you when you came in?” asks Piers.

“I don't know!” you say. “I don't have all the answers, Piers! I'm not … Stephen Fry!”

“Well, your customers will only see you from the waist up,” says Piers, “so you don't need your skirt anyway. And now you have just two minutes until your window's supposed to be open. You'd better go and get logged in, pronto!”

You sigh, and go to sit on a stool in front of one of the windows. Your poo squelches beneath you as you settle down on the plastic cushion cover, and you shiver with pleasure. Grinding your pussy into the poo, you feel a delicious tingling in your loins as your clitoris is rubbed enticingly by your excrement.

The man at the next window, your colleague Vincent, screws up his face at the smell coming from your poo. “Ugh, are you really just going to sit there in your poo for the whole morning?”

You sigh. “Looks like it,” you reply. “Piers is being a real dickhead about it.”

A customer steps up to your window almost as soon as you switch on your sign. “Got some cheques to deposit,” he says, dropping them in your tray. You process them quickly and professionally, and drop into your tray a receipt, which he retrieves. “Thanks very much,” he says.

You wiggle your bottom, and your cheeks flush as your arousal grows. Your next customer, fortunately, does not notice either your excited state or the strong smell of poo that is saturating the air on this side of the counter. You badly want to have an orgasm, and also push out some more poo, but you are afraid that you will lose your job if you do. Taking a deep breath, you…

Force yourself to concentrate on your job, and sit as still as possible for the rest of the morning.

Push out another turd and masturbate while you serve your next customer.

As you take your place at one of the counter windows, you giggle to yourself at the thought that you walked right past your colleagues with poo in your panties. But that little adventure is over … or so you think. But as the morning wears on, you feel more and more desperate to defecate again. When your lunch break finally arrives, you are barely managing to hold it in. You find that you are quite excited at the thought of pooping in your panties again, but you are not sure where to do it. After thinking for a few moments, you decide…

To go to the toilet, poop in your panties, then walk out of the bank with your panties full.

To accompany your colleague Anne to the Mystery Meat Deli on Rottenham Street.

With a pound and a half of poo nestling beneath your buttocks, you leave the toilet and go straight to your place at the counter, where you sit on a stool in front of one of the security windows. Your poo squishes beneath you, and you shiver excitedly as it oozes between your labia. But it is not long before the smell is noticed by your boss, Piers.

“Have you shit yourself, Zoë?” he demands, to the astonishment of the young woman who has just come to your window.

“Yes Piers,” you reply. “I didn't have time to clean up - I didn't want to neglect my customers after all.” Then, knowing him well, you add shrewdly, “But it's really disgusting, Piers - do you mind if I close my window and go and clean up? It should only take twenty minutes or so.”

“Certainly not,” he says sharply. “Your mess is of your own making - the bank shouldn't have to pay for it. You can stay there, sitting in your shit, for the rest of the morning for all I care!”

“Yes Piers,” you reply humbly. Then you grin as he turns on his heel and walks away. Looking up at your customer, you are surprised to see her smiling at you.

“Like it, do you?” she says.

“I'm sorry?” you reply.

“Sitting in your poo. Feels nice, does it?”

You blush. “Well yes,” you admit. “It does, rather.”

The woman scribbles on a scrap of paper, which she drops into your tray. “Call me,” she says. “Maybe we can do it together some time.”

You stare at her in surprise. Then you say,

“I'm sorry - I'm flattered, but I'm not a lesbian…”

“Are you free this evening?”

You pull your panties up, shivering as your buttocks sink slightly into the large chunk of poo. You tug your skirt down, but it does not quite cover the bulge in your panties. Nevertheless, you head out of the toilet and approach the first supermarket employee that you can find. It is a spotty-faced young man with long greasy hair. He grins at you, revealing a missing front tooth.

“Hi,” you say. “There doesn't seem to be any toilet paper in the ladies' toilets.”

The man, whose badge indicates that his name is Lorcan, sniggers. “I know,” he says. Then his eyes widen as he sniffs the air. “Oh awesome!” he exclaims. “Did you do a poo in your knickers?”

“Yes,” you reply with a frown, “but it is far from 'awesome'. I want some toilet paper!”

“Hehehe,” he says, “yeah, I'm sure you do. Tell you what - I'll get you some toilet paper, if you lift your skirt and let me look at your messy knickers.”

His suggestion is outrageous, yet the thought of letting a strange man look at your poo-filled panties is a little arousing - even if the man in question is as disgusting as this one. Or maybe his disgustingness adds to the thrill? You hesitate for a moment, then say,

“I'm not going to do that, you horrible little man! I want to talk to your manager!”

“All right, you can have a quick look.”

You take off your skirt, and wipe your bottom thoroughly with it. Soon you are clean, but your skirt is covered with streaks of poo, which are unlikely to be removed by any amount of washing. Realising that the skirt is ruined, you drop it into the toilet and flush it away. But now you have nothing to cover your pussy except for your panties, and they are still full of poo. It occurs to you that you could probably use your tank-top to clean out your panties, but what will you do with the lump of poo in the meantime? After considering the problem for a moment, you decide to…

Put your poo-filled panties back on, and go and do your shopping like this.

Store your poo in the cups of your bra while you clean your panties with your tank-top.

You spot a young woman passing by the end of your aisle, and you call out to her. She comes towards you with a smile, which fades quickly as she realises what you are doing. “Oh my God!” she exclaims.

“Help!” you say to her. “I have a medical condition - I can't stop pooping!”

“That's … unbelievable!” she says, her eyes wide as she stares at your bulging panties.

A large chunk of poo falls out of your panties and on to the floor between your feet. You blush and apologise. “I tried to make it to the toilet,” you say, “but I couldn't hold it in any more.”

“I'm not surprised!” says the young woman, whose name, you see by her tag, is Greta. She is about your height, and quite cute in a mousy sort of way. “Well, let's get you into the toilet before you make any more mess.”

“Thank you,” you say gratefully, but as your poo continues to slide out of your rectum, it is now snaking out of your panties and piling up on the floor. “What about all this mess, though?”

“Hmm, yes,” says Greta, thoughtfully. “It wouldn't do to have another customer come along and slip on it. We'll have to take it with us. But how?” She taps her chin a few times, then brightens. “I know!” she says. “We'll just…

Wrap up all this poo in your top, if you wouldn't mind taking it off for a moment…?”

Dump all this poo in my own panties, which are full-cut and quite capacious.”

You hike up your skirt, reach into the back of your panties, and pull out a large chunk of poo - a couple of pounds' worth, you think. Thrusting it down into your cleavage, you stuff it into your left bra cup. As you withdraw your hand, your nipple sinks slowly into the squishy poo. Then you go back for another large chunk, which you similarly stuff into your right bra cup. Now your bra is full, and there is a little more room in your panties. You push harder, and another thick turd slithers out of your anus, quickly filling up the space you have just made. Soon your panties are as full as ever, and once again slipping down your hips and buttocks.

Then disaster strikes: a chunk of poo falls out of one of the leg-holes of your panties, and it is quickly followed by another. You grunt and push out a particularly wide section of poo, which is deflected out the same way and begins to descend to the floor in one long unbroken column. You are astonished at how much poo is coming out of you…

But judging by the empty feeling in your bowels, you are about to push out the last of it.

But also quite excited, and you resolve to keep going, and see just how much you can produce.

You enter the room, to find Mr McFarlane lying on his side and groaning feebly. “Good morning Mr McFarlane,” you say. “Did you have an accident, dear?”

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles.

“Not to worry,” you say. “We'll soon have you cleaned up. Now let's take a look at the damage.” You pull back the covers, a little nervously, and are a little surprised to find that the old man is only wearing the top half of his pyjamas. Lying on the sheet just behind his bare bottom is a large pile of soft poo. You shudder in disgust, but cannot tear your eyes away from the sight.

“I'm so sorry,” says Mr McFarlane miserably.

“Hush dear,” you say to him soothingly. “It happens. I'll just clean this up for you…” You look around, wondering what to put the poo in. The plastic bag lining Mr McFarlane's bin would be perfect, if the bin were not currently full.

Then a rather disgusting thought pops into your head. What if you used your panties? They are already messy with your own poo … but could you possibly bear to have an old man's poo in there? The idea makes you shudder, but you do not dismiss it right away.

“I hate that you're seeing me like this,” says Mr McFarlane. “Thank you for being so nice about it, but you must be really disgusted…”

“Don't worry about it,” you say to him, patting his shoulder. Then you…

Hike up your skirt, and start loading Mr McFarlane's poo into the back of your panties.

Strain, and push out some more of your own poo, to make Mr McFarlane feel better.

“Good morning Mr McFarlane,” you say brightly as you walk into his room. “Not feeling very well, are we?”

“What's this 'we' business?” he grumbles. “I don't know about you, but I feel awful.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” you say sympathetically, coming over to his bed. You put your hand on his forehead. “Hmm, yes, you do feel a bit feverish.” You spot a thermometer on his bedside table, on the far side of the bed. “Let me just take your temperature,” you say, as you…

Climb on to the bed and lie across Mr McFarlane's lap as you reach for the thermometer.

Walk around the end of the bed to fetch the thermometer.

With some reluctance, you go to the toilet and dump your large poo into the bowl. With your panties still rather messy, you don't see much point in wiping your bottom, so you pull up your panties, flush the toilet, and wash your hands before going back to see Jenny. “What should I do now?” you ask.

“Mr Caldicott in room 39 has had a bit of an accident,” says Jenny. “I'm sorry to ask this of you, but would you mind cleaning it up?”

“Ugh,” you say. “Aren't there any other jobs I could do? Cleaning up other people's shit isn't really in my job description…”

Jenny sighs. “Well to be frank, there are piles of shit and puke all over this place at the moment. Meg and I plan on doing most of the cleaning up ourselves, but I did hope you might help us out.”

Now of course you feel rather guilty. “I'm sorry, Jenny,” you say. “I'll do whatever I can.”

A buzzer sounds, and Jenny looks up at a display on the wall. “Mrs Whelk in room 18,” she sighs. “You can respond to that, if you like.”

Mrs Whelk is rather an irritating character - none of the staff like her much. You say,

“Okay Jenny, I'll see what the old bat wants.”

“That's okay Jenny - I think I'd rather clean up Mr Caldicott's poo!”

Jenny shudders, and says, “Ugh, really Zoë?” But then she sighs. “Mind you, with the amount of shit and puke all over this place this morning, I don't suppose it'll make much difference to the smell. But we've got to get the residents' rooms cleaned up. You can take your pick between Mrs Windruff's diarrhoea and Mr Horsley's vomit. You'll need to clean them as well as their beds, I'm afraid.”

“Ugh,” you say. “How does one choose between such tempting options? All right, I suppose I'll…

Take care of old Mrs Windruff.”

Take care of old Mr Horsley.”

To prevent them from getting messy, you take off your miniskirt and tank-top. Then, almost as an afterthought, you take off your bra as well, though there is no particular reason for doing so except for the sheer thrilling naughtiness of it. You also remove your shoes, so that you are completely naked apart from your white silk panties, which are rapidly reaching the limit of how much poo they can hold. You massage your breasts and play with your nipples while you continue pushing out more and more poo. Your enormously bulging panties start to slip down your hips, and you can tell that they are about to fall to the floor under the weight of your poo.

At this point, you…

Grasp the sides of your panties with your hands, and keep pushing out more poo.

Pinch off your poo, put on your tank-top, and leave the toilet to do your shopping.

You reach into the front of your panties, grab hold of a small, firm chunk of poo, and start rubbing it against your clitoris. As more of your poo slides out of your anus, your arousal grows, and you can feel your orgasm approaching. But your panties are becoming dangerously overloaded, and you feel them start to slip down your hips. Worried that they will fall, and tip out their contents, yet unwilling to stop your poo just yet, you try to think how you can prevent your panties from falling. Coming to a decision, you…

Retrieve a large, thick turd from the back of your panties, and slide it up into your vagina.

Fetch a couple of safety pins from your handbag, and pin the sides of your panties to your skirt.

You hike up your skirt until your panties are showing at the front, and then you start to rub your pussy through the thin white silk material. Barlow stares in obvious surprise and arousal, but he maintains enough presence of mind to answer your question.

“Yes I do,” he confirms.

“Miss Sterling,” says the judge sternly. “Are you doing what I think you're doing? Because if you are…”

“No Your Honour,” you say quickly, though you continue to stroke your pussy. “But I'm on the verge of having another accident, and this is helping to prevent that.”

“Rubbing your … rubbing yourself is helping to prevent further defecation?” the judge inquires, puzzled.

“Your Honour,” you say, “with all due respect, I think we should focus on the case! Mr Barlow, may I ask why you did not call your friend Danny to ascertain whether he was available to join you for a drink?”

“Well, um, I did,” says Barlow, “but he didn't answer, so I took a chance and drove out to his place anyway.”

“And I assume your phone company can confirm that you made a call to Danny that evening?”

Barlow's face falls. “Ah, er, wait a minute, no, I remember now, my phone battery was flat, so I couldn't call him.”

“I see,” you say, nodding sagely as you continue rubbing your pussy, getting more and more aroused every moment. Returning to your desk, you hike up your skirt even more, all the way to the top of your panties, then you lift up your right foot and place it on the seat of your chair. Turning to the left, to face Barlow, you say, “In that case, I suppose your phone company can confirm that you made no phone calls that evening.”

It is a gamble, but it seems to pay off. Barlow licks his lips nervously. “Well … I'm not sure…”

You pull your panties aside, and start rubbing your clitoris directly. “Mr Barlow, I put it to you that you did not make a call to Danny on the evening in question, nor did you drive to his house with the purpose of picking him up…”

The judge interrupts you. “Miss Sterling!” he says sternly. “What do you mean by this vulgar display? Tell me why I should not have the bailiffs forcibly eject you from my courtroom!”

Flushed with excitement, you slide two fingers into your vagina, and begin finger-fucking yourself. “Your Honour,” you say, “please forgive my behaviour - I am unaccustomed to the experience of defecating in my panties in public, and am finding it highly arousing. If you'll notice, however, I seem to be making progress with the defendant, so I beg your kind indulgence for just a few more minutes.”

The judge glares at you, then says,

“Bailiffs!”

“An honest response, at least. Very well, Miss Sterling - you may proceed.”

You unclench your anus, and another poo begins to emerge from your rectum without you even having to push. Nevertheless, you hurry it along by straining a little, and the turd, almost two inches thick but fairly soft and smooth, slides out into your panties.

“Yes I do,” says Barlow.

You shiver with pleasure as some of the new poo thrusts forwards and oozes between your labia, stroking your clitoris. You lean on the corner of the witness box and grunt, pushing out your poo as hard as you can. When fully two feet of the new poo have emerged, your panties contain almost four pounds of poo, and are bulging several inches below the hemline of your skirt.

“Your Honour, this is intolerable!” exclaims the counsel for the defence. “Miss Sterling is still defecating in her underwear!”

“Your Honour,” you say quickly, “the deed is already done - what difference does a little more make? I am merely trying to ease my discomfort. What does it matter whether I have one poo in my panties, or several?”

“Miss Sterling makes a fair point,” says the judge. “Proceed.”

“Mr Barlow,” you say, “was your phone with you, and in working order, on the evening in question?”

Barlow is holding his hand to his nose. “As far as I recall, yes,” he says guardedly.

“Then may I ask why you did not call your friend Danny to ascertain whether he was available to join you for drinks?” You grimace as your turd gets thicker and harder. Your anus expands to let it through, and your panties start to slip downwards as your latest poo presses down into the existing mass.

“Just didn't think of it, I suppose,” says Barlow with a shrug.

You grunt, pushing harder, then you say in a rather raspy voice, “You expect us to believe that you drove to your friend Danny's house without first checking that he was there?”

“Sure, I do that all the time,” says Barlow.

This is getting you nowhere - you need to try another tack. But as your mass of poo becomes melon-sized, you realise that you need to attend urgently to your panties, which are threatening to fall to the floor at any moment. You hike up your skirt to waist level, grasp the sides of your panties, and haul them up as high as you can, your pussy squishing deliciously into your warm faeces. Everyone in the courtroom gasps in shock.

“Miss Sterling,” says the judge, apparently rather amused, “your underwear seems to be struggling to contain your excreta. Are you sure you do not want to break for half an hour?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” you say, but you know that unless you stop pooping, or come up with a creative solution to your problem, things are going to get messy. Thinking quickly, you decide…

To stop pooping immediately.

To take off your tank-top, and start stuffing poo into your bra.

To simply hold on to your panties, and let them overflow.

Standing up and turning around, you unzip your skirt, tug it down over your bulging panties, and step out of it. Then you pull your tank-top up over your head, to the shocked gasps of the men and women passing you at the time. You back up against the wall, and slowly sit down. When your panties hit the floor, your poo squishes against your anus and surges forward into the front of your panties. You raise your knees up to your chest, and then spread your feet and knees wide apart, giving anyone in the corridor a good view of your bulging panties. You pull the silk material to one side, grasp a thick chunk of poo with your fingers, and start stroking your clitoris with it. As a young female solicitor stops in front of you and stares in horror at your messy pussy, you place the poo against your vaginal opening, and slowly push the poo inside you. You shiver with pleasure as you feel the warm, firm, yet slightly squishy object sliding over your g-spot.

Unclasping your bra at the back, you take it off, then you grab a couple of handfuls of poo and start to rub them all over your breasts, leaving brown smears and little sticky chunks. Then you look to your right, and feel a stab of panic as you see…

Your boss marching towards you with a furious expression on his face.

A couple of uniformed police officers striding determinedly towards you.

You strain a little, and your anus quickly opens up. A soft but bulky turd starts to emerge quickly from your rectum, spreading out as it meets the poo already in your panties. You grunt and push harder, shivering as you feel poo sliding down your gusset towards the front of your panties, gently caressing your clitoris along the way. You hear gasps and exclamations of astonishment and horror behind you, and you smile as you imagine the spectacle you must be presenting. This is crazy - you could lose your job on account of this little stunt - but it just feels so good! You feel so alive and excited, as if stepping from a black-and-white world into one full of colour.

The bulge in the back of your panties keeps growing and growing, and because you are leaning over so far, the bulge in the front of your panties is also growing, as poo keeps sliding down your gusset. But the more you defecate, the heavier the poo in your panties becomes, and the further your panties slip down your buttocks. It will not be long before they fall down completely.

It will also not be long before police officers come and throw you out of the building. Thinking it might be wise to pre-empt them, you decide to…

Leave the building, go to your car, and embark on a poo-filled adventure.

Go to the toilet, get yourself thoroughly messy, and flush away all your clothes.

Enlist the help of a young woman who is watching you with wide-eyed fascination.

You stand up, hike up your skirt, and tug your panties downwards, your poo detaching from your buttocks with a sticky sound. People nearby gasp as your naked pussy comes into view, and at the large lump of poo in your panties as you lower them down your legs. You step out of them carefully, pick them up off the floor, and, still holding your skirt up, you make a dash for the ladies' toilets, which are fortunately not far away.

You reach them without being accosted by anybody, which is lucky because the building is typically crawling with police officers. Locking yourself in a stall, you take a curious look at the poo in your panties. It is a significant quantity - probably about two-thirds the size of a grapefruit - and it seems a shame to get rid of it. Nevertheless, you are a respectable barrister, or at least you were until this morning, and you feel that you ought to be sensible for a moment. With that in mind, you decide to…

Clean up, take your poo-filled panties out to your car, and return to the courtroom.

Drop your poo-filled panties into the toilet, sit down, and finish your poo.

With about four pounds of poo weighing down the back of your panties and sagging well beneath the hem of your miniskirt, you waddle indoors and head straight for the toilet. But a quick glance at your watch tells you that you are due in court in less than two minutes. Cursing, you recall that the judge presiding over this case is a stickler for punctuality, and being late would not endear you to him. Then again, arriving in court with your panties full of poo would probably not be a good move either.

As you hesitate outside the ladies' toilet, you are attracting a lot of stares from passers-by. You spot a policeman squinting at you from across the foyer, and you hurriedly…

Enter the toilet in order to undertake a quick clean-up.

Trot up the stairs, heading for courtroom Number Two.

Already containing four pounds of poo, your panties start to sag dangerously low, leaving gaps between the elastic leg-seams and the skin of your buttocks and crotch. A small chunk of poo falls out of one of these gaps, and lands with a splat on the step beneath. It is followed a few seconds later by a larger chunk, which falls out of the other side. As you continue to push more and more poo into your panties, even the waistband starts to fall away from your buttocks, allowing your expanding mass of poo to peep over the top. Soon your panties are sagging so low that your anus is exposed, and the spectators behind you stare wide-eyed at the thick turd snaking out of your rectum. It climbs up over the mound of poo, descends in a column over the edge, and finally drops on to the step below.

You reach back and hoist your panties up a bit, and the next foot or so of poo buries itself in the main mass. But with the huge ball of poo now weighing over seven pounds and extending beyond every seam, your panties are far from adequate for the task of keeping it all in place. Even the front of your panties is bulging hugely now. More chunks fall on to the steps below, and still you feel that there is more poo to come.

A glance at your watch tells you that you are due in court, and you happen to know that the judge in this case takes a very dim view of barristers who arrive late. On the other hand, you are loving the sensation of poo rubbing your clitoris as you grind your pussy into the mess, and don't want it to end just yet.

As more poo falls to the ground between your feet, you…

Stop pooping, grab the sides of your panties, and waddle carefully to the courtroom.

Kneel down on the steps, start masturbating, and carry on pooping.

The three-pound lump of poo in your panties bounces up and down as you run, slapping against your buttocks with each step. You have only a couple of minutes before you are due in court, and you start to panic as you realise that you do not really have enough time to clean up. The judge in this case is a rather mean old man who does not like barristers to turn up late for the start of the day's proceedings.

You shiver at the thought of having to go into the courtroom like this. You maybe just have time to go to the toilet and dump your poo out of your panties, but you find yourself curiously reluctant to do even that. You realise that you are enjoying wearing poo-filled panties, and you would very much like the experience to continue.

On the other hand, you do need this job, and a scandal would probably prevent you from ever working as a lawyer again. Perhaps you could dump out your poo, go to court, and then fill your panties again after work today. Then a positively delicious idea occurs to you. Why not leave the decision up to chance? You hurry into the toilet, pull out from your briefcase a small notepad, and tear off two pieces of paper. On one of them you write “Empty out panties”, and on the other you write “Go to court like this”.

You quickly fold up both pieces of paper several times until they are really small, and you mix them up so that you do not know which is which. Then you pick one at random, and write on it “Option One”. On the other you write “Option Two”. Shivering with excitement, you mix them up again, and without looking at them, you throw one of the pieces of paper into the bin. Looking at the other, you see it is…

Option One.

Option Two.

You pull your panties aside, along with the poo covering your pussy, and even tease your labia apart to show the cameraman your clitoris. He laughs and says, “Wow! Thank you Miss, this is amazing!” In mounting excitement, you start rubbing your clit while continuing to defecate. The back of your panties sags lower and lower, pushing the elastic leg-seams away from your skin, and the large mass of poo becomes directly visible to the cameraman, who zooms in to get a closer look. Though you do not know it, his camera can even see your poo emerging from your anus. But that view is quickly obscured as fresh poo piles up on top of the mass and starts to spill forward, pushing out of your panties just below your vagina. You grab hold of this turd, breaking off a ten-inch-long section, which you find to be quite firm and rigid. You rub it against your clitoris, and start to pant heavily as your cheeks flush with intense arousal.

With your orgasm approaching, you…

Slide the turd into your vagina, and start fucking yourself with it.

Mash the turd all over your pussy, then start smearing poo across your chest.

You turn to the audience and say, “And now it's time for Sploshmagosh, the messy obstacle course game in which we select two members of our studio audience to compete for the grand prize of a mountain bike…”

But Toff interrupts you. “Actually Zoë,” he says, “the prize today is a new Playstation 3.”

“Ooh!” you say. “I've always wanted one of those.”

“Well,” says Toff, “you'll get your chance, because today's contestants will not in fact be members of our studio audience!”

Your eyes widen in fear. “What do you mean?”

Toff laughs. “The producers have decided that, just for a change, you and Millie will compete for the prize!”

“Oh my … goodness!” you manage, your face turning white. The thought of running around, jumping, climbing, and getting messy, in such a short skirt and with poo in your panties, is terrifying!

But Millie seems quite unfazed. “Sounds like fun!” she says with a smile. She herself is also wearing a miniskirt - perhaps she does not realise how often her panties are likely to be on display…

And then it occurs to you that if you can get messy quickly enough, maybe the poo in your panties will not be very noticeable. Resolving to sit down in some kind of messy substance as soon as possible, you get to your feet and say brightly, “All right - game on! That PS3 is as good as mine, Millie!”

“Don't bet on it!” says Millie, laughing.

The obstacle course is located in the studio adjacent to this one, and it is already set up and ready for use. It has a few rows of audience seating, but these will not be used - instead, your studio audience will watch on the giant screens either side of your usual set. This is to prevent a stampede of eager youngsters, which in the show's early days caused a number of problems.

Nevertheless, with multiple cameras recording your every move, you feel very exposed and anxious as you head next door and prepare to race Millie through the obstacle course. Naturally, you have the advantage, being so used to watching children make their way through it every week, but you are less concerned with winning than with keeping your poo out of sight.

“All right ladies!” says Toff, as you and Millie take your positions behind the starting line. He picks up a hammer, and prepares to hit the gong that signals the start of the race. “Are you ready?”

You nod, and tense your muscles. Despite your concern about your poo, now that you are about to start the race, your competitive spirit is beginning to kick in. Toff strikes the gong, and you sprint to the first obstacle: a giant hamster wheel with a large yellow key dangling from the top. You hop into the wheel, start jogging to make it turn, and the key descends until you can grab it. You jump out of the wheel and run to a narrow beam which leads across a deep pit filled with soft brown clay. A perfect cover for your accident, you think, but if you fall into it, you will lose a lot of time struggling through it to the far side, and Millie will get ahead, assuming she makes it across.

You start along the beam, and…

Deliberately fall off, into the clay.

Make it to the other side just in front of Millie.

“And now,” you say, turning to the audience, “let's see what those cheeky little monkeys The Marmosets are up to this week.” You maintain a bright smile until you see the signal that you are off air, and you sigh with relief. You turn to Millie and say, “Please excuse me - I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Please do!” says Millie, fanning the air in front of her nose.

“Sorry!” you whisper, and then you turn and hurry off the stage. Once you are locked in the toilet, you pull down your panties, and sit down to finish your poo. But as you think about your accident, you realise that you are actually a little excited as a result of your adventure. You remember being excited this morning, too, after your panty-pooping dream, and it occurs to you that, under the right circumstances, you could actually enjoy pooping in your panties. And here, alone and unobserved in the toilet, seems like too good an opportunity to miss.

On the other hand, the cartoon is only ten minutes long, and maybe you should save your poo for later, when you have more time to enjoy it. After thinking about this for a few moments, you…

Decide you cannot wait, and start pushing out more poo into your panties.

Empty out your panties, clean up, and head back to the studio.

Your jaw drops, and your anus clenches shut. Millie's announcement, which she read off the autocue, has taken you completely by surprise. The next item was supposed to be a cartoon, which would have allowed you some time to go and clean up. But as Jim Batten walks on to the set and lays out a rubber mat, to polite applause from the audience, your frozen smile has a hint of panic in it. With three and a half pounds of poo in your panties, you get nervously to your feet, and turn towards Jim with your hand stretched out to shake his.

Millie gasps as she sees your heavily-bulging white silk panties sagging below the hem of your skirt. You shake Jim's hand, and he smiles at you. For a moment you consider turning and running out of the studio, but your professionalism wins out, and you determine to carry on as if nothing was the matter. Jim sniffs the air, and wrinkles his nose, but he is a professional too, and he merely says, “Well Zoë, let's start with a basic throw.”

You steel yourself,

But then Millie jumps up and says, “Sorry Zoë, but do you think I could do this segment?”

And then gasp as Jim pushes you backwards, while sweeping your feet from under you.

Your stomach tightens nervously, and you clench your anus shut. This is a surprise - normally you would have a cartoon at this point of the show. You wonder what kind of dares the audience will come up with. You bite your lip as Toff turns to the audience and says, “Okay, let's give you all a moment to come up with some dares for us. When you've thought of something, put up your hand. Ah, that was quick! The young gentleman in the yellow t-shirt. What's your name, mate?”

A boom sweeps low over the audience and comes to rest over the lad in question as he replies, “Graham.”

“And who's your dare for, Graham?” asks Toff.

“Zoë,” says Graham, with a rather lecherous grin that you do not like. The boy is about fifteen, and quite spotty.

“And what's your dare for Zoë?” asks Toff. “It has to be something that she can do here and now.”

The boy nods, then says, “I dare her to…

“Do a handstand.”

“Sing Happy Birthday to me, because it's my birthday today, and sign my autograph book.”

With your panties bulging enormously with very soft poo, and runny poo dribbling down the backs and insides of your legs, you take the lift down to the ground floor, and waddle slowly through the lobby. You pass at least a dozen people on your way out of the building, some of whom are important studio executives. All of them stare in disgust and astonishment at your panties, which are sagging well below the level of your skirt, and a few of them make hurtful remarks. But you ignore them, and continue on out through the front entrance and into the car park. It occurs to you that you will make a horrible mess of the seat of your car if you get in like this, but trying to take public transport would be worse.

Your skirt is unfortunately too small to adequately protect the driver's seat from your poo, so, after looking around nervously, you take off your tank-top and lay it across the seat. Climbing into your car, you sit down slowly, and sure enough, your poo splurges out of the sides and top of your panties, oozing over your tank-top around your bottom. You sigh, close your eyes, and start driving home. But on the way, your arousal begins to grow again, and you start squirming around in your seat, grinding your pussy into the poo and moaning with pleasure. Arriving at a set of traffic lights just as they turn red, you quickly shove your hand into your panties and masturbate for all you are worth. You come to a shuddering climax half a minute later, and scream with pleasure, much to the startlement of an elderly couple in a car in the next lane.

Continuing on your way, you arrive home and very messily get out of your car. Carefully retrieving your tank-top, you go inside and head to the bathroom to clean up. An hour later you are feeling a little more respectable, having showered and put your clothes in the washing machine. But now the reality of your situation hits you: you have been fired from your job, and what will you do next?

You sigh and walk through into the living room in just a pair of white silk panties, rubbing your abdomen - amazingly, you are still feeling quite a strong urge to defecate. You notice the light on your answering machine blinking, and for a moment you dare to hope that there is a message from Wilbur, telling you that you are not really fired. But it is a foolish hope. Your phone has actually been ringing every few minutes for the past hour - calls no doubt from various friends and relatives who saw the show and wondered what happened - but so far you haven't really felt like talking to anyone. However, now you are feeling a little more social, so you start listening to the messages on your answering machine. The first one is from…

Your boyfriend Chris, wanting to know if you'd like to go out to a nice restaurant tonight.

Your girlfriend Erica, wanting to know what the heck happened on the show today.

Once in the ladies' toilet, you lock yourself in a stall, and then masturbate until you come to an intense climax. Shuddering with pleasure, you slowly take off your panties, and then begin the rather smelly and disgusting clean-up process. Fortunately there is enough paper for the job, but you use nearly all of it. Half an hour later, you emerge from the toilet with your skirt and panties rather damp, but fairly clean at least.

You seek out Wilbur and throw yourself on his mercy. “I'll never do anything like that again,” you say to him earnestly. “Please don't fire me Wilbur - I'll do anything you want me to.”

He frowns at you. “Will you wear shorter skirts?”

Your eyes widen. “Shorter than this?” you ask him. “This is the shortest skirt I own! And it's the shortest skirt I've ever worn on this show!”

“Yes, and of all the calls we've had so far this morning,” says Wilbur, “nearly all of them were asking what had happened to you, nearly all of them were from men, and most of them said you look fantastic today. And some of them went further, and said you should wear skirts like this more often because you have gorgeous legs.”

You feel rather flattered. “Wow!” you say. “So … what exactly did you have in mind?”

“Skirts at least that short on every show you do - Saturday Madness, your breakfast shows on cable, and your afternoon weather reports,” says Wilbur. “I'd also like you to be a little careless about how you uncross your legs, and how you sit… Basically I want a few shots of your panties in every episode.”

“Won't there be complaints?” you ask in astonishment.

“Of course there will!” says Wilbur. “And that will bring us more publicity. So, what's it to be?”

You make up your mind quickly, and say,

“Sorry Wilbur, but I'm not that kind of girl. I'll find myself another job.”

“Wilbur, I'll wear skirts as short as you like, and I'll flash my panties as often as you like.”

With one hand you continue to masturbate, while with the other you reach into your panties and pull out a sludgy handful of soft poo, which you slap on to your chest. Smearing it over your breasts through your tank-top, you then go back for another handful. Plainly not about to attempt to tackle you himself, Wilbur hisses, “I'm fetching security!”

He hurries off, leaving you alone to continue plastering poo all over your top. Eventually, intoxicated with lust, you stop masturbating just long enough to take off your tank-top and bra, causing further gasps from the traumatized children in your audience. But you are beyond caring: the poo currently emerging from your anus is somewhat firmer than most of the mush in your panties, and you push it out quickly so that you can play with it. It snakes around in your overflowing panties, and you grab hold of it and slide it up your torso to your naked breasts. Rubbing it around, you coat your breasts with a thick layer of poo as you go back for more and more chunks.

Finally you push out a turd that is firm enough to fuck yourself with, and you eagerly grab hold of it and, pulling your panties to one side, you start to push it into your vagina. As you slide it in and out, you moan loudly in intense pleasure, and undulate your hips as your orgasm approaches.

Then it hits, and you scream with ecstasy, your entire body bucking and writhing as wave after wave of pleasure surges from your loins up to the roots of your hair and down to the tips of your toes. After two minutes of continuous orgasm, you go completely limp, and feel suddenly exhausted. But you crack open an eyelid, and see that the children in the audience are being ushered out of the rear exits, with many a backward glance in your direction.

Reality descends upon you like a ton of bricks. This has gone way beyond a firing offence - you could go to prison for this! Any moment now, police officers could arrive to cart you off to jail. You want to get up, to run out of here, but your muscles do not seem to want to work. All your body wants to do right now is sleep…

With a mighty effort, you struggle up to a sitting position,

But it is too late; security guards are approaching you with latex gloves and grim expressions.

Hastily get up, leaving your clothes behind, and run for the exit.

With four pounds of soft poo slapping squelchily against your buttocks, you run out of the studio. It occurs to you that you have not just lost your job, but also perhaps your entire career in television. You could even, you think to yourself in horror, go to prison for what you have just done. At any rate, you dare not hang around in this building, even to clean up. Taking the lift down to the ground floor, and attracting a great many stares along the way, you hurry out to your car, and climb into the driver's seat.

Soft poo shoots out of your panties as you sit down, making a horrible mess of the upholstery. But you start the car and head straight home, torn between feelings of shame and guilt, and a feeling of delicious arousal, which only heightens as your pussy slides around in your poo. When you reach your house, you climb messily out of the car and head inside, where you…

Clean yourself up and then call your boyfriend.

Crawl into bed and finish your poo.

The boys laugh. “Oh, we'll be gentle all right,” says Charlie, grinning. He slides two fingers into your vagina, and one of the other boys starts to work your panties down your thighs. When he finally gets them off, your legs are spread wide apart, and you are lifted bodily into the air, where you are held suspended by the strong arms of four or five of your pupils. A boy named Eddie Harper eagerly takes out his penis, and thrusts it against your vaginal opening as Charlie removes his fingers. You gasp as Eddie's erection slides deep inside you.

“Hey!” you exclaim. “How about a condom, Eddie?”

The boys just laugh at you, and once, after a few thrusts, Eddie has squirted his sperm inside you, another boy takes his place. You say nothing, and do not even bother to struggle as you are fucked by one boy after another, until every single boy in the class has come inside you. Even Jasper, the most unpopular boy in the class, is allowed to fuck you - according to Charlie, this is so that they can tell their friends later that the entire class had you.

While they were fucking you, the boys were gradually disrobing you as well, and now you are completely naked. As the boys lower you to the floor, you say, “Where are my clothes?”

Charlie grins. “We're just making some adjustments,” he says.

The lesson is almost over, but as the bell rings, you are finally given your clothes back. You are aghast at the 'adjustments' the boys have made. They have obviously used scissors to cut the bottom four inches off your skirt, so that it only comes halfway down your buttocks and exposes a couple of inches of your pussy. They have also cut off the leg-bands of your panties, and more besides, so that now only a very thin strip of satin material covers your pussy and goes between your buttocks up to the waistband at the back. Your top has been cropped to a couple of inches above your nipples, and the cups have been cut out of your bra, so that your breasts are completely exposed.

The upper sixth form boys all file out, laughing among themselves, and then the next class comes in. These boys are in the fifth form, and they all gasp and cheer as they see your state of undress. They surround you, grinning, and start to fondle your breasts, buttocks and pussy, until you…

Run screaming from the room.

Tell them to just hurry up and get it over with.

“Sounds good to me!” says Charlie, and he lets you get up. Biting your lip nervously, you take off your tank-top and bra, and the boys cheer as your breasts appear. Then you remove your skirt, socks, and shoes. Clad only in your white satin panties, you go to the front of the class, and spend the rest of the lesson keeping well clear of the boys while teaching them as if nothing were out of the ordinary. The boys, you suspect, do not pay very good attention during this time, but at least you have managed to avoid being raped.

“Thanks Miss,” says Charlie, returning your clothes at the end of the lesson. “You're a good sport.”

You put on your clothes gratefully; you were not at all sure that you would get them back. The next lesson is with the fifth form, and they are vocally appreciative of your outfit, but you keep away from their hands and for the most part they behave fairly well. But you cannot get out of your head the groping you received from the upper sixth form boys, and whenever you relive it in your mind, you find yourself getting rather excited.

You set your class working on a short comprehension exercise, and excuse yourself from the room. Hurrying to the ladies' toilet, you masturbate to a delicious orgasm, and then, feeling rather naughty, you…

Take off your bra and flush it down the toilet before returning to the classroom.

Shorten your skirt with a pair of scissors before returning to the classroom.

“Uh, I'm sorry,” says Jonathan, looking quite startled and confused.

The boys behind you, encouraged by your lack of objection, pull your skirt up even higher, until it is bunched around your waist. You feel more hands on your bottom, and even one that slips inside your panties. Fingers push between your legs to stroke your labia, and one finger slides into your vaginal opening. Jonathan himself, realising that your words are not according with your actions, reaches out and lays a curious hand on the front of your panties.

“Jonathan!” you say sternly. “What are you doing? That's not appropriate behaviour.”

Jonathan grins, and starts pulling down the front of your panties, while other boys get up from their seats and come over to watch. One boy, a rather shy but rather sweet individual named Bryan, approaches you and nervously says, “Miss Sterling?”

“Yes Bryan?” you say, ignoring Jonathan as he strokes your pussy. Two fingers are now slowly thrusting in and out of your vagina.

“Um,” says Bryan nervously, “I was wondering … um … would you mind if I … um, may I please touch your, um, breasts?”

You stare at him for a moment, then say,

“Certainly not, Bryan! What an outrageous suggestion!”

“Well, since you ask so nicely…”

The boys behind you ignore your request, and pull your skirt up even higher. You turn around to face them, and say, “Boys, if you don't pull my skirt back down this minute, I'll give you detention on Saturday. And I'll be here to supervise it myself.”

“What will you be wearing?” asks one of the boys impishly, as he cups your pussy through your panties, and begins to stroke it, his fingers pressing between your labia.

“I don't see what that has to do with anything,” you say sternly, “but I would imagine I'll be wearing…

My waitress uniform, since I will be going to my waitressing job afterwards.”

An ultra-short micro-dress with just a skimpy little thong underneath.”

You get up and walk over to the man's table. This is uncharacteristically forward of you, but you try to appear confident as you say, “Hi! I couldn't help noticing you noticing me…”

The man smiles, charmingly. “Very astute of you,” he says. “My name's Marcus.”

“I'm Zoë,” you reply.

“You have gorgeous legs, Zoë,” says Marcus. “Would you like to have dinner with me this evening? Somewhere nice - my treat.”

You smile. “Just for having nice legs? Well okay, since you're a good-looking man, and I don't have to work tomorrow … I accept.”

“Excellent,” says Marcus, pleased. “How about Franco Valderano's place on George Street? Say, seven o'clock?”

“That's an expensive place!” you remark, quite impressed. “Are you rich?”

Marcus laughs. “We'll have plenty of time this evening to find out about each other,” he says. “I'll look forward to seeing you there.”

You smile, then return to your table. “I have a date!” you say excitedly to Lynn.

“Wow, nice work!” says Lynn. “Of course, you'll have to wear something that shows off your legs, since we know he likes them.”

“Good point!” you agree.

That afternoon, after school, you go shopping for a dress to wear to the posh restaurant. Unfortunately, everything you really like is terribly expensive, and most of the dresses are in any case too long to really show off your legs. Finally you find a perfect dress at a reasonable price - it is red, slinky, and low-cut … but still too long. However, you are a skilled seamstress and will have some time to shorten it once you get it home. You pay for the dress, go home, and get to work.

But how short should you make it? You find yourself agonising over this question for half an hour, getting increasingly nervous about the time ticking away. Eventually, you decide to cut the dress so that the hem is…

About two inches below your buttocks.

About two inches above your buttocks.

You part your legs, and are rewarded with the immediate widening of your admirer's eyes. You giggle, and spread your knees even further apart, until you are sure that your panties are in full view. Lynn glances beneath the table, and gasps. “You are so naughty!” she says, grinning broadly. “And very sexy,” she adds, winking suggestively at you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why thank you, Lynn!” you say. “I had no idea you were that way inclined.”

Lynn chuckles, and blushes. “I'm not … not really,” she says, but she does not sound very convincing.

You burst out laughing. “Lynn!” you say. “You really are that way! I was only joking - but it looks like I hit the nail on the head!”

At that moment, your admirer gets up and comes over to your table. “Hi,” he says. “My name's Marcus. I couldn't help noticing your delightful legs and panties, and I was wondering if you would like to come out to dinner with me tonight.”

You smile up at him, and say,

“Thank you! I would like that very much.”

“Thank you, but no … I believe my friend and I will be spending this evening together.”

The boys reluctantly return to their desks, and you climb down from yours, and give the boys no further flashes of your panties for the rest of the lesson. For the rest of the morning you tease your pupils with little glimpses now and then, until word of this apparently reaches the ears of Mr Pringle. He summons you to his office after fifth lesson, and you fidget nervously as you knock on his door.

“Come in!” he calls, and you enter.

“Now Zoë,” he says, “what's all this I hear about you deliberately flashing your panties in class?”

“It's not deliberate!” you protest. “But with this skirt being so short, it's kind of inevitable…”

“I suppose it is,” he says, nodding. “I have to say, that is by far the shortest skirt worn by any teacher at this school, ever. I think I can say that with confidence. And frankly, I think you should…

Go home and change into something more sensible.”

Wear skirts of that length all the time. Your legs are amazing!”

Willie grins as he watches you rubbing your panties, and the other boys all get up and start coming over to get a closer look. Then Willie leans his head forward, and starts licking the soft flesh of your groin just to the right of your panties. Taking hold of your panties with his finger and thumb, he pulls them aside, and starts to lick between your labia. Soon he has closed his lips around your clitoris, and is sucking on it … which feels amazing!

You know you should stop this, but you are getting very excited and wet, and it is hard to think clearly. One of the other boys, Kenny Portree, catches your eye and grins. “Hey Miss Sterling,” he says, “I think you should have sex with all of us. Every boy in this room.”

You gasp as the outrageous suggestion - there are twenty-four boys in this class - but it is hard to muster up a dignified response when you are sitting on your desk with your legs spread and one of the boys sucking on your clit. You clear your throat briefly, then say,

“Absolutely not, Kenny. Three of you can fuck me, but that's all.”

“All of you? Wow - okay, but you'll have to be quick.”

Tommy chuckles, and takes your clothes out of the room. Wearing only your panties and shoes, and covering your breasts with one arm, you go back to the front of the class and sit down. You attempt to continue teaching the class, but it is clear that they are not paying attention. With five minutes until the end of the lesson, you are getting increasingly anxious about your clothing. You are about to send one of the boys looking for Tommy, but then Tommy arrives back.

He enters the classroom, grinning. You cannot help noticing that he is not carrying your clothes.

“Where are my clothes, Tommy?” you ask anxiously.

“Well, I gave them a good wash,” he says innocently, “and then I put them out to dry.”

“Put them out…?” you ask nervously. “Where?”

“I couldn't find a clothes line, so I hung them from various tree branches around the school grounds,” says Tommy, and then he bursts out laughing, along with the rest of the class.

Your face pales in shock. “Tommy!” you exclaim. “You go and bring my clothes back this minute!”

“But they're not dry yet!” he says.

“I don't care!” you practically shriek at him. “Go and get them, now!”

“Calm down, Miss,” he says soothingly. “No need to get worked up. I'm sure they'll be dry by lunchtime, then you can go and get them yourself.”

Just three minutes left now. You are running out of time, and it occurs to you that you will have to make some kind of deal with Tommy if you are to get your clothes back. You sigh, and say, “All right Tommy, you win. What do you want in return for bringing my clothes back?”

Tommy's eyes widen, and he licks his lips. After thinking for a moment, he says, “I want you to…

Come with me to a party tonight, as my date. Wear something really slutty.”

Let me and everyone else in this class undress you and feel you up, whenever we want.”

The boys all stare in wide-eyed fascination as you uncover your breasts, hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties, and slowly pull them down to expose your pussy. The shamefulness of this lewd act, in front of all of these teenaged boys, is making you flushed and wet. You step out of your panties and hand them to Tommy, but he just stands there, staring.

“Well Tommy?” you say, putting your hands on your hips. “Are you going to wash my clothes or what?”

He mutters something unintelligible.

“What?” you say.

“I want to … fuck you,” says Tommy uncertainly.

“I'm sure you do,” you retort. “But I already have a boyfriend, thank you.”

Tommy recovers somewhat. “I wonder what he would think if he knew what you were doing now.”

“You don't even know who he is!” you say.

“Sure I do - he's Frank Elwood's brother.”

Shit, you think. You had forgotten that Wayne's younger brother Frank went to this school until a couple of years ago. Tommy would have only been here for one year with Frank, but Tommy's older brother Gareth would have been closer to Frank's age, and perhaps they were even friends. That would make Tommy a closer acquaintance of Wayne's than you are comfortable with.

“Well when I explain to him what happened, Wayne will understand,” you say, trying to muster up an appearance of confidence. “He won't be so understanding, however, if I let you have sex with me. So you can forget about that. Besides, you're underage - it would be illegal.”

“I'm sixteen tomorrow,” says Tommy, grinning. “It'll be legal tomorrow.”

“But still a sackable offence,” you say, “and I want to keep my job, thank you.”

“You'll lose it anyway if Pringle finds out you let us get you naked,” says Tommy. “A fuck isn't going to make much difference. Please? I swear I won't tell Wayne - we'll all swear ourselves to secrecy.”

You shake your head. “No, Tommy,” you say.

Tommy thinks for a moment, then he brightens a little, and says, “All right then - well, I'll just go and wash your clothes.”

You suspect that he has come up with some nasty plan or other…

So you snatch the clothes back and say, “I don't think so Tommy. Jeremy can wash them.”

And your vagina lubricates in excited anticipation as he leaves the room with your clothes.

Standing in front of the washbasin in only your panties and shoes, you scrub at the tea stains on your clothes with hot water and soap. Unfortunately your efforts end up getting your clothes much wetter than you had originally intended, and you do not relish putting them back on again immediately. But what choice do you have? Naturally going back to class like this is out of the question … the very idea is totally … the idea is … hmm, somewhat arousing actually! But you couldn't possibly - you would be sacked! If you were caught…

You start to rub your pussy through your panties, and your excitement grows. What if you were to hurry back to your classroom, teach for a few minutes in just your panties and shoes, then come back here to put your clothes on just before the bell rings for the next lesson? It's a foolish idea, certainly, but it would be an erotic adventure the memory of which would last you a lifetime!

Taking a deep breath, you…

Force yourself to calm down and think rationally.

Leave the toilet and run down the corridor, your hands covering your breasts.

You carefully wash your blouse, and manage to get the tea out fairly well. But when you put it on, you are rather mortified to discover that the large wet patch is rather see-through, and your bra is clearly visible beneath. Nevertheless you have no choice but to return to your classroom and teach like this.

There are some snickers and comments from the boys, but you ignore them. By the end of the lesson, your blouse has dried out somewhat and become more opaque. The rest of the morning is uneventful and, with today being only a half day for you, you return home at lunchtime. You change out of your clothes, which you throw in the laundry hamper, and take a quick shower. As you eat a sandwich in front of the television, wearing nothing but a towel, you consider how to occupy yourself this afternoon.

You have come to no firm conclusions when you finish your lunch and get up to put your plate back in the kitchen. As you stand up, however,

Your back twinges quite badly, and you wince in pain.

The doorbell rings.

Tommy quickly stoops to retrieve the skirt, which he whisks out of your reach. He laughs as you come to an undignified halt and scowl at him. “Give me my skirt!” you say.

“No no,” he says. “And because you misbehaved, I think I'll take an extra long time over washing your skirt. I might not even be done by the end of the lesson.”

You change tactics. “Please Tommy,” you beg. “Don't do this - give me back my skirt.”

“Hmm,” says Tommy. “What are you prepared to do in exchange for your skirt?”

“Do?” you say. “I won't do anything! Certainly nothing sexual, which I'm sure is what's on your mind.”

Tommy laughs again. “Then you can kiss your skirt goodbye, and I'll leave it up to you how you explain the loss of your skirt to Pringle.”

“Good grief Tommy, you really are a little shit,” you say to him in annoyance. “Fine then, I'll…

Let you stick your hand into my panties for ten seconds.”

Play a game of strip poker with you and your friends after school today.”

Rather grumpily, you lift up your blouse until your panties are fully exposed, then you slowly turn around in front of Tommy, as he and his classmates stare at your panties with big grins on their faces. But when you are facing away from Tommy, you gasp as he suddenly grabs the sides of your panties and pulls them down to your ankles. You stoop to pick them up, but he pushes your bottom hard, and you stumble forward, tripping over your panties and sprawling on the floor. One of the boys closest to you reaches down, grabs your panties, and pulls them off your feet.

The boys are falling about laughing hysterically as you pick yourself up, your face bright red, and put your hand over your naked pussy. You descend on Tommy furiously. “Give me back my skirt!” you yell at him.

But he is unruffled by your anger. “Take off your blouse,” he says, “and I'll give you your skirt back.”

“You're insane!” you cry. “I'm not going to take my blouse off when I've already lost my skirt and panties!”

“Okay, now it's the blouse and the bra,” says Tommy. “Take it or leave it. Either you take off your blouse and bra, or we throw your skirt and knickers out of the window.”

Your jaw drops open. “You wouldn't!”

Tommy laughs. “You want to bet on that?”

Josh, the boy who took your panties, stands up and opens a small window above the main pane that is designed to let in fresh air on hot days. He pushes your panties outside and dangles them between his finger and thumb.

“Don't you dare!” you warn him.

“Oops!” he says, letting go.

You utter an anguished cry. “You little bastard!” you exclaim.

Tommy tosses your skirt over to Josh. You lunge for it, but miss by a clear foot. Josh catches it and starts dangling it outside. You feel panic rising within you.

“Give me your blouse and bra,” says Tommy, “and go and stand in front of your desk. If you do that, we'll let you have your clothes back in five minutes' time, after we've had a good look at you. Otherwise, Josh will drop your skirt out of the window, and you'll have to figure out yourself how to get it, and your panties, back.”

You whimper anxiously as you stare from Tommy to Josh. Then you…

Say, “Fuck you, Tommy, I'm not stripping naked for you!”

Reluctantly start taking off your blouse.

You are on your way back to your classroom when you turn a corner and find yourself face to face with Mr Pringle, the headmaster, and a couple in their thirties whose jaws immediately drop open.

“Miss Sterling!” exclaims Mr Pringle. “What is the meaning of this?”

You hastily grab the front of your blouse and tug it down over your panties as far as it will go. “I'm so sorry, Mr Pringle,” you say, “but I spilled tea on my skirt and had to wash it.”

Mr Pringle's brow furrows. “So where is it now?”

“Um, it's still very wet,” you say. “I left it back in the toilet.”

“Good heavens!” says Mr Pringle. “Tell me you weren't planning to return to class like this!”

“Of course not!” you reply, feigning shock at the idea. “I was just going back to my car to get another skirt.”

“You're going out to the car park dressed like that?” he inquires. Then he waves his hand irritably. “Never mind - all right - just be quick about it. Mr and Mrs Braithwaite, I do apologise, I have never seen anything quite like this before at this school…” He and the couple continue past you, and you carry on down the corridor, trying to think what to do. You do not have a skirt in your car, but there is a charity shop down the road and you could probably pick one up there quite cheaply and be back in twenty minutes - just in time for the end of this lesson. Alternatively you could risk going straight back to the classroom, but if Mr Pringle catches you, you'll lose your job for sure.

You come to a decision, and when you reach the next junction in the corridor, you…

Trot quickly back to your classroom.

Head outside into the car park.

Karen, an attractive blonde in her late twenties, stares at you for a moment, then she chuckles. “This is going to be a good story, I can tell,” she says. “What happened?”

“Nothing much to tell I'm afraid, Karen,” you say. “I spilled tea on my skirt, and so I washed it clean, but now it's sopping wet and I'm not sure what to do. I have to get back to my class.”

“Hmm,” says Karen, “you're in quite the pickle then, aren't you? Unless…” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “I could lend you my skirt if you promise to bring it back at the end of the lesson. I'll just wait here in the meantime.”

“That would be most kind of you!” you say gratefully. Karen is a little taller than you, but a similar build - her knee-length cotton skirt should fit you pretty well.

She smiles, and takes her skirt off. Your eyes widen at the sight of her naked pussy, and she winks at you. “Sometimes I like to go commando,” she says mischievously.

“Wow!” you say. “I'm seeing a whole new side of you. Are you sure this is okay?”

Karen nods. “I'll just hide myself away in a stall. You promise you'll be back at the end of the lesson?”

“I promise,” you assure her. “Though I'm not sure what I'll do after that. Maybe my skirt will be a bit drier then.”

“I'll flap it around while you're gone,” says Karen. “That should help.”

You put on her skirt. It is a little tight, but uncomfortably so. “Thanks again!” you say, and then you hurry back to your classroom. Unfortunately you are hurrying a little too much, because you fail to notice…

The bucket balanced on top of the door as you enter the classroom.

The puddle of urine on the seat of your chair.

By the time you reach the town centre, with its broad pedestrian precinct, you have calmed down somewhat and are actually getting quite excited about flashing your thong at hundreds of total strangers. Of course, it is possible that not all of them will be strangers…

You park your car and start walking towards the archway that leads into the main part of the precinct. Immediately your skirt starts riding up, and you have to pull it down every few steps. But you never pull it down quite far enough to cover your buttocks, and as you pass under the archway and continue through the precinct, you leave your skirt alone for longer and longer periods, until you are only pulling it down when two or three inches of your thong are showing at the front.

Your loins tingling with excitement, you stop in front of a particularly reflective shop window, and giggle at the sight of your thong peeping beneath your hemline. With the window's help you can see the reactions of the people passing behind you - most of the men grin broadly as they walk past, staring at your bottom, while the women mostly look at you with disapproval before shaking their heads and turning away. One young mother covers the eyes of her two small children as she passes. Nobody says anything to you, however.

You continue on, and turn a corner, almost running into a little old lady that you quickly recognise. It is old Mrs Peabody from your own street. She smiles at you and says, “Hello Zoë!”, but then she notices your uncovered thong and recoils in shock. “Heavens!” she exclaims.

“Hello Mrs Peabody,” you say warmly. “Doing a bit of shopping?”

“Er, y-yes,” stutters the old lady, now trying hard not to look at your visible nipples. “But Zoë, whatever are you wearing?”

You bend over slightly to look at your skirt, whose hemline is now approaching the waistband of your thong. “Oops!” you exclaim, and quickly pull it down so that it almost, but not quite, covers your thong. “I'm so sorry,” you apologise. “It's this skirt - it keeps riding up!”

Mrs Peabody starts to sidle past you. “Yes … well … I'll see you later then.”

“Goodbye Mrs Peabody,” you say, and you continue walking, giggling quietly to yourself as your skirt starts climbing upward again. You are enjoying the reactions of the people you pass, but it occurs to you that you might have a little more fun in a shop. Looking around, your eyes light up as you spot…

A new clothes shop called Mr Howell's Clothing Emporium.

A sports equipment shop.

You drive to a quiet residential neighbourhood, and find a cul-de-sac lined with large and expensive-looking houses. Choosing a house at random, you park in front of it and get out of your car. You tug your skirt down to cover your thong, then walk up the long garden path to the front door. Your skirt rides up as you walk, and by the time you reach the door, fully half of the front of your thong is showing. Giggling naughtily to yourself, you leave your skirt where it is, and ring the doorbell.

After a few seconds, the door opens and a rather elderly lady peers out at you. Her eyes widen as they take in your ridiculous skirt and visible thong, and she says, “Why hello! Are you a prostitute?”

“No!” you say hastily. “I'm a Jehovah's Witness. I'm just going door to door, spreading the word of God, you know… But if you're busy…”

“No, I'm not busy,” says the woman. “You don't look much like a Jehovah's Witness.”

“I just joined,” you say. “This is my first day. Look, I don't want to bother you…”

The woman grins, revealing an array of false teeth. “It's no bother,” she says. “Why don't you come in and I'll put the kettle on?”

You hesitate for a moment, then say,

“Thank you, that would be most kind.”

“I'm sorry, I think I got the wrong house,” and try the next house.

You drive to a rundown and crime-ridden neighbourhood, peppered with tower blocks and low-cost housing. You park on a disreputable looking street with rows of terraced houses, and pick a house at random. Getting out of the car without pulling your skirt down, you take a deep breath, then march up to the front door, letting your skirt ride up until its hemline is almost at the top of your thong.

You ring the doorbell, and immediately dogs start barking inside. The door opens, revealing a burly, shaven-headed man who stares at you in surprise. His gaze drops to your thong, and he grins. “Oi Marfa!” he shouts, cocking his head over one shoulder. “Come and 'ave a butcher's at this!”

A tattooed young woman with long greasy hair comes to the door with a cigarette between her fingers. She looks you up and down disdainfully. Then she slaps the man's arm. “Who the fuck's this, Del?” she demands.

“Search me!” says the man. “She rang our doorbell. I've never seen 'er before in my life.”

“Whatcha want then?” says Martha, glaring at you.

“Um,” you say nervously. “I'm a Jehovah's Witness. I've come to talk to you about our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Del and Martha stare at you, then burst out laughing. “Dressed like that?” says Del. “Do me a favour! Go on, whatcha really 'ere for?”

“No really!” you insist. “I'm a Jehovah's Witness. Sorry about my panties showing and everything, but this skirt keeps riding up and it seems pointless to keep pulling it down.”

Del stares rather hungrily at your thong. “Yeah, I agree,” he says. “Pointless.”

“'Ere!” says Martha, slapping Del's arm. “Watch where you're lookin'!” Then an idea seems to occur to her. “Oi, maybe your bruvver would like to talk a bit of religion wiv this bird.”

“Yeah!” says Del, brightening. “Er, what's your name, Miss?”

“Zoë,” you reply nervously.

“I've got this bruvver Jason, right?” says Del. “'E's up in 'is room, mopin' and doin' fuck all. Maybe some religion'd do 'im good. You want to come in and talk to 'im?”

You are not sure that you like the eager gleam in Del's eye. After a moment's consideration, you say,

“Sure - I'll come in and talk to Jason if that's all right with you.”

“Actually, you know, I think this was a mistake. Goodbye.” And go on to the next house.

You can hardly believe Mr Pringle is letting you go and teach your class like this! With glowing buttocks, you head to your classroom, where more than twenty sixteen- and seventeen-year-old boys are waiting for you. Every so often as you walk, you tug your skirt down to cover your thong, but at the moment when you reach the door to your classroom, your skirt is halfway up your thong at the front, and revealing most of your buttocks at the back. You know you should probably tug your skirt down before entering the room, but how far? Should you completely cover your buttocks?

Eventually you decide to cover your thong, and leave just a little bit of your buttocks showing, and so you tug your skirt most of the way down. Entering the room, you say brightly, “Good morning boys!”

All jaws in the room drop as you walk over to your desk. As you turn towards the class and lean back to rest your bottom on the edge of your desk, your thong peeps out from beneath your hemline. Then, as an afterthought, you adjust your peasant top, pulling it off your shoulders and down your upper arms by several inches. You tug the front down until the elasticised neckline is resting on your nipples, and your areolas are peeping into view.

“Nice outfit!” exclaims Ian Copthorn, a dark-haired boy who is sitting in the front row and has a better view than most.

“Why thank you, Ian!” you say, smiling at him. “Now boys, I believe that when the last lesson ended, you were halfway through Exercise 29 of your textbook. This is an important exercise and I'd like you to finish it now, please.”

“I already finished it, Miss,” says Jamie Pringle, sitting at the back of the class.

“Well done Jamie, then you can proceed to Exercise 30 if you want,” you tell him.

While the boys are working, you walk slowly around the room, letting your skirt ride higher and higher. After two minutes it is halfway up your thong at the front. After five minutes it is almost at the top of your thong, and exposing practically all of your buttocks. You are about to pull it down a bit, when one of the boys raises his hand.

“Miss!” says Ralph Jarman. “I have a question.”

You go over to his desk and bend down, resting your hands on your knees as you look closely at his textbook. You spread your feet apart by twelve inches or so, and arch your back slightly, so that your buttocks part and your thong is clearly visible to the boys behind you as a thin strip of material barely covering your anus.

“Miss, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing here,” says Ralph. “Do I have to write this in the style of Dickens?”

“No Ralph,” you say, “though you would get extra marks for doing so. What the exercise is basically asking for is a fleshing-out of Sydney Carton's backstory.”

You are not exactly surprised when tentative fingers start to stroke between your buttocks, but the sudden touch makes you jump nonetheless. The fingers are withdrawn, but they return only a few seconds later. This time they pull your thong to one side, and you feel a finger starting to push its way into your vagina. In response to this, you…

Continue to talk with Ralph, and ignore the finger inside you.

Let the finger fuck you for a few seconds, then put a stop to it.

You gasp in shock as you feel Mr Pringle's fingers slap against your thong-clad pussy. For a moment you are too surprised to react, and the headmaster spanks your pussy again. You are astonished that Mr Pringle has so boldly crossed the line into sexual torture, yet you find that you are becoming quite aroused. Deciding to enter into the spirit of your new punishment, you spread your feet apart even further, bending your knees and arching your back to make your pussy a better target for Mr Pringle. He responds with a will, sharply spanking your pussy with his hand until your labia feel as if they are on fire.

But apparently he is reluctant to leave it at that. You feel your thong being pulled to one side, and then you squeal as Mr Pringle's fingers strike your naked pussy. Then suddenly he thrusts two of his fingers into your wet vagina, pushing them deep inside you. He finger-fucks you for about half a minute, and then he stops. You hear a zip being undone.

“Whoa!” comes the voice of Mr Harper from somewhere behind you. “You're not seriously going to…”

A fat penis pushes against your labia, and then eases between them, sliding towards your vaginal opening. You…

Stand up straight and say, “I think this has gone far enough!”

Brace yourself for the inevitable penetration.

“Stop this, Clyde!” you wail, as Clyde thrusts himself deep into your vagina. But he ignores you, and begins to fuck you with all the vigour and clumsy exuberance of a rather inexperienced teenager.

“Don't come inside me!” you tell him urgently, as your breasts are roughly squeezed and pinched. “I'm not on the pill!”

Clyde laughs, as do some of his friends. “Then I suppose you'll just have to take one of those morning-after jobs!” he says. “Or you could have my baby. Wouldn't you like to be a mum?”

“I don't want your baby!” you exclaim in distress. Then you whimper miserably as Clyde groans and jerks his hips, pressing his groin tightly against yours and spurting his semen deep inside you.

After panting for a few moments, Clyde pulls out of you, and steps back. “Who's next?” he asks.

A grinning Owen Jones shuffles forward, unzipping his trousers and pulling out an impressively large penis, which he unceremoniously pushes inside you. “For heaven's sake!” you complain. “Isn't one enough? How many of you are going to rape me?”

There is a ripple of laughter. “All of us!” says one boy eagerly, and your heart sinks.

But in fact, after Owen, only six more boys come inside you before one of the other teachers, George Finnegan, comes to investigate the commotion. When he finds you being raped, he goes ballistic, throwing boys out of the classroom one after another and chasing the rest out.

“Good grief!” he exclaims. “What happened, Zoë?”

You describe how you were assaulted in the corridor on account of your outfit.

“That's no excuse!” says George angrily. “Come on, let's get you to the police station.” He hands you your clothes, and you put them on, thinking about how traumatic it will be to report the rape, and re-live it over and over again as you have to tell the story at the police station, and then in court.

Feeling a little better with your clothes back on, you decide to…

Report the rape, take a morning-after pill, and resign from your job.

Tell George the rape was all your own fault, and not bother taking a morning-after pill.

You scream in pain as Clyde lashes your naked pussy with his belt. Each blow stings your tender labia, which are soon burning with agony. You try to struggle free, but you are being held too tightly. The boys playing with your breasts start cruelly pinching and twisting your nipples, taking their cue from Clyde's gleeful sadism.

Fortunately your screams bring one of the other teachers running. It is thirty-year-old Colleen Appleby, who teaches chemistry, and she stares in shock at the scene before her. “What the hell is going on?” she exclaims.

“What does it look like?” says Clyde, still raining down blows on your abused pussy. “We're teaching slutty little Miss Sterling a lesson.”

Colleen continues to stare in horrified fascination. “Well don't just stand there!” you yell at her. “Either stop this, or go and get help!”

But Colleen does neither. After a few moments, she says hesitantly, “Do you think … do you think I could have a go?”

Clyde laughs, and hands Colleen the belt. “Be my guest!” he says.

Your heart sinks as Colleen approaches you with an odd expression on her face. But then, to your astonishment, the mousy young woman starts thrashing the belt around wildly, hitting Clyde and several of the other boys. She catches Clyde in the face with the belt's buckle, making the boy yelp with pain. Then…

The boys holding you down finally let go, and you jump up from the desk.

The boys grab and overpower Colleen, and start stripping her naked as she screams.

Gasps of astonishment sound from every corner of the room, it seems - at least ten of your colleagues are here. One of them, unfortunately, is the headmaster, Mr Pringle. He stares at your thong in utter astonishment. “Have you completely lost your mind, Miss Sterling?” he demands.

“You don't like the new look?” you ask him innocently.

“What? No! You're fired!” he exclaims. “No explanation can possibly excuse this … outrageous behaviour!”

“Please don't fire me!” you say quickly, pulling down your skirt. “It was only a bit of fun. I wouldn't let any of the boys see me like that.”

“But even so!” says Mr Pringle. “Your skirt's far too short, and you're not wearing a bra - I can see your nipples, woman!”

“Ah,” you say, hastily improvising. “Well, all my bras are in the wash, and I didn't realise how see-through this top is…”

“Poppycock!” says Mr Pringle. “You're still fired. Get out of my school! You can come back for your things when you're wearing something decent!”

Shocked, you turn around and leave the room. The thought of being unemployed in today's economic climate and tough job market is rather alarming. As you drive home, you wonder what sort of job you should try for next - it seems unlikely that you'll manage to land another teaching position, particularly since Mr Pringle is unlikely to provide you with a glowing reference…

At home, you check the ads in the paper, and by good fortune one of them leaps out almost immediately as being something you could probably manage. It reads:

“Swimming Pool Attendant - must have lifeguard qualifications.”

“Stage Magician's Assistant - must be game for a laugh!”

The room is packed - at least half of the teaching staff is here, drinking tea or coffee, chatting, reading newspapers, and making last minute preparations for the day's lessons. All eyes turn towards you, however, as you enter, and jaws drop in surprise. You mutter “Hello” to everyone, and scurry over to the tea cupboard. As you prepare yourself a cup of tea, you hear behind you the unmistakeable voice of the headmaster, Mr Pringle.

“Miss Sterling!” he says. “Might I enquire why you chose to dress like a prostitute today?”

You blush in embarrassment and turn around. “I'm sorry sir,” you say, “but as you know I often have trouble keeping the boys' attention focused on me. I don't have a loud, commanding voice like yours, after all. I thought maybe if I dressed like this, they would pay more attention.”

Mr Pringle looks impressed, despite himself. “Well I'm not sure how well it will work, but full marks for creative thinking! Good job, Zoë.”

You smile, pleased to have earned his approval. He almost never calls you by your first name. “Thank you sir,” you say.

Once you have your mug of tea in hand, you head off to your first lesson. It is with the Upper Sixth, a group of seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys who are preparing for their A-levels this year. Usually they are a pretty studious bunch, and not much in need of outrageous attempts to hold their attention, as some of the younger classes can be. You bite your lip nervously, tug your skirt down, and enter the room.

“Good morning boys!” you say brightly, as you walk up to your desk.

Twenty sets of eyes widen in astonishment as they take in your skimpy outfit. “Wow Miss Sterling!” says one boy, Gus Lambert. “I like what you're wearing today!”

“Thank you Gus,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling slightly flustered.

Another boy, David Fitch, says, “Is it true that Clyde Richardson tried to rape you in the corridor this morning?”

You shudder. “He did try to take advantage,” you say, “but it didn't go quite that far, thank goodness.” You look around sharply. “I trust there will be no problems with you boys?”

The boys all utter various assurances of good behaviour, and you thank them, and start teaching. As you pace up and down in front of the blackboard, your skirt rises higher and higher, and, feeling comforted by the boys' assurances, you decide to let it climb as high as it wants. Ten minutes later, your thong is almost completely showing at the front, and your buttocks are almost fully exposed at the back. Needless to say, the boys' attention is riveted on you - but not perhaps on what you are saying.

Their behaviour, however, has so far been exemplary, and you are getting very aroused at the thought that you are exposing yourself so wantonly in front of them. You start to feel the urge to up the ante a bit, and, after absent-mindedly stroking your pussy for a few seconds through your thong, you…

Climb on to your desk and start dancing sexily while continuing to talk about Hamlet.

Sit on the desk of one of the boys in the front row, and spread your knees wide apart.

The boys laugh, and Clyde takes out his penis. “Sorry,” he says, “I don't seem to have any condoms on me.” As your legs are pulled even wider apart, he positions the head of his erection at the opening of your vagina, and with a couple of quick thrusts, he is buried deep inside you.

“Well just try not to come inside me, please!” you beg. “I'm not on the pill, Clyde.”

Clyde chuckles. “I don't know, Zoë,” he says, “I think it might be fun to knock up a teacher.”

“Look,” you tell him, “other teachers are going to start coming down the corridor from the common room at any moment. Is this really how you want them to find you? You'll get into terrible trouble!”

Clyde groans as he spurts his semen up against your cervix. He pulls out of you, and another boy, Roger Dillon, takes his place. Roger is younger and more eager than Clyde, and he fucks you with faster strokes. “Hi Miss Sterling!” he says excitedly.

“Hi Roger,” you sigh unhappily.

“You have an amazing body!” says Roger. “Your breasts are gorgeous!”

Despite your situation, you are flattered by this. “Thank you Roger,” you say to him, and even manage a smile.

The next boy, Chris Bilton, is effusively grateful for this opportunity. “Oh thank you, Miss Sterling!” he says as he pounds his erection in and out of your vagina. “This is fantastic - I've always wanted to do this! You're the best teacher ever!”

By now you are actually getting quite aroused. And although the next boy, Sean Lomax, is rougher and less nice to you than Roger or Chris, you enjoy the feeling of his thick cock as it caresses the walls of your vagina. Unfortunately, before Sean has time to come inside you, you hear the voice of one of the teachers, Ken Levinson, barking out, “What is going on here?”

Sean speeds up the pace of his thrusting, which feels … amazing! You feel your climax approaching, and as Ken forces his way through the crowd to where you are being held, you scream loudly with orgasmic ecstasy. “Oh God! Oh God!” you cry, writhing with pleasure. “Yes! Yes!” Then Sean comes inside you, and you are lowered to the floor, and released.

“Go to your classes!” Ken booms at the boys, who quickly all start to disperse. Ken helps you to your feet, and semen pours out of your vagina, running down the insides of your thighs. “Where are your clothes?” Ken asks you, rather coldly.

“The boys took them away - I didn't see where,” you mutter.

“Well come on,” says Ken. “Let's get you to the common room, and Jack can decide what to do about this.”

He does not even offer you his jacket. Naked, dripping sperm, and walking rather bow-legged, you are led up the stairs and into the staff common room, where a dozen teachers gasp in shock as you enter.

Mr Pringle, the headmaster, comes over to stand in front of you and Ken. “My God!” he exclaims, white-faced. “Whatever happened?”

“I found her having sex with some of the boys,” says Ken, barely disguising the contempt in his voice. “It was quite the party.”

Your cheeks reddening, you reply,

“I was raped, you arsehole!”

“I'm sorry, Mr Pringle - it won't happen again.”

Clyde thinks about this. “Hmm,” he says. “Sorry, but if you wore what I would want you to wear, you'd lose your job, and then what would be the point? I'm not sure you won't lose your job anyway.”

“I could be subtle about it!” you say. “I could wear a decent-length skirt for Mr Pringle's benefit, but whenever I teach one of your classes, I could hike up the skirt and tuck it into the top of my panties. And I could wear see-through tops with no bra, but put a cardigan on when Mr Pringle's around, and take it off when I'm teaching.”

Clyde shakes his head. “It's a nice offer,” he says, “but I'm just itching to come inside you.” He takes out his erection, and positions it at the entrance to your vagina.

“Please don't!” you beg. “I'm not on the pill!”

He grins. “Cool,” he says. “I'd love to knock you up.”

“Well if you do, I'll damn well come after you for child support!” you exclaim.

The grin fades from Clyde's face, and he scowls. “Anyone got a condom?” he asks.

A condom is passed to him, and he struggles to put it on, but rips it by mistake. “Fuck!” he shouts. “Fine then, Zoë - I'll fuck your arsehole instead!”

He tries to force his penis into your anus, making you gasp and squeal with pain, but he is unsuccessful. “Damn it, the teachers will be along here any moment,” he says. “Come on lads,

Let's get her into the gymnasium - we shouldn't be disturbed there for a while.”

We'd better get to class. Make sure she doesn't get her clothes back!”

“What the devil are you two doing?” she shrieks. “You're fired - both of you! Grab your stuff, and get out!”

“Oh shit!” says Walter, jumping to his feet. “I'm so sorry Jessica - it's just - she was looking so…”

“I don't want to hear it!” shouts Jessica. “Get out, get out, get out!”

Walter scurries away, and you get to your feet, your head bowed in shame. “Please forgive me Jessica - I know I should have stopped him, but it felt so nice…”

“I don't care how nice it felt!” she snaps at you. “You don't do that in an office - ever! But look what you're wearing, woman! What's got into you?”

“I just … I just wanted to feel sexy!” you sigh.

“The office isn't the place for that!” says Jessica. “Go on - clean out your desk.” She marches off down the aisle.

Feeling rather glum, but still sexually frustrated, you gather your things together in a cardboard box, and leave the office for good. Driving home, you go online and start job-hunting immediately. What you are looking for is a temporary position, to get you some income while you seek out the right permanent job. After browsing through dozens of listings, one temp-to-hire position catches your eye. It reads:

“Maidservant required for cleaning and other household duties in large country house. Uniform provided. Applicant must be hard-working and attractive.”

Your jaw drops at the last word. Attractive? Can people get away with posting such job requirements these days? You suppose that modelling jobs might say something like that, but a maid's position? You wonder what kind of person lives in this large country house. Someone rich and eccentric, probably… Hmm!

You check through a few more listings, and find something a little more sensible. It reads:

“Newly-opened comic book shop requires doorperson with engaging personality to help pull in customers off the street.”

It does not sound like the job, or the shop, will last very long, but it should be easy work and it will help to pay the bills until you get a proper job. Yet you can't help being curious about the maid position - that would be much harder work, but it might also pay rather more…

You are torn, but eventually you decide to apply for…

The maidservant position.

The comic book shop position.

You stifle a moan of pleasure as Walter's tongue works its magic. Then he starts to suck on your clitoris, and you cannot help moaning softly. You offer no resistance as Walter pulls your panties down, but you shiver nervously as you hear him unzip his trousers. Then you feel his penis pressing against your labia, and beginning to push into your vagina. You are not on the pill, and this is a pretty bad time of the month to be engaging in unprotected sex. You are sure that Walter has not had time to slip on a condom.

Unbeknownst to you, Walter noticed a few moments ago that Jessica was watching, and was about to panic, but she quieted him with a finger against her lips. Jessica then motioned for Walter to have sex with you, an instruction with which he was only too happy to comply.

All you know is that Walter's erection is slowly sliding into your vagina, and you are not sure whether or not he is planning on pulling out before his climax. Feeling rather nervous about this,

You push Walter away and emerge from beneath the desk.

You cross your fingers that Walter does not come inside you.

You print off some stock reports, then you drive to the warehouse and park just behind the office. Heading inside, you are met by the warehouse manager, Augustus Smith, known to pretty much everyone as Smithy. He welcomes you and asks if you would like a cup of tea.

“Yes please, that would be lovely,” you say.

While you are drinking your tea, various members of the warehouse staff enter the building, collect or drop off paperwork, and then leave. A few of them leer lecherously at you as you sit in Augustus's office with one leg crossed over the other, your right leg exposed almost to the hip. Finally you put down your tea and glance at your watch. “Time for the stock check?” you ask.

“Yup,” says Smithy. “I'll give you a hard hat - but, ah, you don't have any steel toe-caps?”

“Oh,” you say. “No, I don't.”

“Well,” says Smithy, “I really shouldn't let you go into the warehouse then, but I suppose I'll make an exception. Just please, stay well out of the way of the fork-lifts!”

You nod, and follow Douglas, one of the packers, out into the warehouse. You have a list of items that you are planning to check, and you start at the top. “Could you show me to Stack F65 please?” you ask him.

“No problem,” he says, “but I can't babysit you all morning. I've got me own cycle-counting to do.”

He takes you to Stack F65, and leaves you there. You stare up at the tall metal frame with its dozens of shelves, and check your sheet again. Your heart sinks as you see that the location of this item is F65s22. The item you are looking for is on the twenty-second shelf. The shelves are stacked by specially modified fork-lift trucks, but those vehicles are not much good for stock-checking, even if you were qualified and able to drive one.

Another packer walks past - a man named Carl, to whom you were introduced while in Smithy's office. “Hello!” he says, grinning down at your legs. “Can I help you?”

You point upwards. “How do you normally get up there to check stock items?”

He looks at you craftily. “Ah,” he says, “we always use the ladders for that.”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “I'm not from Health and Safety, Carl,” you remind him. “I'm just here to check stock.”

“Ah yes, of course,” he says. “Well, we often just climb the shelves if the ladders aren't available. Which, to be honest, they aren't right now - they're all being used for the stock check.”

“I see,” you sigh. “I suppose I'll have to climb them, then. I wish I'd worn better shoes…”

“I could stand underneath you, and catch you if you fall,” Carl offers.

“Thank you Carl!” you say. “That would be most kind.” It occurs to you that he might just be offering so that he can get a look up your skirt, but your safety is more important than your modesty, and in any case, you find yourself a little aroused at the idea of Carl looking up your skirt. He is not a bad-looking man, in a rough sort of way. You reach up to grab one of the shelves with your hands, and lift one foot up on to a lower shelf, but Carl stops you.

“Whoa!” he exclaims. “Do you WANT to fall off?”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Use both stacks,” he says. “One foot there, and the other foot on a shelf on the other stack. Same with your hands. That way you're braced on both sides.”

“Ah, I see,” you say, and you have to admit that this does sound like a better method, except for the fact that it means your legs will be spread wide apart as you are climbing. Nevertheless, you fold up your papers and tuck them into a pocket, along with your pen, and then you begin to climb. Soon your feet are about five feet above the floor, and your skirt is high enough for Carl to look up it at your panties … which he gleefully does.

You climb up another foot, but then your pen falls out of your pocket. “Shit!” you exclaim. “Carl, could you toss that up to me?”

“Dangerous!” says Carl, stooping to pick up the pen. “You'll probably fall off trying to catch it. You need to keep your hands on those shelves.”

You sigh, and say,

“Bother it! I'll just have to climb back down then.”

“Well could you maybe just tuck the pen into my panties then?”

You print off some stock reports, then you drive home and take off your office clothes. Dressed only in a bra and panties, you go to your wardrobe and look for something even skimpier and sexier than your school-style skirt. Your eyes light on a dark blue halter dress that an ex-boyfriend bought you a couple of years ago - it is ridiculously short and has a neckline that plunges down to below your navel. You wore it a few times, but eventually got tired of your breasts falling out of it whenever you turned or bent over.

You take off your bra and panties and put the dress on, along with a skimpy white thong, then you drive to the warehouse before you have time to chicken out. When you enter the office, a couple of packers are standing in the corridor talking to the warehouse manager, Augustus Smith.

“Hi Smithy!” you say brightly.

All three men gasp in awe as they turn towards you. “Well I'll be buggered!” says Smithy. “Zoë, are you seriously intending to go out stock-checking in that?”

You giggle. “I just thought your crew would appreciate some eye candy out there. I thought it might mitigate any resentment arising from having their work second-guessed.”

Smithy scratches his head. “What do you think, lads? Will Zoë's outfit help you feel less resentful?”

“Sure!” says one of them, and “No resentment here!” says the other, grinning.

“Good! Then let's get started,” you say. “I have a list of items here - if someone could show me…”

“Unfortunately my lads will all be busy with the cycle count,” says Smithy. “But the stack numbering system is pretty straightforward - you should have no trouble finding your way around.”

“Okay then,” you say. “Do I need a hard hat?”

“Yes indeed,” says Smithy, pulling one off a shelf and handing it to you. “And safety shoes, although we don't have any spares of those, and certainly not in your size. Next time you come down here, you should order some ahead of time. Today you'll have to do without - just keep out of the way of the fork-lifts!”

“Thanks,” you say with a smile. “I'll see you later then.”

On your way to the main warehouse you are goggled at by several drivers, loaders and packers, and you smile to yourself as some of them wolf-whistle at you. Inside the warehouse you quickly find the stack of shelving that you are looking for, but the staggering height of the stacks fills you with dismay. You look at your report, and then turn around to see two packers staring at you and grinning.

“Hi,” you say. “How does one get up to, say, shelf number twenty-two?”

“Normally you'd use a ladder,” says one of them, “but all the ladders are being used for the stock check. Otherwise you can climb up the stack - we're not supposed to, but we do it all the time. I can climb up there for you, if you tell me what you're looking for.”

His colleague turns to stare at him, and then hits him in the arm.

“Thanks,” you say, “but I've got a lot of items to look for - I should probably figure out how to find them myself. How does one safely climb these things?”

“There's no safe way of climbing them,” says the taller of the two men, speaking for the first time. “But if you just make sure you only move one hand or one foot at a time, then you should be all right. I can stand beneath you if you like, to catch you if you fall … just while you get used to it.”

“Thank you,” you say, “that would be most kind.”

“Want me to hold your pen and papers while you climb?” asks the shorter man.

“I'll need them with me,” you say, but you realise that you will not be able to climb effectively, or safely, while holding these items. After a moment's thought, you lift up the front of your dress, and tuck your pen and the folded-up papers into the side of your thong, while the two packers' eyes widen with delight.

You suppress a giggle, and then you turn and start climbing the stack. The shelves are spaced adequately for climbing, and the vertical supports are a good size for gripping with your hands. At first you climb slowly, as the two packers move below you and stare up at your thong, but then you increase your pace, and soon reach the twenty-second shelf. Looking down, you are a little alarmed at how far away the ground is, but you cling on tightly to the shelving, and look for eleven boxes bearing the product code at the top of your list. You find the boxes almost immediately, but count only ten. You make a note, and then start climbing down.

Your dress snags on a protruding nail, and as you try to unhook it, your foot slips. You yelp in terror as you lose your grip on the vertical support, and fall downwards. Fortunately the nail is still caught on your dress, which is then dragged up your body and over your head, dislodging your hat and sending it crashing to the ground. Your clutching hands manage to grab your dress before you completely fall out of it, and you jerk to a halt, your shoes flying off your feet as you swing and bump into the shelving. Rather shaken, you grab hold of the support and plant your feet firmly on one of lower shelves. You let go of your dress, which springs upwards and out of reach.

“Oh my God, are you all right?” calls the shorter man from down below you.

“Yes, I'm fine!” you reply. But you feel like you have had enough of climbing. You carefully climb down the stack, and heave a sigh of relief as you put your feet down on solid ground. Now dressed only in a thong, you cover your breasts with one arm, and stoop to pick up your pen and papers, which fell to the floor when you slipped. “Where are my shoes?” you ask.

“Up on the shelves somewhere,” says the taller man. “You pretty much kicked them sideways when you fell - they didn't make it down here.”

“Want me to climb up there and fetch your dress and shoes?” asks the shorter man.

You smile at him gratefully, and reply, “Thank you - I would appreciate that.”

“Name's Jon, by the way,” he says. “And my lanky friend is Lenny.”

“I'm Zoë,” you say. “Nice to meet you both.”

Jon nimbly climbs up the stack, just as a fork-lift drives past the far end of the aisle. The driver glances your way as he passes, then he does a double-take, and screeches his truck to a halt. Up on the stack, Jon finds one of your shoes, and tosses it down to the floor. You are about to go and retrieve it, but Lenny catches your arm, and points to the fork-lift, which has backed up and is now coming down the aisle towards you.

“Better get out of the way,” Lenny advises. “Fork-lift wheels and bare feet don't go well together.”

You nod and retreat to the end of the aisle. Meanwhile Jon has reached your dress and unhooked it. He drops it to the ground, where it lands just in front of the fork-lift. You shriek in horror as one of the heavy wheels rolls over it and drags it up into the wheel arch. Then you gasp as the same wheel rolls over your shoe, crushing it flat.

The fork-lift stops just next to you. Driving it is a rather gormless-looking young man who grins at your naked breasts. “Ullo!” he says.

“Hi Tim,” says Lenny, amused. “Do you realise you just ran over this lady's dress?”

“Did I?” says Tim in surprise.

You crouch down to retrieve your dress, but find it stuck fast. “Here, let me,” says Tim, and he bends down to grab hold of the small portion of your dress that is visible. He gives it a hard tug, but it merely stretches. He pulls harder, and then gives it a mighty yank. There is a sound of tearing material, and then roughly a third of the dress comes off in his hands. “Oh dear!” he says.

Jon climbs back down, and glares at Tim. “What the fuck, Tim?” he says.

“Sorry,” Tim apologises.

Jon turns to you and says, “What now, Zoë? I'm sorry, I couldn't find your other shoe, but it looks like the one I found is no longer wearable, thanks to this idiot. And your dress is ruined.”

You sigh, and say, “Well the stock check's still got to be done. Perhaps one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to…

Find me something to wear?”

Accompany me as I carry on with my job?”

You sigh. “All right Travis,” you say, and you leave the building and go to your car. Your tea-soaked blouse is sticking to your chest in places and is most uncomfortable, so you take it off and toss it into the passenger seat. Driving home, you fortunately attract little attention, until you stop at a set of traffic lights next to a row of shops. You shrink down in your seat and fold your arms across your chest, deliberately avoiding looking at the passing pedestrians.

To your astonishment, the passenger door of your car is suddenly opened and a masked man climbs in and sits down. He points a gun at you. “Drive!” he barks.

“Oh my God!” you squeal in terror.

“Do it! Drive!” shouts the man.

Fortunately the lights change just as you step on the accelerator. “Where to?” you wail.

“East!” says the man. “Head for the docks.”

“Please don't hurt me!” you say as you speed down the road at close to fifty miles per hour.

“Don't drive so fast!” exclaims the man. “We're not being chased! Not yet anyway. Just act like nothing's wrong.”

“That's a little hard when I've got a gun on me!” you say, but you slow down to just under forty.

Your passenger glances at you, and says, “What's up with the whole topless thing, anyway?”

“Not quite topless,” you mutter. “I spilled tea on my blouse. Which, incidentally, you're sitting on.”

“Ugh!” he says. “I thought I was sitting on something wet.” He pulls your blouse from beneath his bottom, opens his window, and tosses it out.

“Hey!” you exclaim.

The man merely chuckles. “Tea'd never come out, anyway. Turn right up here.”

You do so, and follow several more of his directions, until you arrive at an old, abandoned warehouse. “Out,” he says.

You get out of the car, and fold your arms across your chest. “I haven't seen your face,” you say. “I could just drive away and pretend this never happened.”

“That's for the boss to decide,” says the man. “But first, I need to blindfold you. Turn around.”

You do so, and a moment later, the world goes black as the man's mask is pulled over your head. You guess he must have put it on you backwards, since you cannot see the eye-holes. “Come on,” he says. “And don't even think about taking the mask off. If you see my face, or anybody's, we'll have to kill you.”

“Trust me, I don't want to see anybody's face,” you say fervently.

He takes your arm and leads you for what feels like a hundred yards or so. Then you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. A gravelly voice says, “Oi - what's going on? Who's this?”

“My getaway driver,” says your captor. “Wasn't sure what to do with her. She hasn't seen my face.”

“What happened to D… the guy we sent with you?”

“The job went south - he scarpered.”

“So you didn't get anything?”

“I didn't say that. Look.”

“Nice. Good job. All right - time to disperse.”

“What about her?”

“Well she hasn't seen us, so I don't think we need to do anything drastic. But we can't have her calling the coppers the minute we let her go, either. Tie her up - that pipe'll do. Someone'll find her, eventually.”

You are led a short distance, and then your arms are pulled behind you and brought together either side of a narrow metal object. Your wrists are tied together, very securely, and then you are gagged.

“Goodbye Miss,” says the gravelly-voiced man. “Nice outfit, by the way.”

“Hey Boss, can't we … you know … have a little fun with her before we get out of here?”

Your stomach clenches in fear. Then the boss says sharply, “We may be crooks, but we're civilised crooks. You leave her alone, understand?”

“Yes Boss.”

The men's footsteps retreat into the distance, and you sigh with relief. But your troubles are not over … how are you going to get out of here? You hope that someone finds you soon.

Two hours pass, and then you hear more footsteps approaching. A male voice says,

“Bloody hell! Are you all right, Miss?”

“Well, well, well … what have we here? Hehehe…”

You go to your desk, take off your tea-stained blouse, and sit down in front of your computer. Tasha, seeing you do this, gasps in astonishment. “Are you crazy?” she asks.

You grin. “Travis said I could work like this, since my blouse is covered in tea.”

“Good grief!” she says. “What's next? Are you going to find an excuse to take off your bra, too?”

“I'm not planning on it!” you say, laughing. “I think that might be a little much.”

A couple of hours later, you are in the middle of a phone call when you receive an instant message from Travis's boss, Alistair. He wants to see you immediately. You finish your phone call, then you get up and walk through the office, ignoring the gasps of astonishment and whispered comments from those who haven't yet seen your state of undress. When you reach Alistair's office, you knock, then enter.

He looks up from his computer … but no higher than your chest. “Ah, Zoë,” he says. “Yes, I heard about your little mishap. The problem is, I'm concerned that you might hear people talking about your … um … lack of clothing, and lodge a complaint of sexual harassment.”

“Oh don't worry Alistair, I wouldn't do that,” you say. “I chose to work like this instead of going home to change, and I can't exactly blame people for talking about it. I'm even prepared to be teased about it - it is unusual, after all … and I'm pretty thick-skinned.”

“That's all very well,” says Alistair, “but if some comment or other gets past your thick skin, and you change your mind, then the company's vulnerable. Unless you're prepared to sign a waiver, I think it's probably best if you go home and change.”

“What kind of waiver?” you ask curiously.

“Oh, it's a standard sexual harassment waiver form,” says Alistair. “It exempts the company from responsibility, should you lodge a complaint.”

“I see,” you say, thinking about this. “Well…

That's fine with me - I don't mind signing such a form. Do you have one handy?”

I don't like the sound of that. I think maybe I'll go home and change.”

You send your email, and then enter Dirk's order. About half an hour later, you receive a reply from Dirk. It reads:

“What kind of sexy photo??? Wow, what a question! I guess any kind of sexy photo of your beautiful self, Zoë. Maybe something that shows off your lovely legs, haha! Yes, that would be wonderful. I know you are only teasing me, but it is nice to imagine that you would send me a sexy photo!”

You smile to yourself. If only Dirk knew how much leg you were showing at the moment! He would probably have a coronary. As it happens, you do have a camera phone, and could quite easily take a photo of your legs and send it to him if you wanted. It would be highly inappropriate, of course, but on the other hand it would probably secure Dirk's business for the next five years at least…

On a sudden impulse, you decide to go for it. “Hey Tasha!” you whisper.

Tasha pops her head over the cubicle wall. “What?” she whispers back, wide-eyed, sensing she is about to be drawn into a conspiracy.

“Would you take a sexy photo of me?” you ask her candidly. “I'm going to send it to Dirk.”

Tasha gasps. “Are you crazy?” she whispers. “What if he posts it on the internet?”

“I'm sure he wouldn't,” you say. “But if he did, it would probably be on some Dutch website. Who'd see it? Anyway I just think it might be fun - and it would probably be good for our business!”

“Well what kind of photo?” asks Tasha.

You think for a moment. “Come into the Anglia conference room,” you say to her. “We won't be disturbed there.”

She follows you to the conference room, where you switch the light on and close the door. “Here,” you say, handing her your phone.

Tasha giggles. “You're so bad!” she says. “All right - you'd better pose, or something.”

You consider various possibilities for poses, and then you…

Climb on to the table on your hands and knees, and look back seductively at the camera.

Lean against the wall, and hike up your skirt until your panties are just barely showing.

You describe your outfit in detail, and send off the email. For the next half hour you busy yourself with your daily responsibilities, but then an email arrives from Dirk, and you open it immediately to see how he reacted. His email reads:

“Wow, that is truly a sexy outfit! I will have to come and visit your office, if that is how you like to dress! And you think your skirt is the shortest skirt any woman at your office has ever worn? How wonderful! And now of course I would very much like to see a photo of yourself, in that outfit! There might be a big order in it for you… How about it?”

You chuckle to yourself. The poor man must really be desperate. You send him an email which reads:

“Well Dirk, I don't think I should be sending you sexy photos - who knows where they would end up? But I would really like that nice big order you mentioned! How about if I promise to come to work in an even shorter skirt tomorrow? I seem to be getting away with this one, and it might be fun to push the envelope a bit. What do you say?”

You send the email, and a reply comes back not even ten minutes later. It reads:

“That is very exciting of you, Zoë! I would love it if you did that … but I am sad that I will not have a chance to see it for myself! Why should all of your colleagues and bosses get to see what I cannot? I promise I will keep any photos you send me to myself.”

You reply:

“Tell you what, Dirk - I'll think about it. I can't make any promises.” You sign it, send it, and then think no more about it for the rest of the day.

Surprisingly, although your boss looks at your skirt rather disapprovingly at one point, neither he nor any of the company's management takes you to task over it all that day. When you get home, you pull out of your wardrobe some possible items to wear the next day. After considering a few options, you finally settle on…

A semi-sheer babydoll minidress which only just covers your buttocks.

A tunic top which does not quite cover your buttocks.

Travis stares at you, then looks down at your panties. You spread your legs wider still, and start stroking your inner thighs seductively. Travis purses his lips, then he says, “Zoë, I'm flattered, but I'm a married man! And happily so. Put your legs together, and we'll say no more about it.”

You do so, and tug your skirt down a bit, but your panties are still very visible. Travis shakes his head. “My God, that skirt's short,” he says. “Please don't wear it again.” He turns and marches off down the aisle.

You smile to yourself. So you have kept your job! So far, at least. But Travis is not the only person who could fire you. It occurs to you that if you are to get away with wearing this skirt for the rest of the day, and possibly in the future, you need an ally in a high place. Travis's boss, Miles, is an old-school gentleman who might appreciate a bit of eye-candy around the office. Miles's boss, Jessica, is the managing director, and you are not quite sure what she would think. She has always been quite warm and friendly to you, but then she is that way with everybody. As a woman in a powerful position, she could well prove to be a radical feminist. On the other hand, it is rumoured that she swings both ways…

You decide that you should go and flirt with one of them, and maybe flash your panties a bit. After pondering the matter for a few minutes, you decide to go and see…

Miles.

Jessica.

Travis stares at you in astonishment. Then he says, “Right, you're fired! Clear out your desk and get out of here!”

“Oh I was only joking Travis!” you say hurriedly, getting up and pulling your skirt down. “Jeez, where's your sense of humour? The truth is I stayed over at a friend's house last night, and when I went home I realised that I'd lost my keys. I didn't have time to go back to my friend's house, go back home, and change, so I had to make do with this little ensemble. I'm sorry you're so offended, but trust me, it won't happen again.”

“I don't believe a word of it!” says Travis. “And you told me to fuck off! Sorry Zoë, but this is simply the last straw - you're consistently disrespectful of my authority, frequently insulting, and prone to outrageous and inappropriate behaviour. You may have been joking, but I'm not. You're still fired!”

Your cheeks flushing angrily, you hike your skirt up until it shows most of your panties. “Fine then!” you snap at him. “You're a crap boss anyway, you girly-voiced ginger shortarse. Fuck you, and fuck this company!”

Travis clenches his fists, then he turns on his heel and marches away. You let out a deep breath. “Ooh, that felt good,” you say.

Your colleague Tasha, in the next cubicle, has been staring at you in shock. “I can't believe you said that!” she exclaims, getting to her feet. “And oh my God - your skirt!”

You pull it down. “Yeah, well, he fired me, didn't he?” you say. “What was I going to do, thank him?” You start getting your things together.

“I'll get you a box,” says Tasha.

“Thanks,” you say to her with a smile. “You, at least, I'll miss.”

Ten minutes later, you are on your way home, feeling rather regretful now about having thrown away your job for such a trivial reason. But damn it, you like wearing short skirts, and showing your panties - if only there was a job where you could get away with doing that!

When you get home, you look online for jobs. Obviously, you think, prostitutes and strippers can get away with showing their panties - but those jobs don't appeal to you. Wearing panty-revealing miniskirts is only fun if it's unexpected and naughty - and what's unexpected or naughty about a stripper showing her panties?

But then you sit bolt upright in your chair as you spot a job listing that could be right up your street. It reads:

“Sexy female television presenter wanted for video game review program.”

“Personal assistant wanted for travelling salesman.”

“Heck yes!” he replies, while energetically finger-fucking your vagina.

You clutch his arm, and whisper, “How about even shorter than this?”

“Oh God yes!” he murmurs. “I'll talk to Miles - he'll back me up.”

You gasp with pleasure as Travis's finger repeatedly finds your g-spot. “Oh … oh!” you moan. “Travis, you can grope me and finger me any time you want!”

“Glad to hear it!” he whispers.

You hug his arm and squeeze your legs together suddenly as your orgasm hits, and you moan loudly, shuddering uncontrollably in your chair. Travis withdraws his hand from between your legs, glancing around nervously, and he backs out of your cubicle. Then he grins at you, winks, and quickly heads off towards his office.

Your next-cubicle neighbour, Tasha, gets up from her chair and looks over the partition, wide-eyed. “I can't believe you two just did that, right out in the open!” she exclaims in a low voice. “And him a married man!”

You grin at her. “Yes, well I'm sure there will be all kinds of trouble over it,” you say, “but it's very exciting!”

Tasha shakes her head in disbelief and sits back down. You turn around and get to work, resolving…

To keep a low profile today, but come to work tomorrow in an even more outrageous skirt.

To flaunt your panties around the office today at every available opportunity.

Travis draws back, startled. He glances up and down the aisle, looking troubled, but his arousal is very obvious. Finally coming to a decision, he steps forward and starts to unbutton your blouse. But you stop him, and whisper, “I said strip me, not undress me!”

Wide-eyed and grinning madly, Travis grabs the two sides of your blouse, and rips them apart. Buttons fly everywhere, and he attacks your bra next. This is tougher, but he manages to rip it too, pulling both cups aside to reveal your firm but ample breasts. He tugs your blouse and bra down over your shoulders, down your arms, and off. Then he grabs your skirt, and pulls both it and your panties around your bottom, down your legs, and off along with your shoes. He wraps your clothing into a bundle, which he places on your desk, and then he pulls you to your feet, spins you around, and bends you over your desk. Fumbling with his zip, he soon pulls out his erection, which he presses between your pussy lips, sliding his bulbous head up and down until it is slick with your juices.

Then he rams his penis deep inside you, causing you to moan softly with pleasure. He starts to fuck you, hard and rapidly, fearing imminent discovery. Meanwhile Tasha, your next-cubicle neighbour, has got to her feet and is staring at you open-mouthed. You look up and wink at her, and she hurriedly sits back down. Travis increases the pace of his thrusting, and within a minute he is groaning as he climaxes inside you. It has been a short fuck, but a hard and intense one. You still have not come yourself, though, and you are aching for more.

Travis tucks his penis away, and then he…

Kisses you briefly on the lips before hurrying back to his office.

Grabs your clothing and takes it with him as he returns to his office.

Jessica replies almost immediately to your email, giving you the name and address of a fancy restaurant in the city centre, and a time to meet there. At five o'clock you leave work, drive home, and have a quick shower before opening up your wardrobe to select a nice dress to wear. The first dress you pull out is quite form-fitting and sexy, but knee-length, and you guess that Jessica will probably want to see more of your legs. The next few dresses you pull out, although nice, are also too long.

But then you find an extremely skimpy halter-dress that an ex-boyfriend once bought for you. You have never worn it because it is ridiculously short, and ridiculously low-cut, with a neckline that plunges down to below your navel. Its hemline just barely covers your buttocks, and you feel highly exposed. You grin as you imagine Jessica's reaction - you are sure she will love it.

But as you do your hair and put on some make-up, a nagging feeling begins to gnaw at the back of your mind, a feeling that plenty of nightclub-goers probably wear dresses like this all the time, and think nothing of it. Do you really want Jessica thinking of you as just an ordinary run-of-the-mill nightclub bimbo?

The more you think about it, the more you feel like your outfit needs to wow Jessica in a way that this dress currently does not do. Today you have already flashed your panties at Jessica, and you feel the need to surpass that with something even more outrageous.

You look at the clock. You have time, just. With the help of your sewing machine you could theoretically trim and hem this dress, and still make it to the restaurant by seven-thirty. Grabbing a pair of scissors, you take a deep breath, and then start cutting…

A two-inch strip off the bottom of your dress.

A five-inch strip off the bottom of your dress.

Jessica does not respond to your email until shortly before five o'clock, and her reply is simply, “Shame!” A smiley face on the next line tells you that she is not upset with you.

You gather your things together and switch off your computer, but when you turn to leave your cubicle, you see Jessica coming down the aisle towards you. “Sure you won't change your mind?” she asks.

You nod. “But I wanted to ask you, though … is it okay for me to continue wearing skirts like this to work?”

Jessica smiles. “You're quite welcome to, as far as I'm concerned,” she says. “But if someone complains to HR, then there's only so much I can do.”

“I understand,” you say. “Jessica … I'm sorry I declined your invitation. It's just…”

“Hush dear,” says Jessica, putting a finger to your lips. “It's okay - you don't have to explain.” She smiles at you, then continues onward down the aisle. You follow a few yards behind, and once out of the building, you head to your car.

You have only just switched the engine on when your phone rings. You flip it open, and smile to see the name Claire Frost on the display. Claire works in retail, at a company where you were a manager until a little over a year ago. You are still friendly with some of your former colleagues from that company, and with Claire most of all. You hit the 'talk' button and say, “Hi Claire!”

“Yay Zoë!” says Claire. “Hey everyone, I've got Zoë!” There is some background commotion, and then Claire says, “What are you up to, babe?”

“Not much - just heading home,” you say.

“Well bugger that plan - come down to Kitty's Karaoke!” says Claire. “All the gang is here, and we've love for you to join us!”

“I'd love to,” you say,

“But that place gives me a headache. Sorry Claire, but I've got to pass on this one.”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes!”

You are the only person who has signed up for the dunking challenge, and Noel thanks you for being such a good sport. He directs you to a far corner of the park, where three huge tanks have been set up, each filled with a different messy fluid. The host of this game, a man who introduces himself as Lionel, tells you what to do. He points to a platform situated above the first tank.

“The idea is, you sit up there,” he says, “and people buy little sand-bags which they throw at the target next to the platform. If they hit it, it releases a catch on the platform, and drops you into the gunk. Quite simple, really.”

“I don't suppose there's any chance of me avoiding a dunking?” you say with a nervous grin.

“Actually there's a fairly good chance,” says Lionel. “It's actually a lot harder to hit the target than you might think. Both the sandbags and the target are pretty small, and there's a good distance between thrower and target. The idea is, you see, to get people to buy as many bags as possible, to make the most money. If people only have to buy one bag in order to see you dunked, that's not going to make us much money. But this way, people will try and try and try again - men especially. Men can be very reluctant to admit defeat.”

You smile, and nod. “So once I'm dunked the first time, do I move on to the next tank?”

“That's right. Once you've been dunked in all three tanks, then we figure you've done enough, and hopefully someone will come and take your place.”

You nod. “All right,” you say, “let's get started.” You climb up to the platform, your skirt riding high up your hips and revealing your panties to the spectators milling around nearby. You hastily pull your skirt down and look down at the tank, which appears to contain cooking oil or something of that nature. You take your seat, but the platform is angled downwards slightly, and even with your knees together you are showing a large white triangle of your panties to anyone who cares to look. And a lot of people are looking.

The crowd is mostly made up of families, but a number of children of various ages are running around unattended. You find that you soon start attracting the attention of several boys, who stare at your panties with interest, and several dads, who suddenly announce to their families that this looks like a fun game to try.

The sandbags soon start flying, but for a while they all miss the target completely. Then one persistent man manages to clip the target, and you tense up in anticipation … but the platform remains in place. As a crowd builds around the tank, camera and camcorders are brought out in the hopes of catching you in the process of falling in. Though you do not know it, several of them are zooming in and capturing the lacy detail of your panties in glorious close-up.

Then suddenly a sandbag strikes the target squarely in the middle. You shriek as the platform collapses and you plunge into the cooking oil. You manage to avoid submerging completely, and your ears remain above the surface to take in the sounds of the entire crowd laughing and cheering at your misfortune. You put on a brave smile, and swim to the steps at the edge of the tank. Soaked and dripping with oil, your feet slip on the steps, but you hold on tightly and succeed in climbing out, to the applause of the gathered spectators.

Making your way to the next tank, you suddenly notice that your skirt has climbed so high that your panties are completely uncovered. The oil has turned them practically transparent, and you realise that you have just shown your pussy to several dozen people! The thought makes you…

Shudder, and you quickly tug your skirt back down.

Shiver with excitement, and you leave your skirt where it is.

Lorna, one of your colleagues, also signs up for the Slime Race, and the two of you head to the far side of the park where the race is to be held. You keep having to pull your skirt down as you walk, which soon gets rather annoying, and you are glad when you finally reach the race track and can stop moving. The track consists four straight lanes about fifty yards long, which are separated by rows of wooden planks placed on edge. Huge, overlapping sheets of plastic form the floor of the track - they have been pinned to the ground by long bolts hammered right through the planks and deep into the turf below.

Each lane contains about a six-inch depth of some kind of greyish fluid that looks like glue or wallpaper paste. “That would be the slime, I'm guessing,” you say to Lorna, and she nods. You reach down and stick your hand into the fluid; when you draw it out, the slime sticks to your hand and stretches out in long drooping strands as you pull further and further back. “Ugh!” you say, trying to wipe it off with your other hand. But it is insidious stuff, and both your hands end up very slimy, with strands of goo dangling from them.

Two other women have arrived, dressed in shorts and t-shirts, and a tall, wiry-haired man introduces himself. “My name's Clyde,” he says, “and I'm the host for this game. Thank you for taking part - we appreciate your participation in this worthy cause. The rules of this game are simple: you step into this end of your lane, and when the whistle blows, you run to the far end, pick up one of the big sponge balls you'll find in the bucket there, return with it to this end, and pop it in your empty bucket here. The first person to drop all five balls in her bucket will be the winner - the prize is two tickets to see a movie of your choice at the new IMAX cinema which is kindly sponsoring this event.”

“Sounds easy enough,” murmurs Lorna.

“But there's a twist!” says Clyde, grinning manically. “Each of you will have your hands tied behind your back.”

“Oh, what??” exclaims one of the other women. “While running through slime? That's dangerous!”

“Then you'll just have to move slowly and carefully,” says Clyde, still grinning. “But you might get left behind by more adventurous spirits! All right ladies - shoes off, and to your marks, please.”

You kick your shoes off, step over the end plank of the rightmost lane, and put your hands behind your back. Your wrists are tied together with a length of soft rope, and when you experimentally tug your hands apart, you find them very securely bound. Meanwhile, Clyde announces the imminent start of this event to the gathering crowd of onlookers.

A television crew is just arriving, and you watch them nervously as they set up their equipment. You realise that you are just a few short steps away from revealing your panties, and with your hands tied, there is nothing you will be able to do about it.

The whistle blows, and you start to run. But your feet slip almost immediately, and you land flat on your back. The slime rolls over your shoulders and upper chest, and squishes between your thighs, surrounding and enveloping your panties. You sit up, struggle back to your feet, and begin to paddle onward through the slime at a rather more sedate pace, with slime trailing from your hair and all down your back. You are ahead of Lorna, but already one of the other women is several yards ahead of you. You quicken your pace, trying to ignore the camera that is tracking you. Your skirt is already halfway up your panties, and constantly climbing higher, and your panties and buttocks are coated with slime. Spectators are cheering you on from the sidelines, but you notice a lot of eyes fixed firmly on your panties, and the delighted grins of many male faces.

Then you slip again, and land hard on your bottom. The cameraman swings his camera downwards, and you get the feeling he is aiming his camera right at your exposed panties. Rolling your eyes and wondering what kind of television program this man is filming for, you…

Struggle back to your feet and continue onward.

Make a big show of trying to get up, while writhing about and spreading your legs wide apart.

You and a colleague, Tara (who sits just two cubicles down from you at work), head off to the obstacle course, which is by far the largest event in terms of ground area covered. Replete with deep pits filled with mud, the idea of this course is to make it to the other side without getting messy, but falling into the pits does not automatically disqualify you - instead it means you simply lose time while trying to get out and back on to the course.

By the time you reach the start of the course, you have had to tug your skirt down about fifteen times in order to cover your panties. But it occurs to you that once you are on the course, you will not have time to stop and fix your skirt every few seconds. The gathering onlookers are about to get a show that they did not expect…

Tara is wearing a knee-length skirt and a low-cut top - almost as impractical an outfit as yours. You notice that the other contestants, all women, are wearing much more sensible sports-type clothing.

“Hello!” says a young, bearded man who is looking rather stressed. “If I could have your attention please - thank you. I'm Rodney, the presenter for this competition. You'll be running this course one at a time, in the following order - and if you could please raise your hand when I call your name... First: Nicola Jennings. Second: Joanne Gambolputty. Third: Zoë Sterling.” You raise your hand, and Rodney starts in surprise when he sees your skirt. “Oh dear,” he says anxiously. “I don't think that skirt's very appropriate. This is a family-friendly event after all.” He consults with a colleague briefly, then he turns back towards you and says, “Zoë, we'll let you take part, but please try to keep as decent as possible.”

You nod, and then stand back and watch as Nicola, after a blast on Rodney's whistle, tackles the course. She is quite a plump girl and falls into the mud several times. By the halfway point, she is exhausted, and can only lie on her back in the mud, panting. Eventually a couple of young men help her out, and she does not continue.

Joanne, by contrast, is slender and agile, and she does not fall into the mud even once. She makes it all the way around the course in two minutes and eight seconds - her time will be tough to beat. You congratulate her, and then you walk over to the start of the course and prepare to start running.

The whistle blows, and you run up to a rope ladder that climbs up a high wall made of wooden logs. By the time you reach the top, your skirt is already up around the top of your panties. The next obstacle is a monkey-swing with a large pit of mud beneath. You jump for the third bar, catch it, and start swinging. You make it across easily enough, and jump on to a wobbly platform that threatens to tip you into another pit. But you keep your balance, and with another jump you reach a firmer platform. From there you grab a rope and swing across yet another muddy pit. But then it gets tricky - you have to straddle and hold on to a spinning cylinder as it transports you over even more mud. The cylinder is still muddy from Nicola's earlier attempt at this obstacle, and as you cling on to it, your nice clean blouse, skirt and panties get rather dirty. Moreover the handholds are rather slippery from the mud Nicola left,

But you hang on like grim death until you reach the far side.

And halfway across the pit, you lose your grip and plunge into the mud below.

Your skirt rides up over your bottom as you bend over, and immediately a chorus of cheers and wolf-whistles erupts from behind you. Simeon stops in his tracks, turns around irritably, and says, “Damn it, Zoë, what's up with you today?” He hurries around behind you, to shield you from the delighted stares of the approaching men.

“Spoil-sport,” you pout, as you stand up again.

“You're crazy!” exclaims Simeon. “A woman in your position, acting like a … a complete slut!” He stares at you in bewilderment for a minute, and then adds, grudgingly, “Nice butt though.”

You laugh. “Thank you, Simeon!” you say. “But just so you know, this is who I am, and who I've always been. I may have had to hide my exhibitionism in order to climb the ranks of the company, but I've always felt that a woman in a position of power should not have to sacrifice her sexuality in order to be taken seriously in business. You've known me long enough to know that I have a good head for business - well now you're simply getting to see the other side of me … or the other end of me, if you will.”

“Just make sure the business doesn't suffer as a result of your exhibitionism,” says Simeon, “or you'll find yourself out of a job before you can say 'wardrobe malfunction'. I hope your staff are all okay with your outfit today.”

“They're a little shocked, I think, but they'll handle it,” you say.

On the way back to the office, you can't help noticing that Simeon keeps glancing down at your lap, where your panties are clearly visible, peeping beneath your skirt. “Getting a good look, Simeon?” you ask him in amusement.

He clears his throat and says,

“Do you think we could stop somewhere for a bite to eat? I'm starving.”

“Are you really going to wear that skirt on our trip to Watling Industries today?”

Carefully, so that Simeon does not notice you doing it, you fold over your waistband inwards, first at the front and then working your way around to the back. This shortens your skirt by about an inch and a half, revealing the lower curves of your buttocks to the men behind you. Without waiting to see if they react, you turn over your waistband again, this time starting at the back and working your way around to the front. This raises your hemline by almost two inches more, exposing a considerable amount of your buttocks, and also a couple of inches of your panties at the front.

The men behind you start clapping and cheering, and then wolf-whistling. Simeon looks around in confusion, realises what they are staring at, and then he notices your newly-shortened skirt. “What the hell!” he exclaims angrily. “You made it even shorter? Have you no sense of decency, woman?”

You laugh. “Oh Simeon, lighten up,” you reproach him. “I'm just putting on a little show. What's the matter, don't you like to see women's panties?”

“Sure!” says Simeon, “when we're in private and not in the middle of an airport!”

“Does that mean you want to go somewhere private with me?” you ask, furrowing your brow.

“No!” says Simeon. “I'm married, damn it! You shouldn't be flaunting yourself in front of a married man!”

You roll your eyes, and unroll your waistband, lowering your hemline back to its original position. “You're no fun,” you remark, pouting slightly.

Simeon shrugs. “I'm not here to be fun. I'm here to…”

But he is interrupted by a sudden commotion. A large dog - a Doberman, you think - is bounding along the corridor, chased by a couple of panting security officers. “Stop him!” says one of them. Simeon looks quite worried, but you are unafraid of dogs, and plant yourself squarely in the Doberman's way. It almost bowls you over, but you catch its leash and manage to bring it to a halt.

You whisper calming words to the dog as the security officers approach. “Thank you very much, Miss!” says one of them breathlessly.

You stand up and say, “Not at all - glad to help.” Then you gasp as the dog pushes its nose up your skirt and starts sniffing your pussy through your panties.

“Oh dear!” says the officer. “Sorry about that Miss.” He reaches out to take the leash from you.

“No need to apologise,” you say,

“He's probably just after the heroin I stuffed up my vagina.”

But then you squeal as the dog grabs your panties between its teeth.

“Oh fine then,” says Simeon grumpily, pulling away from you. “At any rate I love the new look. Will you be wearing that outfit to this afternoon's conference?”

You grin mischievously. “I was planning on it,” you say. “Do you think I'll scandalise everyone?”

“Not everyone,” says Simeon. “I suspect most of the men will appreciate it. But some people, yes, definitely.”

You drive Simeon back to the office, where he sets himself up in a conference room and conducts some business while you busy yourself with your own work. At times this involves going out into the cube farm to talk to some of the team leads, and this gives you more flashing opportunities. Your favourite team lead, Julian, gets special treatment - you sit on the edge of his desk with your left foot on the floor and your right thigh spread wide along the desktop, giving him a prolonged look at your white silk panties. You are pleased to see him glance downward many times as he is talking to you, but you wonder whether he will actually say or do anything about your provocative pose.

In truth, Julian has been struggling not to say anything about it, but finally he can contain himself no longer, and he says,

“Zoë, you're driving me crazy - can we go somewhere private?”

“Zoë, you look like a slut - and I'm starting to think you should be treated like one.”

“Yes,” you say, “I suppose I can't blame you for groping me - this is a very provocative outfit after all.”

“Right,” says Simeon, grinning as he works his hand inside your panties and starts probing between your buttocks with his fingers. He reaches up with his other hand, pulls down your tube top, and grabs your right breast, squeezing and caressing it.

You gulp, afraid you and Simeon will be arrested for public indecency. “Perhaps you could grope me somewhere more private…?” you suggest, as you feel one of Simeon's fingers sliding up into your vagina.

Simeon chuckles, and nods. He steps away from you, and you hastily pull your top back up to cover your nipples. Looking around, you see a lot of people staring at you open-mouthed, but fortunately none of them are in uniform. You walk with Simeon towards the car park, and throw his bags in the boot of your car. Then you get into the driver's seat, while he gets into the passenger seat. You are about to start the car, when Simeon thrusts his hand between your legs to cup your pussy through your white silk panties.

“Simeon…” you say.

“What?” asks Simeon. “I could see your panties. If you show your panties to a man, you're in effect inviting him to have sex with you.”

You shiver. “Sex? Really?” you say.

“But I approve,” says Simeon. “I love that you're wearing such a tiny skirt today. But why should you be the only one? I think you should require your female staff to all wear microskirts.”

“Oh goodness!” you say. “I don't think they'd go for that. We'd lose all our women.”

“Offer them a raise at the same time,” says Simeon. “Tell them all they're getting a bump in pay, but it's conditional on them agreed to the new dress code.”

“Oh yes?” you inquire. “And what dress code would that be?”

Simeon grins. “Well I haven't thought through the details, but it would definitely involve microskirts.”

You sigh. “Some of my female staff wouldn't wear a microskirt even if you paid them,” you say.

“So sack them and hire some women that will,” says Simeon, pulling your panties to one side and rubbing your pussy directly. “Oh, and you'll also have to change the sexual harassment policy.”

“In what way…?” you ask nervously.

“Something to the effect that sexual harassment of women is forbidden, unless they are dressed in a provocative manner.”

“But,” you say, puzzled, “the new dress code would require all the women to dress in a provocative manner, surely?”

“Exactly,” says Simeon smugly, now sliding two fingers in and out of your vagina.

You nod. “I see,” you say. “So basically, you want to be able to go around my office, fondling all of my women with impunity.”

“That would be an unfortunate side-effect of the new changes,” says Simeon, nodding.

“Well Simeon,” you say,

“I'll let you do what you want with my body, but I won't let you exploit my female staff.”

“All right, I'll do as you suggest. I'm sure it will be fun, coming up with a new dress code!”

Marge whimpers. She looks at you with tears in her eyes. “Oh Zoë, please don't make me do that! I don't want people seeing my breasts!”

“Why? Is there something wrong with them?” you inquire.

“No!” she says hotly. “It's just - they're my breasts!”

“Let's see them,” you say.

Marge's jaw drops. “What?” she says.

“Show me your breasts,” you tell her again. “Then I'll decide whether or not to make you wear see-through tops with no bra.”

Marge hesitates, then she unbuttons her blouse and pulls it open. Tugging her bra down, she exposes to you a pair of medium-sized, shapely breasts, with small areolas and pert nipples.

“Marge, your breasts are beautiful,” you say. “My decision stands - I definitely want you in see-through tops with no bra.”

Marge deflates. “All right,” she says, pulling her bra back up and re-buttoning her blouse. “How I'm going to explain this to my husband, though, I don't know.”

“Go out at lunch,” you say to her, “and come back dressed appropriately.”

“Lunch? Today? I thought you said this was effective tomorrow!”

“For everyone else, yes,” you agree. “But for you Marge, it's effective as of lunchtime today.”

Marge groans. “All right!” she says despairingly.

You smile. “Thank you Marge. That will be all. And remember: see-through, and tight.”

Marge leaves your office, and you catch a glimpse of a little cluster of women in the aisle outside, waiting to hear how Marge's protest went. You get the feeling there will be no further protests…

The rest of the morning ticks by slowly. At lunchtime you microwave yourself a meal in the kitchen, then return to your office to eat it - you have a lot of emails to respond to and a lot of calls to make, so you cannot afford to go out yourself.

Some time later, there is a knock on your door, and Marge sticks her head in.

“Ah, Marge,” you say. “Come in, come in - let's have a look at you.”

Marge bites her lip, then steps into your office. Your eyes widen as you see that she is wearing…

A tight white blouse through which her breasts are faintly visible, and a mid-thigh miniskirt.

A knee-length miniskirt, and an incredibly sheer tank-top which clearly shows her breasts.

Marge gasps. “No way!” she exclaims. “I couldn't possibly wear a skirt that short!”

“Why not? Do you have a lot of cellulite?” you ask.

Marge bridles. “No!” she says. “Well, a little perhaps, but that's not the point! I don't want to show my bottom, thank you very much!”

“Let's see it,” you say.

“I'm sorry?” says Marge in surprise.

“Show me your bottom,” you tell her. “Then I'll decide whether or not to make you wear skirts that show it off.”

Marge hesitates for a few seconds, then she gets up, unfastening and unzipping her trousers. Turning around, she pulls them down until they are well below her buttocks.

You smile. “Marge, your arse is gorgeous! Yes, my decision stands - I absolutely want you wearing skirts that reveal part of your buttocks.”

Marge's shoulders slump as she pulls her trousers back up. “All right,” she says glumly. “God knows what my husband will say about this. Or my co-workers!”

“Well, you'll soon find out,” you say. “The new dress code for everyone else is effective tomorrow. For you, Marge, it's effective as of lunchtime today. When you come back from lunch, be sure you are complying with my new requirements for you.”

“Lunchtime today?” exclaims Marge. “But I don't have a skirt that short, and I don't know of anywhere that would sell one! I'll have to shorten one of mine myself, or buy one and shorten that. Either way it's not something I can get done in a lunch break.”

“How long will you need?” you ask.

Marge shrugs. “To buy a skirt, get home, shorten it, get back here … I don't know, two hours or so? Maybe three?”

“All right,” you say. “Take a long lunch, then. Be back here by three o'clock.”

“Fine!” says Marge, annoyed. “Anything else? Perhaps you'd like to specify what kind of panties I should wear?”

You chuckle, and say,

“Not a bad idea! I think I'd like you to wear a thong.”

“As long as they're white, any style is fine.”

Gwen, Marge, Dawn and Tamara all gasp. “Immediately?” says Marge. “But what if we don't have any skirts that short?”

“Take a long lunch,” you say. “All four of you. There's a place in the shopping centre that shortens skirts to any length on request - only costs a pound.”

“I know it,” says Dawn.

“Good! Then make sure you all come back here after lunch with your skirts no longer than one inch below the buttocks - and preferably shorter! There's no minimum skirt length any more, so feel free to impress me with your daringness. Go on - I'll see you later.” As the four women file out, you get on with your work.

At about half past one that afternoon, there is a knock on your door, and the same four women re-enter your office. You lean back in your chair as they arrange themselves to stand side by side, as if they were on parade and ready for inspection. You grin at them, and then narrow your eyes as you assess their new skirts. “Turn around,” you say, twirling your finger.

All four women hesitate, then slowly turn on the spot. When they have their backs to you, you are pleased to see three pairs of buttocks peeping below hemlines. Tamara's buttocks are the only ones not visible, but judging by where her hips are, you estimate that her hemline is probably only just below her buttocks. All four women, therefore, seem to be in compliance, and you are particularly impressed with…

Marge, whose skirt is so short that about an inch of her panties is showing at the front.

Dawn and Gwen, both of whose skirts are showing at least two inches of panties at the front.

Marge sighs. “We'll do that,” she says.

“In fact,” you say, licking your lips slightly, “in order to set a good example to everyone else, I rather think that you four should wear shorter skirts than anyone else. Say, at least as short as mine is.” You get up and turn around slowly, to demonstrate.

Tamara gasps. “You can't expect us…”

“To dress like the boss?” you say sharply. “If I can do it, so can you, Tamara. Or do I need to promote young Nathan into your position…?”

Tamara shakes her head. “No Zoë,” she says quickly. “I suppose if you can show your bottom around the office, so can I.”

“Good!” you say. “Then that's settled. Unless anyone else wants to object…?”

Nobody does. The four women, looking rather dejected, leave your office, and you chuckle quietly to yourself. Half an hour later, you receive a phone call from Theo, the president of the company.

“Hi Theo,” you say.

“What's going on, Zoë?” he asks. “Something about a new dress code?”

You gasp. “Someone complained?” you exclaim. “Someone went over my head?”

“Not as far as I know. I just heard about it from Kent, who heard about it from Kayla, who probably heard about it from one of your folks there. People talk, Zoë - did you think it wouldn't get back to me?”

“Well yes, I knew it would,” you say. “But perhaps not this quickly. At any rate, yes, I've instituted a new dress code for the women of this office.”

“For what reason?” asks Theo.

“Two reasons,” you reply. “First, you asked me to thin my staff. Second, I knew that any lay-offs would damage morale here, and you know morale's low anyway. This place needed a shock to the system, and my outrageous new dress code is that shock. It will get people talking about something other than the economy, the low sales figures, and potential lay-offs - at least for a while. Also, if we decide to rescind the new dress code at some point in the future, you can get to be the hero by swooping in here and 'correcting' my error of judgment. I know you've been feeling unappreciated lately…”

“I like it!” says Theo. “Good plan, Zoë. Of course, for that last part of it to work, I can't give you my official endorsement of your new dress code.”

“Quite,” you say. “Well, if there's nothing else…”

“I'll talk to you again soon, Zoë,” he says. “Bye.”

The rest of the day passes uneventfully - you are kept busy and in your office, leaving little time for flaunting your panties around the building. You finally leave shortly after six o'clock, and spent a quiet evening in, watching television.

The following morning you get up, have a shower, and get ready for work. Today, of course, the women in the office will all be dressed very sexily, and you feel the need to be the sexiest-dressed woman of all. To this end, you decide to wear…

A skirt so short that it covers only the topmost inch of your panties, and a see-through blouse.

Just a tank-top and panties to work today.

Mr Hardacre gasps. “I can't possibly do that!” he exclaims.

“If you don't,” you say, “I'll stay right here until someone sees us, and then I'll say you molested me.”

“Don't do that!” he exclaims. “Why would you do that?”

“I won't,” you say, “if you finger-fuck me. Go on, sir - you know you want to.” And you flutter your eyelashes at him. “Just ten seconds - then I'll get off you, leave the room, and pretend nothing happened.” You lift your skirt up around your waist, and pull open the front of your panties. “Just ten seconds…”

Mr Hardacre stares down at your pussy for a moment, then he…

Forcibly throws you off his lap, and says, “Right! I'm taking you to see Mr Pringle!”

Reluctantly slides his hand down into your panties to cup your naked pussy.

Mr Hardacre shakes his head. “No Zoë, I couldn't possibly do that!” Then he sees one of the other teachers walk past the door, and his eyes widen in fear, but fortunately the teacher does not look in. “All right!” he says. “Gymnasium storage room, after school - got it. Now get off me, please!”

You grin as you climb off his lap. “Make sure you're there!” you say to him warningly. “If you don't show up, I'll just have to make something up when I tell my friends about our rendezvous. And I have a very good imagination…”

“I'll be there!” Mr Hardacre assures you.

You spend the rest of your school day excitedly counting down the hours and minutes until your planned encounter with Mr Hardacre. When the bell rings to announce the end of the last lesson, you hurry to the gymnasium and hide yourself in the storage room. You fidget anxiously for a few minutes, wondering if your favourite teacher will come. Minutes tick by, and your hopes begin to fade. But then you hear footsteps approaching, and your heart starts to pound faster in anticipation.

Then suddenly it occurs to you that you should have prepared yourself better for this encounter. Should you be naked when he enters? Maybe just in your underwear? Or perhaps you should just sit down on one of these padded benches with your legs spread and your panties showing… You come to a decision quickly, and…

Strip down to your panties, cover your breasts with one arm, and sit on the nearest bench.

Strip completely naked, lie on the bench, and spread your legs wide apart.

Heath chuckles. “All right then,” he says. You turn and bend over the stump, and Heath lifts up the back of your skirt. You hear him spit into his hand, and then you feel the wet head of his penis pushing against your vaginal opening. Then he is sliding into you, and you sigh with pleasure.

Just then three other boys come running around the corner. They are your age - a year younger than Heath - and they burst out laughing when they see you. “Wooooo!!” exclaims Kevin Randall, who is in your English class. “Zoë's getting fucked!”

“Wow!” says James Bastable, wide-eyed. He is a bit of a nerd, and has never had a girlfriend. “Oh wow, Heath, you are the coolest!”

The third boy, a nasty little piece of work called Andrew Lunt, cackles gleefully and takes out his camera phone. “Oh man!” he says. “This is great!”

“Piss off, you idiots!” you snap at them. “You know better than to come back here during break! Heath, do something!”

Heath, who stopped thrusting inside you when the boys appeared, says,

“Scram, you three! And if you take one single photo, Lunt, that phone is getting smashed.”

“Gather round, children, and I'll show you how this is done.”

You start dancing on the spot as you seductively unbutton your blouse and then shrug your shoulders out of it. It falls to your wrists, and you pull your hands out of the sleeves. Then you unzip your skirt, and let it fall to the ground. You reach back, unhook the clasp of your bra, and then you pull it down your arms and off. Putting your hands up in the air, you sway sensuously while Heath nods and grins appreciatively.

“Socks and shoes too,” he says.

“Oh but Heath,” you complain, “there are holly leaves on the ground here.”

“Socks and shoes!” he insists.

You sigh, and kick your shoes back and forth through the leaf litter until you have cleared a patch of bare earth. Then you take off your shoes and socks, and add them to your little pile of clothes on the ground. “Happy now?”

“Bend over the stump,” says Heath.

You turn around, bend over the stump, and spread your feet apart. “Take me, big boy,” you say, swaying your bottom invitingly.

But you are surprised when Heath merely stoops and picks up your pile of clothing. You look back, and gasp as he throws your clothes up and on to the top of the bike shed. “What the fuck, Heath?” you demand, your cheeks turning pale in alarm.

“I saw you with Hardacre!” he accuses you. “You little slut!”

“Jeez, Heath!” you say, thinking quickly. “I only wanted to get him all hot and bothered so he'd give me a good grade - I'd never actually do anything with him!”

“I don't believe you!” says Heath. “I know you fancy the guy. And you gave him your panties, for God's sake!” You start to speak, but Heath cuts you off. “It's over between us, Zoë!”

“Heath!” you plead. “I'm sorry - it won't happen again.”

“You can do what you like with Hardacre,” says Heath. “I don't care any more.”

“Heath, I'm sorry!” you say again. “Look, will you please just climb up there and get my clothes back?”

Heath chuckles bitterly. “Not a chance. You came back here to get fucked, Zoë - well now you're fucked!”

With that he storms off, leaving you naked and alone. You are not sure you can even climb the bike shed yourself, and between you and it there is a five-yard carpet of prickly holly leaves which will stick into your feet if you try walking on them. Heath is right - you are kind of fucked.

Just then, five boys walk around the corner of the shed. They are the same age as Heath - all about a year older than you - and then grin unpleasantly as they see you. You nervously cover your breasts and pussy with your right arm and left hand. “Hi boys,” you say. “Um, would you be willing to help me get my clothes back? They're on top of the bike shed.”

One of the boys, whose name is Vinnie, says,

“I'm not sure the roof would support our weight - but we'll be happy to help you up there.”

“Sure - but it'll cost you. If you let all of us come inside you, we'll get your clothes back.”

Nick whistles appreciatively as you remove first your blouse, then your bra. “Nice tits!” he says.

You smile, and take off your skirt and panties next. “If you don't mind, I'll keep my shoes on,” you say. “Holly leaves on the ground - not good for bare feet.”

“That's quite all right,” says Nick magnanimously. “So … do you want to just bend over that stump…?”

You smirk slightly. “Nick, haven't you ever done this before?”

Nick blushes, and shakes his head.

“My God!” you exclaim. “The class hunk is a virgin! I'd never have guessed!”

“I hope you won't hold that against me,” says Nick.

“No of course not,” you say. “It would be my honour to be your first.” You turn around and bend over a tree stump that has seen a great deal of action over the years. “Just take your time.”

Nick positions himself behind you, and takes out his erect penis. Discreetly using his saliva to lubricate himself, he places the head of his erection between your pussy lips, and works it up and down until it begins to sink into your vaginal opening.

But then he is interrupted by a couple of your classmates - bitchy girls whom you hate.

He slides his erection deep inside you, and sighs happily as he begins to thrust in and out.

Nick's eyes widen. “You're joking!” he says. “You're charging me for sex? You're a … a prostitute?”

“I need money,” you confess. “I've been doing this for a few weeks now. I'm sorry Nick - but sex is sex, and I know you can afford it.”

Nick sighs. “I don't know, Zoë. I'm not sure I want to have sex with you now. A few weeks? Just how many boys have you had sex with in that time?”

“Five,” you say candidly. “Some of them multiple times.”

Nick scratches his head. “And they all paid you twenty pounds? For each time?”

You nod. “Well it started off at fifteen, but I raised the price to twenty after the first couple of times. Listen Nick, if you don't want to, I understand, but please don't spread this around. I don't want to be expelled from school because of this.”

Nick shrugs. “Sure - I won't tell anyone. But … why prostitute yourself instead of, say, getting an after-school job at McDonald's?”

You chuckle. “This is more fun,” you say. “So come on - do you want to fuck me or not?”

Nick shakes his head. “What do you need the money for?” he asks.

You sigh, and reply,

“My grandmother needs this operation…”

“I want to get my breasts enlarged.”

You carefully pull out Nick's erect penis, then you stretch your leg across his lap, straddling him as you plant your elbows on to his side of the desk. Reaching between your legs, you pull your panties to one side, grab Nick's erection, and position it at the opening of your vagina. Your classmates gasp as you lower yourself on to him, and his penis slides deep inside you. Then you begin to slowly bounce up and down, keeping an eye on the teacher, who still has not noticed what is going on at the back of the classroom.

Nick clutches your hips as he gasps with pleasure. “Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow!” he whispers excitedly. Then he untucks your blouse, reaches up inside the front, and slides his hands beneath your bra cups to grab hold of your breasts, which he squeezes and fondles while you continue to bounce on his lap.

“Sir!” exclaims Donna, a girl you dislike intensely. “Sir! Nick and Zoë are having sex!”

“What?” says the teacher, frowning and peering towards you.

You start bouncing more urgently as Nick's breathing becomes heavier. You keep watching the teacher as he looks straight at you, his eyes widening. Then he…

Marches furiously over to you, and drags you off Nick's lap.

Shudders, laughs nervously, and says, “Don't be silly Donna, I'm sure they aren't doing that.”

You glare witheringly at Donna, the girl who has told on you. Nick quickly withdraws his hand, and by the time the teacher comes over to see what is going on, he finds nothing inappropriate. “I don't know what Donna's talking about, sir,” you say. “She's such a liar - she's always trying to get me into trouble.”

The teacher stares at you, then at Donna, then he shrugs and returns to the front of the class. Nick resumes fingering you, and you stick out your tongue at Donna.

“Sir, they're at it again!” says Donna.

“That's enough, Donna,” says the teacher sharply.

You grin and spread your legs wider as Nick explores deep in your vagina with his finger. Donna folds her arms and turns towards the front, scowling. “Hey,” whispers Nick. “Do you want to come round to my house after school?”

“Sure,” you say. “Sounds like fun.”

The rest of the day passes rather uneventfully, with you and Nick in separate classes for most of the time. After the final lesson, however, you call your mother and tell her you are going to a friend's house. Nick only lives a quarter of a mile from the school, so you walk home with him and follow him indoors. His older brothers, Todd and Blake, eye you up appreciatively as you enter.

“New girlfriend, Nick?” asks Todd. “Nice work, man!”

“Ignore them, Zoë,” says Nick. “Come on - let's go upstairs.”

“You two going to have sex?” asks Blake mischievously. “What would Dad say, Nick?”

“Come on Blake - don't be an arsehole,” says Nick. He heads upstairs, and you follow him, while Blake and Todd come to the foot of the stairs and look up your skirt as you ascend.

Once in Nick's room, you sit down on his bed and look around. For a boy's room it is very tidy and clean. A large Firefly poster takes up most of one wall. Nick smiles at you, then he comes over to sit next to you. He brushes some of your hair from your face, and leans in to kiss you.

But the door opens, and Todd and Blake enter. “We're bored,” says Todd.

“That's not my problem,” says Nick, annoyed. “Get out of here, will you?”

“We thought it might be fun to play strip poker,” says Blake, holding up a deck of cards. “What do you think, Zoë? Wouldn't you like to see three hunky men strip to their underwear … or less?”

“Um, no thanks,” you say. “I'd like to just be alone with Nick, if that's all right.”

“Oh come on,” says Todd. “Just a few hands, then we'll leave you alone.”

Nick looks suspicious. “How many hands?”

“Let's say … twelve?” suggests Todd.

“That's more than a few!” says Nick. “Make it five hands, and we'll play.”

“Oh come on Nick,” says Blake. “Five hands is nothing in strip poker - with four of us, that's just one garment per person, and one to spare. Where's the fun in that?”

“With twelve hands,” says Todd, “that's three garments each. Surely that's not unreasonable?”

“What if one of us keeps losing?” you ask.

Todd shrugs. “Then that person will be naked faster than the others. But this is a game of luck, Zoë. You've just as much chance of winning as the rest of us.”

Blake deals out five cards each, and when your turn comes, you trade in two cards. The ones you get back are no better, however, and you lay down a pair of eights. Nick has three sixes, Blake has two pairs, and Todd has a low straight. You sigh, and take off one shoe.

“Both shoes,” says Todd. “Shoes count as one item, as do socks.”

You grimace, and take off your other shoe. After the next round, you lose your socks. Then Nick loses his shoes, and Blake loses his. Then you lose again, and this time remove your blouse. Todd and Blake clap and cheer as you reveal your bra.

Then you lose again, and this time take off your skirt. Now you are in your underwear, and feeling rather anxious. But Todd pats your arm reassuringly. “Halfway there,” he says. “Just six rounds to go.”

Blake loses his socks in the next round, and then so does Nick. With just four rounds to go, you begin to hope that you might get to the end without losing all of your clothes. But then you lose again, and, with a little whimper, you take off your bra, being careful to keep your breasts covered with your arm. Nick deals five more cards each, and you bite your lip anxiously. You turn in three cards, but get nothing useful back. With a knot of fear in your stomach, you lay down your cards. Sure enough, yours is the losing hand.

“Woo hoo!” exclaims Todd, as you pull your panties down your legs and kick them off.

“I guess I'm out,” you say.

“Not at all,” says Todd. “There are still two rounds to go. You're down to forfeits now.”

“Oh no you don't!” says Nick.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“You've got no more clothes to bet with,” says Blake, “but you agreed to play twelve hands. So if you lose the next one … let's see … yes, if you lose the next one you have to let us all stick a finger inside you.”

“No way!” says Nick, jumping to his feet.

“Come on Nick, you know the forfeit system,” says Todd. “Don't be so possessive.” He deals five more cards each, and you nervously look at yours. You have two jacks. You trade the other three cards, and get back a pair of fours. You lay them down, feeling hopeful, but then your heart sinks as you see that the boys all have better hands than you.

Todd, grinning, lays you down on your back on Nick's bed, and pulls your legs apart, over Nick's strenuous objections. He licks his lips as he worms his middle finger into your vagina, and thrusts it in and out a few times. Then Blake takes his place, and also finger-fucks you, but for longer - almost half a minute. Finally Nick, resigned to the situation, gently slides his finger into you and finger-fucks you for a few seconds. “Sorry,” he mutters.

You sit up again, and Todd hands you the deck of cards. You deal five cards each, and purse your lips as you look at yours. You have nothing of value.

“What's the forfeit this time?” asks Blake.

Todd grins. “This time, if Zoë loses, we all get to fuck her.”

“No!” cries Nick. “That's too much!”

Todd and Blake both laugh. Then Blake says, “You know, maybe we should give Zoë a choice of two forfeits.”

Todd frowns. “I quite like my idea.”

But Nick leaps at Blake's suggestion. “Yes!” he says. “Let's give her a choice.”

“Option One would be fucking all of us,” says Blake. “Option Two would be agreeing to play another six hands.”

“Oh, I don't like the sound of that,” you say nervously.

“I agree, you might lose again,” says Blake, “and then still have to let us fuck you. But you might not lose. With Option One, we definitely fuck you; with Option Two, it's not definite.”

Nick looks at you, and shrugs. “It's up to you,” he says. “I suppose it depends how confident you are of not losing this hand.”

You look at the crummy collection of cards in your hand, and try to decide. “Okay,” you say at last, “I'll go with…

Option One.”

Option Two.”

You squeal again as the ruler strikes your buttocks, inflicting even more pain than your father's hand. Then, for good measure, your father also attacks the back of you upper thighs, which hurts even more. Finally he stops, and you stand up with tears in your eyes, rubbing the backs of your legs and your bottom. You fetch your panties and put them back on.

“Let that be a lesson to you!” says your father sternly. “Now go and put on a more decent skirt, and don't let me catch you wearing anything so skimpy again!”

You hobble upstairs and put on your other skirt … over the top of your newly-shortened one. You are determined that your father should not get his way in this matter. You have breakfast with your mother and little brother, Steve, and then your mother drives you both to school. You head straight for the girls' toilets, where you take off your longer skirt. Your buttocks still ache a little, but they are not burning quite so much now.

You leave the toilet and put your longer skirt in your locker, basking in the gasps of astonishment that erupt all around you. Your friend Naomi comes over to you and grabs your arm. “Zoë!” she exclaims. “What are you thinking? You'll get into so much trouble!”

“Not if I can help it,” you reply with a wink.

But the teacher of your first lesson, Miss Alexander, takes one look at your skirt, and sends you to see Mr Pringle, the headmaster. You report to his office, and he calls you in. When he sees your skirt, he rolls his eyes and puts his head in his hands. “Oh Zoë,” he says. “What am I going to do with you?”

You smile at him coquettishly, and say,

“Let me off with a warning, of course! Remember I still have those photos…”

“Strip me naked and fuck me, of course! Unless you're getting tired of me…”

In fearful anticipation of the pain to come, you lie down on your back, lift your knees up to your chest, and pull them wide apart. As your father's ruler swishes down and smashes into your pussy lips, it is all you can do to keep yourself from screaming. The second stroke, however, does make you scream, and your younger brother Steve comes running into the room. He stares wide-eyed at the sight of your pussy being spanked with a ruler, and says, “Cool!”

“Please! No more! It hurts so much!” you beg your father after the third stroke. But he does not listen, and you scream again as his ruler whacks your labia a fourth time.

“Yay Dad!” cries Steve, jumping up and down excitedly. “Hit her harder!”

After the fifth stroke, you cannot bear it any longer, and close your legs. But your father roughly pushes them apart again. “Steve, come and help,” he says. “Hold your sister's right leg.”

Steve is only too happy to comply. “Like this?” he says, clutching your calf while staring eagerly at your swollen red pussy.

“Good, except push her thigh further down - right against her torso,” says your father. He himself holds your other leg, and then he strikes your pussy again with the ruler. Three more times he slams his ruler against your labia, after which they are practically purple. Then he stops, and says, “Now, on to phase three.”

You whimper with pain as you try to prepare yourself for the third and final phase of your punishment. You wish Steve were not here, goggling at your naked pussy. Your father…

Unzips his trousers, takes out his erect penis, and lies down on top of you.

Gets up, walks out of your field of vision for a moment, and returns with a large cactus.

You take off the rest of your clothes, dropping your bra on the floor just as your younger brother Steve enters the room to see what is going on. His jaw drops as he sees that you are naked, and then he grins broadly as you place your hands beneath your ample breasts, lifting them up slightly and presenting them to your father, whose expression remains stern. He draws back his ruler, and then swishes it rapidly through the air, smashing it into your left breast. It catches the lower edge of your nipple, and you bite your lip to prevent yourself from screaming.

Then your father strikes your right breast, this time scoring a direct hit on your nipple. You whimper through pursed lips, and tears spring to your eyes. Your father hits both breasts two more times each, by which point they are burning with pain.

“Can I have a go, Dad?” asks Steve, wide-eyed.

“I don't see why not,” says your father. “You're getting almost old enough to start disciplining your sister on your own anyway. A bit of practice would be good for you.”

Steve takes the ruler, and draws back his hand, but your father catches his arm. “Use only the flat of the ruler,” your dad instructs him. “Never the edge - you might cut her, and you must never draw blood, Steve. Never.”

Steve nods, and turns the ruler in his hand. Then he hits your left breast with all the force he can muster. You squeal in pain, but you know better than to raise your hands to defend yourself. This is far from being the worst punishment you have ever had…

Steve gleefully attacks both of your breasts, alternating between them, until they are bright red and getting swollen. Then your father stops him. “All right, that's enough,” he says. “Zoë, get dressed. But leave that ridiculous skirt here. You won't be wearing it again, I can promise you that. Put on something more respectable, and I'll drive you to school.”

Rubbing your burning breasts, you get dressed, wincing as you put on your bra. Skirtless, you head upstairs and put on a longer skirt, which comes down to mid-thigh. As you come back down the stairs, you father nods approvingly. “Better,” he says.

As he drives you to school, you think rebellious thoughts about how you will get back at your father for punishing you so harshly. Perhaps you will sneak out at night to start working as a stripper or a prostitute - that would really show him! Or maybe you could get yourself a secret boyfriend - someone that your highly conservative father would heartily disapprove of. Someone poor, someone uneducated, someone common…

By the time your father stops the car outside your school, you have reached a decision. You will sneak out tonight, wearing the skimpiest clothing imaginable, and

Sell your body to a total stranger.

Find a nasty, filthy, smelly homeless man to be your boyfriend.

When you walk into the main school building, you attract a lot of stares and wolf-whistles, and you giggle at everyone's reactions. You are careful to avoid the teachers, however, and sit at the back of the classroom during all of your lessons, so that you will not be sent to the headmaster and suspended for indecency.

All goes well, and after lunch you go and get ready for netball practice. As you run around the court, looking at the girls' games uniforms, it occurs to you that they are far too concealing. Perhaps you should trim your shorts and top so that they are a little more revealing. In fact, you think to yourself, that would be a good project for tonight.

At the end of the practice, you head back in to the changing rooms, strip off your clothes, and wrap a towel around yourself. Then, when nobody is looking, you sneak next door to the boys' changing room, and surprise a couple of boys who have just returned from football practice. One of them is naked, and he hurriedly covers himself with his towel.

“Hi Kenneth,” you say, feeling suddenly a little shy.

“What on Earth are you doing here, Zoë?” he demands.

You smile, blushing slightly. “The girls' showers are all occupied,” you say. “Do you mind if I shower with you boys today?”

Kenneth stares at you. “No!” he says in a rather strangled voice. “No, I'm sure that will be fine.”

The other boy, who is drying himself off, looks terribly disappointed as you walk nervously towards the showers. When you get there, you find six naked boys washing themselves. You take off your towel, and step underneath one of three unoccupied showers, as the boys stare at you in astonishment. Then Kenneth arrives, grinning, and he steps into one of the other vacant showers, just next to yours.

“What … the … fuck?” exclaims Marcus Campbell, the captain of the football team.

“You don't mind if Zoë showers with us, do you lads?” says Kenneth. “Apparently all the girls' showers are occupied.”

You feel very naked - understandably - as you turn back and forth beneath the cascade of warm water from the shower head above you. All of the boys are staring at you, their eyes roaming up and down your body, lingering on your breasts and pussy, which you are doing nothing to conceal. You start to feel anxious and uncomfortable, and you begin to think to yourself: what the hell am I doing here?

But then one of the boys, Oliver Combes, makes it all better. He says, in an awestruck voice, “That is probably the most beautiful sight I have ever seen in my whole life, ever!”

You smile happily at the compliment. Then you tilt your head back, into the stream of water, and run your hands through your hair. “So,” you say, “is anyone going to volunteer to soap me up, or do I have to wash myself?”

“Me!” “Me!” “No, me!” “I volunteer!” “I'm the captain, I think I should…” “You have a girlfriend already, Marcus! It should be me!”

“Boys, boys!” you laugh. “There's enough of me to go around. Whoever wants to lather me up, just go ahead!”

Sporting rock-hard erections of various different sizes, the boys all cluster around you, carrying bars of soap and bottles of body wash. Seconds later, seven pairs of soapy hands are running up and down your body, covering you with white foamy lather as you close your eyes and savour the experience. Hands gingerly run over your breasts, then return with more assurance as you make no objection. Another hand brushes over your pussy, then returns to cup it, and stroke it. Other hands squeeze and caress your buttocks, and a finger slides over your anus. A finger of a different hand slips between your labia, stroking your clitoris, and you gasp with pleasure. Your nipples are getting a lot of attention too…

A finger slides up into your vagina, and you part your feet slightly. Another finger pushes up into your anus, and for the next couple of minutes you are finger-fucked in both orifices. You are getting incredibly horny, and when a penis pushes between your buttocks, you smile happily. Reaching out with your hands, you find an erection with both, and you start to slowly massage them, wrapping your hands around their shafts and masturbating them gently.

Then you find yourself being lifted off your feet and held in a horizontal position, and your legs being pulled apart. You are almost in a dreamlike state now, but you know that you are about to be fucked by seven boys, unless you do something very decisive to stop it. You can feel warm water raining down on to your belly and breasts, and your head is being cradled by someone nice and caring. Without opening your eyes, you murmur,

“Boys, if you want me to come back here, please just use your fingers - nothing more.”

“Oh yes, this feels so wonderful. You can all have me - all of you.”

The boys and girls at your school are astonished by your incredibly short skirt, and you find yourself getting a lot of attention. This, unfortunately, attracts attention of a more unwelcome sort - Mrs Lewis, one of the French teachers, appears suddenly in front of you with her arms folded, and says, “What, Miss Sterling, do you call that?” She points at your skirt.

You gulp. “I'm sorry, Mrs Lewis - all my other skirts are in the wash.”

“That's as may be,” says Mrs Lewis. “But there are rules at this school, and I'm pretty sure that buttock-revealing microskirts are against them!”

You furrow your brow. “Pretty sure? You mean you don't know whether this skirt breaks the dress code?”

“Don't talk back!” she snaps. “Go and see Mr Pringle!”

You sigh as you trot upstairs, followed by the gazes of a lot of very excited boys. You head for the headmaster's office, and find his door closed. You knock, and he opens it. “Ah, Zoë,” he says. “What seems to be the… What the heck? Zoë! Whatever are you wearing?”

“It's a skirt, sir,” you say. “Mrs Lewis wasn't sure if it breaks the dress code or not, but she sent me here anyway.”

Mr Pringle scratches his head. “Well, my goodness! I'm not sure the dress code specifies an actual minimum length - we've always just sort of relied on the girls and their parents to use good judgment. Clearly, you have not used good judgment, so I fear the time may have come to formalise a minimum skirt length. In the meantime, Zoë, since you haven't actually broken a rule, I suppose you're free to go. When we decide on a minimum length, though, I expect you to comply!”

“I will, sir,” you say. “But please … if I may be so bold as to request … please make it nice and short. Some of the girls, myself included, have very nice legs, and it seems a shame to make them cover up too much.”

Mr Taylor, one of the geography teachers, sticks his head in and says, “Jack, the new computers have arrived.”

“Ah!” says Mr Pringle, looking up. “Thank you Ross. Um, don't go anywhere though. I'd like your opinion on something.”

“Good heavens!” exclaims Mr Taylor, noticing your skirt. “That's a little short!”

“Quite so,” says Mr Pringle. “The problem is, we don't actually specify a minimum skirt length in the dress code.”

“For a very good reason,” says Mr Taylor. “Your predecessor felt that a minimum skirt length would simply prompt the girls to flirt with or even flout that minimum, creating a nightmarish situation in which the teachers would be bending down and sticking rulers up against girls' bottoms to check whether they were in compliance. He felt we could do without that hassle. And so far that policy has worked very well.”

“Indeed,” says Mr Pringle. “But as you can see…”

“Hmm, yes, I see your point,” says Mr Taylor. “But possibly we should discuss this matter … um … in private?”

“Oh don't worry about me,” you say. “I'll abide by whatever decision you come up with, as long as it's reasonable.”

“Very good of you,” says Mr Pringle. “In that case, perhaps we could just take no action, as long as you promise to wear longer skirts in future?”

“Ah but how much longer?” you ask. “That's sort of the question here.”

Mr Pringle sighs. “How about three inches below the buttocks?”

“Wow, that short?” says Mr Taylor.

“I fear anything longer would criminalize a lot of skirts at this school,” says Mr Pringle.

“But if you set the limit at three inches,” you say, “then you're going to start running into problems of measurements with rulers, which I thought you wanted to avoid.”

“Ah, but it would be an unofficial limit,” says Mr Pringle.

“If its unofficial, what reason would I have for complying with it?” you ask.

“To avoid punishment for this skirt!” says Mr Pringle.

“But this skirt, as you've pointed out,” you object, “isn't against the rules!”

Mr Pringle groans. “Do you have a better idea?”

“Yes,” you say. “Make an official rule that the minimum skirt length is buttock-length. Buttocks must be covered, or else. That's an easy limit to enforce, because it doesn't require a ruler or any other measuring device.”

“But that's obscenely short!” says Mr Pringle. “If I put out a rule to that effect, the parents will be up in arms!”

You smile. “Well, the alternative is to just let me get away with this skirt, take no action at all, and hope that peer pressure will persuade me to wear longer skirts in future.”

“Sounds good to me!” says Mr Pringle. “All right Zoë, you're dismissed.”

You giggle quietly as you go to your first lesson. The teacher, Mr Farthingworthy, glares at you as you enter. “Miss Sterling!” he thunders. “That skirt is obscene! Go and see Mr Pringle at once!”

“I just came from his office,” you say. “Apparently there's no minimum skirt length specified in the school's dress code, so he's not going to punish me.”

“Absurd!” splutters Mr Farthingworthy. “I'll be talking to him later.”

“Is that true?” whispers your friend Naomi to you as you sit down next to her near the back of the classroom. “Is there really no minimum skirt length?”

You nod. “And not likely to be, any time soon,” you say. “So I'm going to keep wearing skirts like this for as long as I can get away with it. Maybe even shorter!”

“You're crazy!” whispers Naomi, and you both giggle.

You find yourself the centre of attention for the rest of the morning, and throughout lunchtime. A few boys try to grope your bottom, but you fend them off. At half past one, you walk to the swimming pool with Naomi and another friend, Annie. In the changing room, you strip down to your white cotton panties, and when Naomi and Annie head towards the pool in their swimsuits, you join them.

Annie turns and stares at you. “Where's your swimsuit?” she asks.

“You're not going out there like that, surely?” exclaims Naomi.

“Yup!” you say, trying not to laugh at their reactions. “I just can't wait to see the look on Coach Nesbitt's face!”

Annie looks perplexed. “Are you trying to get suspended?” she asks.

“Oh, he won't send me to Pringle for this,” you say dismissively. “He might tell me I'm not allowed to swim until I'm wearing a proper swimsuit, or he might tell me I'm banned from swimming for a week, but I suspect he'll enjoy looking at my breasts while he's saying it.”

“You're probably right,” says Naomi. “Nesbitt is a bit of a perv. But I still think you're crazy, Zoë.”

“We'll see,” you say airily.

You walk out into the pool area, where it does not take long for Mr Nesbitt and the assembled swimmers, both male and female, to notice your state of undress. Cheers and wolf-whistles ring out from the boys, and echo loudly around the pool. Pursing your lips and trying not to giggle, you walk over to the tiered seating area while the coach's eyes, wide with disbelief, follow you with scarcely a blink.

“Miss Sterling!” says Mr Nesbitt. “You appear to have forgotten your swimsuit.”

“Yes sir, that's exactly it,” you say. “I got a hole in it last week, and I took it home to fix it, but I accidentally left it there.”

“I see,” says Mr Nesbitt, still staring at your breasts. “Well,

You can't possibly swim like that. Go and get dressed.”

It can't be helped, I suppose. Just try not to gawk at her, boys.”

The custard squelches against your buttocks, and oozes between them, as you walk out to the bus stop, and you grimace with disgust. There is about a pound of custard in your panties, and the resulting bulge is sagging about three inches below your hemline, so there is no disguising your unfortunate situation.

Steve joins you, laughing his head off. “You do look funny!” he says.

You scowl at him. “Shut up, turd-face,” you say. “I'll totally get you back for this.”

The bus arrives, and you climb on board. You find an empty seat, but you are reluctant to sit down and make a mess, so you tuck your leg beneath you, and sit down carefully so that your thigh is balancing on your heel, and you are supporting yourself with your hand. It is an awkward position, but you manage to maintain it until you get to school.

Once you disembark, you walk up to the school's front doors, accompanied by howls of laughter and taunts that bring tears to your eyes. Unfortunately there is no time for a clean-up, so you head to your first lesson, which is biology. Sitting down at the back of the classroom, you shudder as the custard squishes between your buttocks and oozes forward beneath your pussy. Some of it oozes out of the sides of your panties, but most of it stays inside.

Your classmates gather around you, laughing. “What's that in your knickers, Zoë?” says Andrew Lunt, a rather mean and obnoxious boy. “Diarrhoea?”

“No, it's custard,” you say crossly. “My stupid little brother dumped it in there this morning, and I haven't had time to clean it out.”

“All right, back to your seats!” says Mr Wheaton, your biology teacher. “Whatever the commotion is can't possibly be as interesting as the lesson I have planned for you today.”

“Zoë's got custard in her knickers!” exclaims Andrew.

Mr Wheaton comes over to stand next to you. “Miss Sterling?” he says gently. “Do you have some … issues … you need to take care of?”

You look up at him gratefully; he really is a nice man. “My little brother dumped custard in my panties this morning,” you explain. “I didn't have time to clean it up before I left, and when I got here, I didn't have time to clean up before this lesson started.”

“Well why don't you go and clean up now?” he suggests.

“Thank you sir,” you reply,

“I think perhaps I'll do that.”

“But biology is my favourite subject, thanks to your lessons, and I don't want to miss anything.”

You run up to the bathroom, take off your panties, and wipe your bottom with toilet paper. Then, paranoid that the bus will come while you're still inside, you hurry out of the room, down the stairs, and run out of the house. You arrive at the bus stop barely in time. Your brother is already there.

“I thought you were going to miss it,” he says.

“And I don't suppose for a moment that you would have asked the driver to wait,” you remark, as you climb on board.

“Where would be the fun in that?” says Steve.

You pass some of your school acquaintances on your way to find a seat, and they all gasp at the shortness of your skirt. When you arrive at school, you encounter even stronger reactions.

“Holy shit, look at Zoë!” exclaims one boy. Another shouts, “Hey everyone! Look, Zoë's turned into a prostitute!”

You endure the name-calling for only half a minute before saying, “Hey, give me a break! I'm not a skank or a slut or a prostitute or whatever the fuck else you're calling me. Come on - you know me! Just because I come to school dressed a little differently from normal doesn't mean I'm suddenly a slut.”

Just then a gust of wind picks up your skirt and blows it up around your waist, revealing to everyone your lack of underwear. Laughter bursts out all around you, and you run into the school in deep shame. You head straight to your art lesson, where you find rosy-cheeked Miss Castle, a buxom woman in her early thirties who has been encouraging and nurturing your artistic talents for several years now.

“My goodness, dear!” she exclaims when she sees you. “What an incredibly short skirt! I don't think I've ever seen you looking so … are you all right?”

You sniff miserably. “They were all very mean to me outside,” you say. “My brother put custard in my panties, so I took them off, but then the wind caught my skirt and everybody saw … well, everything!”

“You poor thing,” says Miss Castle sympathetically. “Well, the girls are probably just jealous of your amazing legs.”

“And the boys?” you say.

“Well the boys are just idiots, of course - everyone knows that!” says Miss Castle brightly, and you laugh.

You have always felt comfortable around Miss Castle, and after a couple of minutes, you feel much better. “You really think I have amazing legs?” you ask her, fishing rather unsubtly for another compliment.

She smiles at you warmly. “Absolutely,” she says. “Stand up and let's take a look at you.”

You stand up, and turn around slowly. “I shortened this skirt myself, this morning,” you explain. “I probably didn't do a very good job…”

“Hmm!” she says. “So I see. Yes, it's a bit all over the place, isn't it? Would you like me to tidy up that hemline for you?”

“Yes please!” you say. “That would be very kind of you.”

But at that moment, some of your classmates walk in. “Morning Miss Castle,” they intone, one after another. Soon the entire class - just five girls and three boys - is assembled.

“Well,” says Miss Castle, “I'm afraid my model for today just called to say she's not feeling well and won't be able to join us, so…”

I'd like you all to draw for me a self-portrait while I work on fixing Zoë's skirt.”

Zoë, would you mind posing nude for your classmates while I work on your skirt?”

You think about the matter some more. Steve took a photo of your bare bottom, so just showing people your panties might not be enough to dissuade them from buying his photo. Unless… You go to your underwear drawer and pull out a white thong. Taking off your panties, you pull on the thong and smile with satisfaction. Yes, this should do the trick.

Your mother drives you and Steve to school, and kisses you both goodbye. As you walk towards the school building, you hear gasps of astonishment from the boys and girls around you. Taking a deep breath, you lift up the back of your skirt, stop, and wiggle your bottom, causing peals of laughter to break out behind you.

“Nice arse, Zoë!” shouts one boy. Other comments are less complimentary.

“You're bothered about me selling a photo of your arse, and yet you're happy to flash it around the school?” asks Steve, puzzled.

You smirk at him. “Yes, we'll see how much money you can make with that photo once people figure out they can see my bottom without paying for it.”

The light dawns, and Steve frowns grumpily. “Hey, that's not fair.”

You chuckle, and hike up your skirt around your waist as you walk into the building and down the main corridor, eliciting more gasps and exclamations of delight, surprise and derision in equal measure. One of your friends, Annie, clutches your arm as you pass. “What are you doing?” she hisses. “Do you want your reputation to completely tank?”

“My little shit of a brother took a photo of my arse this morning,” you say, “and he's planning to sell it to as many people as possible. I just figured if I show my arse to everyone free of charge, nobody would buy his stupid photo.”

“But Zoë dear, the issue isn't about preventing him from making money, surely?” says Annie. “Shouldn't it be more about preventing people from seeing your arse?”

You shrug. “I'm not so bothered about that. I have a nice arse. I just don't see why Steve should profit from it.”

“Zoë Sterling!” thunders Mr Bramley, one of the history teachers. “Pull down your skirt this instant!”

You do so, quickly. “Sorry sir,” you say.

“Is that as far as it goes?” he inquires in surprise. “That's far too short! What's got into you, girl?”

You sigh. “My little brother Steve took a photo of my bottom this morning and he's planning to sell it around the school. I didn't want him making a profit from my bottom so I decided to show my bottom free of charge to everyone at school so he'd have nobody to sell his photo to.”

Mr Bramley looks quite taken aback. He spots Steve lurking in the background, and says, “Oi! Steve Sterling! Come here!”

Steve approaches warily. “Yes sir?”

“Did you take a photo of your sister's bottom this morning?”

Steve looks daggers at you. “Maybe.”

“Then hand over your camera at once!”

“That won't do any good sir,” you say. “He downloaded it to his computer.”

“Oh,” says Mr Bramley. “Well Steve, if I hear of even one person buying this photo from you, I shall see to it that you are expelled from this school. Is that clear?”

Steve turns pale. “Yes sir,” he says.

“There,” says Mr Bramley, satisfied.

“Thank you sir!” you exclaim in surprise. “That was really nice of you!”

“Well, you know, just doing my job,” says Mr Bramley, smiling. “Now, about this skirt…”

“You think it's too short?” you say politely.

“Yes indeed! Far too short,” says Mr Bramley.

“Sorry sir - but I wasn't aware there was a restriction on skirt length.”

“Well of course there is!” says Mr Bramley. “I can't remember offhand what the minimum length is, but that skirt is clearly too short. Come with me - we'll go and see Mr Pringle.”

You follow him up the stairs and down another corridor to the headmaster's office. Mr Bramley knocks, and a voice calls out, “Come in!”

Mr Bramley enters, and you follow. When Mr Pringle sees you, he smiles. “Hello Zoë! Hello Adam - what seems to be the problem.”

“I'd have thought that was obvious,” says Mr Bramley, pointing at your skirt.

“Hmm, yes, that is quite a short skirt!” says Mr Pringle. “Lovely legs though, Zoë - I can see why you'd want to show them off.”

“Thank you sir,” you say, smiling. “Mr Bramley thinks my skirt's too short, but he doesn't know what the minimum length is.”

Mr Pringle clears his throat, and says,

“Well it's officially three inches below the buttocks, but it's rarely enforced.”

“There isn't one. You're welcome to shorten your skirt as much as you like, Zoë.”

You knock on Steve's door. “Steve!” you say. “Let me in - I want to make a deal with you.”

“What kind of deal?” he asks.

“I want you to cut me in for fifty percent of your earnings, in exchange for which … I'll pose for more photos.”

There is silence for a moment, then Steve says, “Is this a trick?”

“Well I'd hardly tell you if it was, you numbskull,” you say, “but no, it's not a trick.”

The door opens. “Good,” says Steve, “because I've buried that photo in about ten different places on my hard drive and … elsewhere.”

“Well soon you'll have lots of photos of me,” you say, “but I want your guarantee that you'll give me fifty percent of your earnings - and not a penny less!”

“Sure!” says Steve.

“Swear it!” you say.

“I swear!” he insists. “I'll swear on the bible, if you like.”

“You're an atheist!” you say.

“All right,” says Steve, thinking quickly. “I'll swear on … on … the Precious! Yes, on the Precious.”

You snort and roll your eyes, then you fetch Steve's favourite book from his bookshelf. “All right,” you say, “go for it.”

Steve solemnly places his hand on his most prized possession, a deluxe hardback illustrated version of The Lord of the Rings, and says “I swear that I will give you fifty percent of any money I make from selling sexy pictures of you.”

“Okay then!” you say, putting the book back. “Well we've got about twenty minutes before we have to leave for school, so let's get started.”

“Now?” says Steve. “Okay!” He unplugs his digital camera from his computer. “Um, okay, go and sit on my bed.”

You sit on the edge of Steve's bed, and spread your legs so that your panties are showing. “Like this?”

“Yes!” says Steve, wide-eyed. He takes a couple of photos. “Now undo a few buttons on your blouse.”

You do so, and Steve takes another photo. “Show me your bra,” he says. You comply, and he takes another couple of photos. Then he says, “Okay, take your blouse off completely.”

You notice that a bulge is growing in Steve's trousers. “Steve!” you say. “You're not getting aroused by your sister, are you?”

Steve adjusts his crotch uncomfortably. “It's not my fault you've got a nice body,” he says.

You sigh, and take off your blouse. “Now lie down and spread your legs wider,” says Steve. You lie on your back and spread your legs wide apart. Steve takes more photos, including a close-up of your panties. “Awesome!” he says. “Now take off your skirt.” You do so. “And your bra.”

“Now hold on a minute Steve,” you say. “I think at a minimum I should keep my underwear on.”

“You can cover your boobs with your hands,” says Steve.

You shrug. “All right then,” you say, and you take your bra off, being careful not to let him see your breasts.

Steve takes more photos, then he says, “Get on your hands and knees, and pull your knickers between your buttocks.”

You contrive to do this while still keeping your breasts covered, but since you have to balance on one arm, you use your other arm to cover your breasts. Steve takes several close-ups of your bottom, but when he reaches out to adjust your panties, you say, “Hey!”

Steve stands up hurriedly. “All right,” he says, “now lie on your back again, spread your legs, and cover your nipples with two fingers each.”

“I'm not sure two fingers will be enough to cover my areolas,” you say, frowning. “I think three fingers, minimum.” You lie on your back and spread your legs, then you move your hands until only your middle three fingers of each hand are covering your nipples. Steve takes another couple of photos, then he removes your shoes and socks.

“Now take off your knickers,” he says.

“No!” you say firmly.

“I won't show your pussy!” says Steve. “It'll be, you know, an 'artistic nude', with nothing actually showing. You can use one arm to cover your breasts, and your other hand to cover your pussy.”

You sigh. “All right,” you say. With one arm over your breasts, you carefully remove your panties, keeping your right thigh between your pussy and Steve's camera. Having tossed your panties on the floor, you cover your pussy with your hand.

Steve takes another photo. “Now spread your legs wide apart again,” he says.

Making sure your hand is completely covering your pussy and anus, you open your legs and spread them wide. Steve grins, and takes a couple more photos. “Now uncover your breast,” he says.

“Steve!” you say sharply.

“Think of the money!” Steve urges you. “What we've got so far is great, but if I show these to people and then say, 'Want to see her nipples?' - they'll pay a fortune!”

You bite your lip, then say,

“No Steve. That's enough photos. I'm getting dressed now.”

“I suppose that's true. All right Steve.”

“Cool!” say a couple of the boys.

“What does the skirt length clause currently say?” asks Jenny.

“It says that your hemline must not be higher than your fingertips when your arms are held at your side,” you say. “But I think that's an arbitrary and capricious rule, and I want it changed.”

“What does capricious mean?” asks Billy.

You ignore him, and carry on indoors, heading for your first lesson of the day, which is Maths. The teacher, Mr Lister, stares at you as you enter, and says, “Zoë! Where's your skirt?”

“I'm not wearing one today,” you tell him primly, “as a protest against the skirt length rule.”

“I didn't know there was one,” he says in surprise. “But if you're protesting, then I suppose you should go and protest to the proper person - i.e. Mr Pringle. Off you go!”

You nod curtly, and leave the room. Heading upstairs, you make for the headmaster's office, and find the door open. Mr Pringle is inside, tidying his desk. He looks up as you enter. “Great Scott!” he says.

“Hi sir,” you say. “Mr Lister sent me here.”

“I can see why!” says Mr Pringle. “Explain yourself!”

“I'm going without a skirt today to protest the skirt length rule,” you tell him.

“Good heavens, Zoë,” says Mr Pringle, annoyed, “we already have a very relaxed rule on skirt length, and we hardly ever enforce it! What makes you think it needs to be protested?”

“I'd like to suggest an alternative rule,” you say simply.

Mr Pringle sighs. “And what might that be?”

“I think the only requirement should be that skirts should cover the panties,” you say.

“That would permit some very short skirts,” remarks Mr Pringle. “When hemlines rise, buttocks appear before panties, you know.”

“I realise that, sir.”

“So you think we should permit skirts that reveal part of the buttocks, as long as they keep the panties covered?” inquires Mr Pringle.

“Exactly, sir,” you say.

Mr Pringle scratches his chin, and says,

“How about we get the staff and pupils to vote on the matter?”

“Well I suppose I have no objection to that. Consider it done. Now go and put a skirt on!”

Everyone laughs. “Silly thing to bet with!” says Jenny.

“Well obviously I didn't think I was going to lose!” you retort. “He tricked me.” You head on inside and go straight to your first lesson, which is Maths with Mr Davies. As you enter his classroom, Mr Davies looks up at you and his eyes widen, along with his grin.

“Good morning Zoë!” he says. “Not wearing a skirt today?”

“No sir,” you reply.

“Well well! Quite charming, I'm sure. Do sit down. Somewhere near the front, hehe.”

You sit down near the back of the classroom, much to Mr Davies's disappointment. Halfway through the lesson, however, he says, “Miss Sterling, perhaps you would care to solve this problem on the blackboard?”

You get up from your seat, and walk to the front of the class, eliciting giggles and whispers from your classmates. The problem is quite difficult, and takes you some time to solve. It does not help that Mr Davies has moved his chair to just behind you, and is no doubt staring lustfully at your panty-clad bottom. Then, to your astonishment, you feel his hand sliding between your thighs. The old bugger is actually groping you! No doubt your classmates cannot see what he is doing, since he has positioned himself right behind you, but a single shriek from you would bring all kinds of trouble down on him. After a moment's thought, you…

Squeal, turn around, and slap Mr Davies across the cheek.

Decide to let the dirty old man have his fun.

You cringe at the sudden sound of your car exploding. “Jesus!” you exclaim.

“Holy crap!” says Brandon, Mr Templeton's middle son, who has just got out of the back of his car. He watches your flaming car for a moment, then he turns to you and says, “Well, you'd better climb in, Zoë.”

You do so, and Brandon climbs in after you, sandwiching you between himself and Mr Templeton's middle son, Brandon. Both men are quite large, and you feel uncomfortably squeezed.

“Dear me,” says Brandon, grinning down at your panties. “You've not got much room there. Might be better if you sit on our laps rather than between us.”

“Yes, I think so!” you gasp, and you struggle to stand up. Brandon and Alfie shuffle closer together, and you sit back down, with your left buttock on Brandon's right thigh, and your right buttock on Alfie's left thigh. But your knees are being squished against the back of the seats in front, so Brandon pulls your left knee to the left, until it slips between his own knees, and Alfie does the same with your right leg. In front, you see Mr Templeton adjusting his rear-view mirror, no doubt to give him a good view of your panties between your spread legs.

“All comfy?” says Mr Templeton. “Then let's be off.”

Brandon places his right hand nonchalantly on your left thigh, and a moment later, Alfie places his left hand on your right thigh. A minute later they are both subtly stroking your thighs, gradually working their hands closer and closer to your panties. You are feeling highly uncomfortable with this arrangement, but with four large men surrounding you, you dare not object in case things get ugly.

When Brandon's hand reaches your panties, and he starts stroking your pussy through the flimsy cotton material, you…

Start to cry, and say, “Please don't do this - please just take me to school.”

Resolve not to make a fuss, whatever they do to you.

You are about to reply, when your father's car suddenly explodes, and you duck instinctively. “Jesus!” you exclaim.

“Good heavens!” says Mr Templeton. “Well I can see you have a story to tell. Climb in, child, and I'll take you to school.”

Adam Templeton, the minister's oldest son, gets out of the back to make room for you. When you get in, however, you find that there is not enough room for three people in the back, particularly since the Templetons are all quite large men. “Oh dear!” you say to the middle son, Benjamin. “Looks like I'd better sit on your lap, Ben.”

Benjamin is a good-looking man, but he is inexperienced and very straight-laced, and he looks rather freaked out at having an attractive teenaged girl settling her panty-clad bottom on to his lap, and he seems not to know what to do with his hands. Adam climbs in, and you stretch out your legs across his lap, leaning your back against Ben's window.

“All aboard?” says Mr Templeton. “Then let's be off.”

He is an inexpert driver, and when he belatedly notices a car coming up from behind, he hits his brakes, throwing you sharply against the back of the driver's seat. “Ben,” you say, “you're wearing a seatbelt, but I'm not - I wonder if you wouldn't mind holding on to me?”

Ben's eyes widen. “Er…” he says, gingerly taking hold of your shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Put your right arm around my waist!” you tell him. “Hold on to me tightly. And hold on to my thigh with your other hand.” You take hold of his left hand and stick it down between your thighs, just inches from your pussy.

Ben complies, but he is blushing furiously. You smirk as you feel a stirring in his loins, just beneath your bottom. “Er, this seems highly … inappropriate,” he says meekly.

Adam glances over, and his eyes widen as he sees where Ben's hand is. He looks up at you, and you wink at him. To your surprise, he mouths “Thank you” at you. You wonder what he means by that. But it is obvious that Adam approves of your behaviour, so you snuggle up against Ben's chest. Then you part your legs slightly, and gently pull Ben's hand further up your thigh, until his little finger is touching your panties.

Unfortunately this freaks Ben out completely, and he says, “Stop the car Dad!”

At this point Ben surprises you by starting to stroke your pussy through your panties.

Accompanied by jeers and laughter, you turn around and walk out of the school building. You spot your mother's car still outside by the kerb - she is talking on her mobile phone - and you start running in order to catch her before she leaves. Unfortunately she does not notice you, and when you are less than ten yards away, she pulls away and drives off down the road.

Your shoulders slump as you try to think what to do. Passers-by are looking at you strangely, and you realise you must look quite an unusual sight, standing here with nothing on your bottom half except for a pair of white cotton panties. But when a couple of drivers hoot their horns at you, one of them giving you a big thumbs-up as he drives past, you smile as you consider that you must also look quite sexy.

Mulling over some options, you decide to…

Call your mother and ask her to come back for you.

Catch the next bus into town, and wander around the streets, showing off your panties.

“What new dress code?” you inquire, wide-eyed. Other pupils gather round, similarly surprised and curious.

“You'll hear all about it at assembly,” says Mr Pringle. “I'll see you all there in five minutes.”

He turns and heads back down the corridor, leaving you and your friends to puzzle over the meaning of his words. The bell rings, and a flood of boys and girls pours through the door, heading for the assembly hall. You take your place next to your friends Annie and Naomi, and wait impatiently to see what the headmaster has to say.

The teachers start filing in, and taking their places at the front of the room. Mr Pringle comes in last, and he marches straight up to the lectern. “Good morning boys and girls,” he says. “I have a couple of announcements to make. The first concerns littering. The cleaners have complained about the volume of litter that they have to clean up at the end of each day, and I want to remind everyone that littering is against the school rules and punishable by detention or, in serial cases, suspension. You have been warned!

“The second announcement concerns the girls' dress code. As you are aware, there were two incidents recently in which girls were found to have brought drugs into the school, concealing them in their panties in order to get through the bag check. In view of these incidents, it has been decided that the girls at this school will no longer be allowed to wear skirts, and their panties must therefore be on display at all times.”

Gasps and murmurs ripple around the room as the pupils turn and whisper to each other.

“Immediately following your departure from this room, all girls must remove their skirts and put them in their lockers,” says Mr Pringle. “Moreover,

All teachers are now authorised, at any time, to check inside any girl's panties for drugs.”

If I hear of any girls smuggling drugs in their bras, we will be banning blouses as well.”

Your fifth lesson is English, with Mr Percival. He takes one look at you and says, “Zoë Sterling! I don't know what you're playing at, and I don't want to. Go and see Mr Pringle at once!”

“Oh but sir,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“No excuses!” he barks. “Go!”

You sigh and leave the room. Heading upstairs, you walk down a long corridor until you reach the headmaster's office. You knock on the door, but there is no answer. You wait for a minute, then knock again. Still no answer. You go next door, where the school secretary, Lewis Motson, is busy typing. He looks up, and blinks in surprise. “Hello?” he says.

“Hi Lewis,” you say. “Is Pringle around?”

“He had to go out,” says Lewis. “Did a teacher send you up here?”

“Yes,” you say. “Could you tell Pringle I was here?”

“Of course,” says Lewis. “Remind me of your name…?”

“Good grief, Lewis,” you exclaim in annoyance. “You've been here for two years! You and I have spoken about fifty times…”

“There are a lot of girls at this school,” says Lewis irritably. “I can't be expected to remember all their names.”

You roll your eyes. “I bet you're gay,” you mutter.

Lewis, rather taken aback, says, “No I'm not!”

You head back to the classroom and tell Mr Percival that Mr Pringle is out. He scowls, but tells you to sit down. After your Maths lesson, you head to the cafeteria for lunch, and then, after a short break, you have your last two lessons of the day. You tell both teachers that you have already been sent to the headmaster because of your lack of a skirt, and they let you stay in their classroom.

Your mother picks you and Steve up, and she gasps as you climb into the car without a skirt. “Darling, whatever happened to your skirt?”

“I sat on some glue,” you say, “and I practically ripped my skirt apart trying to get it off the chair.”

“Ugh!” says your mother. “Stupid high school pranks! Those skirts aren't cheap, you know!”

“I know - sorry Mum,” you say. You turn and wink at Steve, who grins back at you.

Your mother drops you off at home, and then heads off to her supermarket job, leaving you and Steve alone in the house. Steve's friends soon arrive, and you realise the time has come to fulfil your end of the bargain. As Steve and his friends assemble in the living room to play on Steve's Xbox 360, you take off all of your clothes, and trot downstairs, naked. You enter the living room and say, “Hi boys.”

Steve's friends are speechless. Eyes and mouths open wide, they seem paralysed, frozen in place. You chuckle and come further into the room. Their eyes follow you as you idly stroke one of your breasts, trying hard not to laugh. “Would anyone like a drink? Tea? Orange squash? I think we have some coke. We've also got Jaffa Cakes if you like.”

Steve's least nerdy friend, Ryan, recovers first. “Zoë, you're naked!” he says.

“Well duh!” you respond, smirking slightly.

“You have an amazing body!” says Ryan. “I don't know why you're naked, but I'm not about to complain - you look absolutely gorgeous!”

“Well thank you Ryan!” you say, smiling at him.

“And I'd like some coke and a Jaffa Cake or two, please,” he adds with a grin.

Steve's most nerdy friend, Ellis, says, “I've got such a stiffy right now!”

Charles, a ginger-haired boy, says, “Can I have some Jaffa Cakes and some milk please?”

You nod, and raise an eyebrow at Sean, who has not yet spoken. But Sean just buries his head in his hands, and shakes his head.

“What's up with Sean?” you ask Steve.

“Shy,” says Steve. “I'll have tea please. Why don't you bring a plate full of Jaffa Cakes and we can help ourselves.”

“Can I have some tea too please?” says Ellis. “With a centimetre of milk, and two heaped teaspoons of sugar please.”

“Sean'll have orange squash,” says Steve.

“Coming right up!” you say. Returning to the kitchen, you chuckle quietly to yourself. This is proving to be more fun than you expected. You prepare everyone's drinks, empty a box of Jaffa Cakes on to a dinner plate, and carry everything through on a tray. Ryan, the only person not currently playing, pulls out a little table for you to set the tray on.

“Thank you Ryan!” you say to him.

Now that you are back in the room, Steve's friends immediately start playing badly. Sean crashes his tank, Ellis falls victim to enemy gunfire, and Charles forgets to throw his grenade, and is consequently blown to bits.

“Ugh!” says Steve. “Zoë, you're too distracting.”

“Want me to leave?” you ask.

“No!” chorus four voices.

You laugh, and say, “Well as exciting as I'm sure your game is, perhaps we can come up with something more fun to do.”

“Like what?” asks Steve, looking a little disgruntled.

“Well,” you say,

“How about we play a modified game of spin the bottle?”

“I'm guessing you're all virgins - perhaps we could remedy that?”

Despite some close calls, by the end of the day you have managed to avoid getting sent to Mr Pringle - and you have even improved your relationship with some of your teachers. A couple of the male teachers are now big Zoë fans, thanks partly to your panties and partly to your well-expressed flattery, and you have also made a long-term ally in Mrs Dougal, your French teacher. Having recently gone through a painful break-up, she has been rather depressed lately, but your eloquent validation of her teaching skills, which almost brought her to tears, has given a great boost to her confidence. Reciprocally, her warm gratitude prompted you to pay more attention in her lesson, and your astute questions only added to her newfound fondness for you. You almost feel like you could turn up to her next class naked, and she would still accept you with open arms.

Your mother picks you and Steve up after school, and she is aghast at your lack of a skirt. “What happened?” she demands.

“It fell in the toilet,” you say. “I didn't fancy wearing it after that, so I flushed it.”

“Good grief!” says your mother. “First you spill coke on your skirt, and now this - what did you have against it? Was it uncomfortable?”

“No, they were just accidents,” you assure her. “Coincidental … accidents. Sorry Mum.”

She sighs. “They're not cheap, you know, those skirts,” she says. “But I suppose we'll have to get you a new one.”

She drops you off at home, then drives off to her supermarket job, leaving you and Steve alone in the house. Steve turns to you and says, “All right Zoë - my friends will be arriving at any minute. I think it would be cool if you could start off fully dressed, but then, in front of everyone, say something like 'My, isn't it hot in here?' - and start taking off your clothes.”

You chuckle. “That sounds quite amusing actually - yes, I can do that.”

“Awesome!” says Steve, grinning. “Thanks Zoë!”

His friends soon arrive, and you size them up, each in turn. First there is Ellis, a complete nerd with absolutely no social skills and an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the Star Wars universe. He pushes past you without even saying hello. Then there is Charles, whose wiry ginger hair and spotty face suggest that he will remain dateless for many years. Next comes Sean, who almost cowers away from you as he trots by with a barely audible 'hello'. Finally there is Ryan, a tall, rather lanky boy who grins at you and says, “Hi Zoë!”

You smile at him and say, “Hi Ryan.” It is nice to have Ryan here - he is not exactly boyfriend material, but at least he is relatively normal. The boys all crowd into the living room and take up positions in front of the television, which Steve switches on along with his Xbox 360. Soon a four-player game is well underway, with Charles sitting out for the time being. You sit on the floor, cross-legged, slightly in front of the television but off to one side, so that you are not obscuring the boys' view.

“Is it me or is it getting hot in here?” you remark, flapping your blouse against your chest.

Steve shoots you a knowing glance, but the others barely grunt in response.

“Anyone mind if I take off my blouse?” you ask.

This time, all eyes turn in your direction. “I don't mind,” says Charles quickly.

“Nor me!” says Ryan.

“Okay then,” you say, and you start unbuttoning your blouse. You slip it off your shoulders, tug your arms out of your sleeves, and toss the blouse towards the door. “That's better!” you say. “Oh, don't mind me - you boys carry on.”

The game continues, but with many furtive glances in your direction. A few minutes later you stand up and say, “If you don't mind I'll take off my skirt too.” Without waiting for a response, you unzip your skirt and let it fall to the floor. Then you sit back down.

Sean, his eyes glued to your panties, fails to notice as his motorcycle crashes into a tree and explodes. He flicks his eyes back to the television and says “Oh shit!”

Steve chuckles. “What's the matter, Sean? Where's that legendary concentration of yours?”

As the boys continue to play, you nonchalantly remove your shoes and socks, leaving just your bra and panties on. Then you get to your feet again. “Tea anyone? Or we've got orange squash, or coke, if you like.”

“Cup of tea for me please,” says Steve.

“Squash please,” says Sean.

“Can I have some milk please?” asks Charles.

“I'm sure I can manage that,” you say. “Ryan?”

“Coke for me please - thank you!” says Ryan.

“I'll have tea,” says Ellis. “Two heaped teaspoons of sugar, and milk. Please.”

“And would any of you like some Jaffa Cakes to go with your drinks?” you ask. “Or I think we've got some chocolate HobNobs too…”

“Bring some of each on a plate,” says Steve. “Thanks sis.”

You wander through to the kitchen and prepare the drinks, along with a platter of Jaffa Cakes and HobNobs. Then, giggling quietly to yourself, you take off your bra and leave it on the kitchen counter. Returning through to the living room, you put the tray down on a little table, which you set in front of the boys.

“Holy shit!” exclaims Ellis, noticing your bare breasts. He shoots out a trembling finger, pointing at your chest. “Tits! Look, look - tits! Ryan! Charles! Sean! Look!”

“We can see them!” says Ryan. “Stop pointing, you rude bugger. Zoë, from the bottom of my heart, thank you! Your breasts are amazing!”

You laugh at the five sets of wide eyes staring at your breasts. “Anyone would think you'd never seen a topless girl before! Thank you Ryan - you're very sweet.”

“Are your knickers coming off next?” asks Ellis, barely able to contain his excitement.

Ryan, annoyed, reaches out and slaps the back of Ellis's head. “For fuck's sake, Ellis!” he says.

You stand up, and hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties. “Well I don't know,” you say. “I suppose I could take off my panties … why don't we put it to a vote? Hands up if you want me to take off my panties.”

Six hands shoot into the air. You count again, puzzled, then notice that Ellis has raised both of his hands. “Well, that seems to be unanimous,” you say, and you bend down, whisking your panties down to your ankles. You straighten up, stepping out of them, and with one foot you flick them over to where the rest of your clothes are piled up.

“Oh wow oh wow oh wow!” cries Ellis, sinking to his knees in front of the sofa, and clasping his hands to his cheeks.

“For once, I have to agree with Ellis,” says Ryan. “Wow is a pretty good word for this experience.”

You look over at the television, which is currently showing split-screen chaos. “Your game doesn't seem to be going very well,” you observe.

“Fuck the game!” says Ellis. “Let's fuck!”

“Oh my God!” exclaims Ryan, glaring at Ellis. “You really can be a little turd at times! Steve, does this guy have an off switch or something?”

Despite your lack of attraction to any of these boys, their undisguised lust for you is getting you quite horny, and you find that you are glad you agreed to do this. With a smile, you say,

“No fucking, boys, but if you like, I can lie across your laps as you play your game.”

“It's okay Ryan - fucking does sound like fun. Want to go first, Ellis?”

“Ohhh!” says the fat man, his eyes widening. “Ohh yeah! That's good.” He continues to moan and gasp while you wank his penis, until he groans and you feel a stream of fluid pouring down the back of your hand. You withdraw your hand from his underpants, and wipe the back of your hand on the couch. You feel rather disgusted with yourself, as the man licks his lips at you in what is probably supposed to be a seductive manner.

You feel a tickling sensation against your pussy, and gasp in horror. While you were masturbating the fat man, you did not notice that cockroaches were climbing up your legs, and some of them clearly managed to get into your panties. You can feel similar sensations all over your body, in fact, especially under your t-shirt, but the roaches in your panties worry you the most. You hike up your t-shirt, and pull open the front of your panties, trying to see how many roaches have got in there.

The fat man chuckles. “Want me to return the favour?” he says. “I can get the little fellas out of your undies if you want.”

You suppress a shudder at the idea of the man's chubby, sweaty hand feeling around inside your panties, but you smile politely and say,

“Thank you - that's a kind offer - but I think I can manage.”

“Yes please - if you wouldn't mind.”

You push your hand deeper into the fat man's underpants, and it slides slickly between his sweat-drenched buttocks. Sure enough, you find more cockroaches back there, and you pull them out two or three at a time. Finally, feeling rather sick, you stand up and wipe your arm across your t-shirt. You are covered with cockroaches now, and you shake your head to dislodge some from your face and hair. Lots of roaches are inside your t-shirt, you can tell, and with a stab of horror, you realise that some of the insects have actually managed to get inside your panties while you were feeling around in the fat man's underpants.

You turn towards Dan, who has his back to you and is busy sucking up cockroaches from the far corner of the room. You hurry over to him, and tap his shoulder urgently. He stops his PestVac and says, “Yes?”

“Dan!” you whisper urgently. “The roaches are getting inside my panties!”

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Yes, that's probably inevitable with an infestation this bad. Normally cockroaches flee from people, and from light, but when they're in such a hospitable environment and reach such a huge population, they pretty much lose those fears. That's why I tend to spray myself with cockroach repellent before I come out on these jobs.”

“There's cockroach repellent?” you exclaim. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because it wouldn't be good for you,” says Dan. “It can affect women's fertility and reproductive cycles. Trust me, you don't want to spray yourself with this stuff.”

“So what do I do about the roaches in my panties?” you demand. “I could take them out, but I'm covered in the buggers - more would only get in.”

Dan nods sagely. “True,” he says. “You're best ignoring them until the job's done. Then I can use the PestVac to suck them right off you.”

You sigh, and nod. “All right,” you say. But then you stiffen as one of the roaches starts to crawl into your vagina. “Oh my God!” you exclaim. “One of them's getting inside me!”

Dan's eyes widen slightly, and he says,

“Don't worry about it - we'll flush it out later.”

“Oh dear! It might leave an egg case inside you. We'd better get it out right away.”

The fat man struggles to his feet, and waddles across the room towards his bedroom. You start to pull cushions off the couch, and thousands of cockroaches scatter in all directions as you reveal them. They cascade off the couch and swarm over the carpet, and you frantically try to shake off the hundreds that start climbing your legs. With long sweeps of your hands you send dozens flying off your thighs and shins, but they are scuttling upward too thickly and too quickly, and you can soon feel them crawling all over your torso beneath your t-shirt. They are also squirming beneath the elastic seams of your panties, and you feel a scream of panic building within you. You frantically empty your panties out, but as soon as you replace them, dozens more roaches swarm into them and crawl between your buttocks and labia, even pushing their way into your vagina.

“Dan!” you shriek. “I can't take this any more! This job's just not for me - I'm sorry!”

Dan looks over at you in concern. “Wow, you're getting swarmed pretty badly there!” he acknowledges. “I must admit, this is as bad an infestation as I've ever seen - it's not normally this horrific. But I understand if you want to quit.”

“They've even got inside me!” you wail.

“Okay, okay - calm down,” he says. “Why don't we just get you out of here - I'll drive you back to the office, and you can go home and have a nice hot bath. You can wash yourself out, get rid of all the roaches, and you'll be yourself in no time.”

“Thanks,” you tell him gratefully. “I'm sorry Dan - I really am.”

“Don't mention it,” he says with a smile. “Hey, this job isn't for everyone.”

You walk over to where your jeans are lying on the floor, and pick them up. As you open them up to put them on, you see that the legs are full of cockroaches. You shake them vigorously, but only a few fall out, and the longer you shake them, the more roaches climb up your legs and conceal themselves inside your clothing. Your panties are bulging with the scuttling insects, and a steady stream of roaches is crawling into your vagina. You feel sick with horror and disgust, and want only to get out of this awful place. You pull your jeans on and drag them up your legs, then you pull several handfuls of roaches out of your panties so that you can zip up and button your jeans. Even as you hurry to the door, more roaches are climbing on to your shoes and from there making your way up both the inside and the outside of your jeans.

You hurry down the stairs with Dan, and go outside to his van. The squirming beneath your clothing is driving you crazy, and you start digging inside your t-shirt to pull out handfuls of cockroaches. Your bra cups are full of them; you manage to retrieve a handful, and toss them out of the window while Dan is waiting at a set of traffic lights. Unfortunately, a car has just pulled up next to Dan's van, and the roaches sail through the car's open window. The driver is a young woman in a low-cut top, and she shrieks as several cockroaches drop into her cleavage.

“Hey - you'd better stop that,” Dan warns you. “We'll get into trouble.”

Fidgeting miserably, you grit your teeth and endure the crawling sensations for another ten minutes, until Dan pulls up outside the office. “Thanks! Bye!” you say, and you fling yourself out of the van and run towards your car. You drive home way too fast, but fortunately do not meet any police cars on the way. Stopping outside your house, you get out of your car and run to your front door, pulling out your keys with shaking hands. It suddenly occurs to you that you are carrying an awful lot of cockroaches into a currently roach-free household, and that this is probably a very bad idea,

So you run around the house to the back garden, and open the door to your seldom-used shed.

But you can wait no longer to strip off these clothes, and you couldn't possibly do so outside.

“What … the … fuck?” you exclaim, backing away slowly as you watch the fat man become even more bloated, his skin changing colour to a putrid yellowish-green and his facial features spreading out to form shapeless blobs. Tentacles erupt from his body, flailing wildly, and then one of them lashes out to grab you around the wrist.

“Ack!” you cry. “Dan, help! He's turning into some kind of monster!”

But Dan merely grins as he comes over to watch. “Poor Zoë,” he chuckles. “You have no idea what's in store for you, have you?” He turns to the fat man, now a warty mass of shapeless blubber. “I hope she satisfies you, Master Klyguor.”

“For fuck's sake! What's going on?” you cry in distress, struggling wildly as another tentacle grabs hold of your other wrist. More tentacles snake towards you and start probing beneath your clothing. One of them worms its way inside your left bra cup and tickles your nipple. Other tentacles grab your ankles, and suddenly you are being lifted into the air, your arms and legs pulled wide apart. “Dan! Please help me!”

But Dan merely laughs as a tentacle slithers up around your thigh and starts to push past the gusset of your panties. You scream as it begins to slide into your vagina, and Dan gleefully claps his hands. “Yes Master!” he cries in delighted tones. “Defile her! Impregnate her with your sacred seed!”

You struggle in vain as the tentacle in your vagina thickens and starts to thrust rapidly, fucking you with an intensity you could scarcely dream of. “What's it going to impregnate me with?” you wail in terror.

“Ah Zoë,” chuckles Dan. “So pretty, so young, so foolish. You will make the perfect host for…

My master's mutant baby.”

A new breed of giant cockroaches.”

You kick off your shoes and socks, then feverishly tug your jeans down, along with your panties, and pull them both off. You stick your fingers into your vagina, trying to catch the cockroach that crawled inside you, but it is already too deep. You stand up, pulling your t-shirt up over your head, and then, feeling cockroaches inside your bra, you take that off too.

Naked and trembling, you suddenly feel another cockroach trying to get inside you, and you slap your hand between your legs, flicking it off. But more roaches are climbing up your legs all the time, and although you try to brush them off one-handed, you cannot get rid of them fast enough, and soon they are swarming all over your whole body. They are on your face, in your hair - you feel them trying to get into both of your ears, and frantically raise both hands to catch those aural explorers. But as soon as you do this, the roaches milling around between your legs start forcing themselves into your vagina. You scream and dance about desperately, trying to shake the cockroaches off your body, but they are clinging on too tightly.

In a blind panic, you rush towards the door,

Fling yourself through it, and scream, “Dan! I quit! Get me out of here!”

Trip over your clothes, hit your head on a chest of drawers, and fall to the floor unconscious.

Fascinated by this experience, you keep quite still while savouring the sensations produced by the cockroach exploring inside your vagina. It crawls over your g-spot, and you shiver with pleasure. When a second roach enters you, you find you are almost glad, and looking forward to a third, and a fourth.

They are not long in coming. More cockroaches are crawling up inside the legs of your jeans all the time, and finding their way into your panties, which are quickly filling up in both the back and the front. Some of them crawl between your labia and over your clitoris, exciting you still further. If this is what it is like to have a cockroach infestation, you think to yourself, it is no bad thing!

It occurs to you that it might be fun to infest your own house with cockroaches. It could be easily accomplished - you need only go home with your clothing full of roaches, and release them all in your bedroom. Then of course you would have to keep a messy house, to ensure their continued survival…

But perhaps it is a silly idea. If you keep this job, you will have plenty of opportunities to visit other roach-infested houses, but if your own house is infested, you will have no refuge from them if you get tired of them. And what if they crawl inside your ears or up your nose while you sleep?

You shiver, torn between pleasure and practicality. You moan with pleasure as an eleventh cockroach crawls into your vagina, and decide to…

Be sensible and avoid taking any cockroaches home with you.

Throw caution to the wind, and infest your house with as many roaches as possible.

“Dan!” you say urgently. “A cockroach crawled inside me!”

Dan's eyes widen. “Oh dear!” he says. “Well, a simple douching when you get home…”

“I can't wait that long!” you exclaim. “I need to get it out now! Will you help me please?”

“Now?” says Dan in surprise. “And you want my help?”

“Yes!” you exclaim in exasperation. “Quickly please! Ugh - another one just got inside me!”

“Um … okay!” says Dan, hurriedly improvising. “Well, why don't you take off your jeans and undies, and, um, lie down on the floor.”

You stare at him. “The floor … where all the roaches are?” you inquire, pointing downwards. You shudder as a third cockroach crawls inside you.

He shrugs. There are roaches everywhere,” he says. “Do you have a better location in mind?”

You look around. “There don't seem to be as many on the couch.”

The fat man struggles to his feet. “Help yourself,” he says.

You go over to the couch, unzipping and unbuttoning your jeans as you kick your shoes off. You pull your jeans and panties down together, and step out of them. Hundreds of roaches now fall out of your t-shirt, and you curse in annoyance. Never mind - it won't take you long to collect as many again. You lie down on the couch and spread your legs, holding your hand protectively over your pussy and vagina.

Dan licks his lips as he comes over to sit at the far end of the couch. “Here,” he says, “let me put this cushion beneath your bottom, to raise your hips - it'll make it easier.” He picks up one of the cushions, and instantly the several hundred roaches that had been concealed beneath it scatter in panic. Many of them run up your thighs, over your belly, around your buttocks, and over the hand you are clasping against your pussy.

“Ugh!” you exclaim. “Maybe the couch wasn't such a good idea after all.”

“All right,” says Dan. “Take your hand away, and I'll give this a go.”

You reluctantly remove your hand, and Dan stares in awe at your pussy as cockroaches immediately start swarming all over it. He brushes them away, and begins to push one of his fingers into your vagina. He buries it deep, and starts to wiggle it around, looking for cockroaches. “Ooh - there's one,” he says. “Damn - I can't get hold of it though! Maybe if I could get two fingers in there…” He inserts a second finger, and tries again. “Ugh - they're slippery buggers!” he says. After trying again and again, unsuccessfully, for almost five minutes, he eventually sighs and pulls his fingers out. “Sorry - I'd need a tool or something for that job.”

You shudder as two more cockroaches crawl into your vagina, and you hurriedly slap your hand over your pussy again. “Well, thanks for trying,” you say, feeling rather queasy as the roaches inside you clamber over each other and rub against the walls of your vagina.

Dan looks at you sympathetically. “What now?” he says. “Unfortunately this is just what it's going to be like in this job. You'll either have to learn to deal with it, or else quit - which would be a great shame.”

You bite your lip fretfully as you try to come to a decision. Eventually you say,

“I suppose I'll just have to get used to having cockroaches crawling around inside me.”

“I'm sorry Dan, but I'm just not cut out for this job. Could you take me back to the office?”

Over the next few minutes, as you cram ever more cockroaches into your bulging t-shirt, you feel several more cockroaches crawling into your vagina, until there is a constant writhing, squirming sensation in the pit of your abdomen. You have never been more disgusted in your life. Eventually you return to the other room to show Dan the fruits of your efforts.

“Good heavens!” he exclaims when he sees you. “Nice job, Zoë! Here, let me…” He inserts the nozzle of his PestVac into the neck of your t-shirt, and switches the machine on. Instantly dozens or even hundreds of roaches are sucked up into the belly of the PestVac, and Dan plays the nozzle around, gradually emptying your t-shirt. After finishing your front (though you can still feel cockroaches in your bra) he moves around to the back, and soon your t-shirt is lying flat against your body, with only a dozen or so roaches remaining here and there.

“Perfect!” says Dan happily. “Were there more or was that pretty much it?”

“Lots more!” you say. “Shall I go back for another load?”

“Yes please!” says Dan.

You return to the bedroom and begin scooping more roaches into your t-shirt. This time it takes you longer to fill it - perhaps half an hour - and when you are done, the carpet of cockroaches has been greatly thinned. Your panties are by now seething with roaches, and your vagina is feeling very full. You return to Dan, but find him examining the PestVac.

“It's full,” he says apologetically. “I've never encountered an infestation quite this bad, and I wasn't expecting to reach the PestVac's capacity. Mr Dewhurst, I'm afraid we'll have to come back later - our machine has no more room!”

The fat man nods. “Well you've done a cracking job,” he says. “I can hardly see any cockroaches from here, which is great. Thank you.”

“Bye!” you wave to the fat man as you leave his flat.

“So what do I do about all the cockroaches in my clothes?” you ask.

“We take them to the same place as the ones in the PestVac,” says Dan. “Which is to say,

A landfill site on the edge of town.”

The house of some unsuspecting future customer.”

“Dan!” you say, when you get back downstairs. “It looks like the attic's the centre of activity - there are literally thousands of them up there! Maybe tens of thousands!”

Dan nods. “We'll start up there, then. Come on.” He leads you back upstairs, carrying his heavy PestVac with him.

“What should I do?” you ask nervously, as Dan starts to climb the ladder.

“Start collecting roaches,” says Dan cheerfully, “using any container you can find. You may find a dustpan and brush useful. Later on I'll suck them up into the Vac.”

“I'll get you a bucket,” says Liam, “and a dustpan and brush.”

But Dan has only just started using his PestVac when the machine stops, and Dan curses. “Zoë, it looks like I'll need you up here after all.”

You nervously climb up the ladder. “What do you need me to do?” you ask.

“I need you to hold the Vac in place,” says Dan. “This floor's not even bolted down, and it vibrates when the Vac's on. That in turn makes the Vac 'walk', and there's a danger of it falling off the boards, between the rafters, and through the plaster of the ceiling below.”

“I think I can manage that,” you say, though you can't help wondering how you will fend off the cockroaches if you are holding on to the PestVac. You climb up to join Dan, stepping gingerly amongst the cockroaches, and hold on to the machine as Dan switches it on. It shudders quite vigorously, and you have to hold on with both hands. Roaches swarm up your legs and beneath your skirt, and up the outside of your skirt towards your tank-top. After less than a minute, they are crawling on your face and in your hair. Other roaches are scuttling into your cleavage, and the ones beneath your skirt are even pushing beneath the elastic seams of your panties.

“Dan!” you exclaim, but the PestVac is too loud and he does not hear. “Dan!” you yell urgently.

He turns around and switches off the PestVac. “What is it?” he asks.

You stand up and feverishly brush roaches off your clothes. You reach into your top, and pull a few out of your bra cups, and then you tuck your hand down inside the waistband of your skirt, into your panties, and retrieve a few that are crawling around on your pussy. Then you reach down the back and fetch some more that are nestling between your buttocks. More are climbing up your legs all the time, though, and you find it is a full-time job just keeping them from getting underneath your skirt.

Dan watches patiently for a minute, but then he says, “Zoë, I'm sorry, but if you can't help me when I need you to help me, you're not much good as an assistant.”

“But they're getting inside my panties!” you say desperately.

“They get into my underwear all the time,” says Dan. “You'll have to learn to ignore them, and later, when the job's done, you can deal with them. Either that, or you'll have to find another line of work I'm afraid.”

You sigh miserably, and say,

“In that case, Dan, I'm sorry - I just can't stand to have insects in my panties. I quit.”

“All right Dan - I suppose I'll just have to learn to ignore them.”

As you crawl, cockroaches swarm up your legs and arms, and though you try to shake them off they keep coming, and are soon scuttling in great numbers up your skirt and inside your tank-top via your cleavage. You shudder, but keep crawling, trying to see if you can find a nest or a queen or whatever these cockroaches might have along those lines. If you are honest with yourself, you really don't know the first thing about cockroaches, but you don't want to seem ignorant.

“Yes, you see,” you call out to Liam behind you. “They're more concentrated over here. I must be getting close to the hive.”

“Hive?” says Liam.

“Yes,” you say. “That's where the queen lives. If we can get the queen, the rest will gradually die off.” Then you gasp as you feel some of the roaches beneath your skirt forcing their way into your panties beneath the elastic leg-bands. Other cockroaches are crawling into your bra and tickling your nipples.

“It looks like you've got some roaches in your fucking knickers!” says Liam, who has an excellent view of your gusset as you crawl away from him.

“Stop looking at my panties!” you exclaim. “Yes, they're finding their way in there somehow, but I'm a professional - I don't let little things like that bother me.” Then you stifle a squeal as you feel one adventurous cockroach start to crawl into your vagina. At this point, you…

Decide enough is enough, and head back to report to Dan.

Find you are becoming a little aroused and fascinated by the roaches' behaviour.

“God, they're getting everywhere!” you mutter. “Never mind. Show me what you were going to show me.”

Liam leads you to the far end of the attic, and points to a hole in the brickwork separating his house from the next. “Look!” he says. “Look at the little fuckers.”

You shudder as one of the cockroaches in your panties starts to crawl into your vagina. But you try to concentrate on what Liam is showing you, and soon you realise what is happening. Roaches are coming out of the hole and going into the hole … but more frequently it is the former. Liam is right - they do seem to be migrating from next door.

A couple more roaches crawl into your vagina as you watch the hole, brushing the foul insects from your face and hair. Your panties are becoming quite full, as a steady stream of roaches is climbing up both legs and squeezing beneath the elastic seams of your underwear's leg-holes. Another roach enters your vagina, closely followed by another. Soon they are forcing their way inside you at a rate of about one every two seconds.

But then it all gets a bit too much for you, and you say, “All right! Let's get out of here.”

Liam nods, and you return to the top of the ladder, and descend. The roaches on your arms and legs soon find their way beneath your clothing, but your tank-top is bulging so much with a scuttling mass of roaches that Dan's eyes nearly pop out of his head when you rejoin him.

“It looks like you found more cockroaches!” he exclaims.

“Yes indeed,” you reply, “and it seems like they're coming from the next house. I would like…

To go next door and take a look, if you don't mind.”

You to do something about all these roaches, please!”

“Ugh!” you exclaim. “They're under all my clothes! I'd be better off naked!”

Liam chuckles. “Be my guest,” he says, but his jaw drops in surprise as you actually start taking off your tank-top and skirt. When you unclasp and remove your bra as well, he exclaims, “Sweet Jesus!”

“Sorry,” you say apologetically. Then, feeling a roach inside one of your shoes, you take off your shoes and socks too, leaving yourself in just your panties. Your little pile of clothing becomes almost instantly buried beneath a sea of cockroaches. “It's just easier to keep them off me this way.” You brush your legs, back and front, over and over again, but they are climbing so quickly and in such numbers that it is an uphill struggle trying to catch them before they reach your panties. One actually manages to sneak beneath the elastic seam at the edge of your gusset, but you quickly thrust your hand inside your panties and manage to catch it.

“Well you're a fucking sight for sore eyes, I must say,” says Liam.

You chuckle, and cover your breasts. “Thank you,” you say. But then you have to uncover your chest in order to keep brushing cockroaches from your legs. “Anyway, lead on.”

You follow Liam to the other end of the attic, where he points to a small hole in the brickwork. Cockroaches are scuttling both in and out of the hole - but mostly out. “Where does that lead to?” you ask.

“Next door,” says Liam. “Mr Prendergast lives there with his daughter Sophia. Poor girl - can you imagine the state of the place?”

It is a disturbing mental image, and you accidentally let two cockroaches get into your panties before you recover your concentration and fish them out. “Come on,” you say, “I think Dan and I had better take a look next door.”

You leave your clothing where it is, reasoning that you might as well stay like this until the job is done, and you head downstairs with Liam. Dan stares at you in surprise. “Hot up there, was it?” he asks.

“Easier to keep roach-free this way,” you reply tersely. “Dan, we've got to go next door. The roaches are coming from there, and there's a man there who is apparently keeping his daughter in disgusting conditions…”

Dan holds up his hand. “Whoa, stop right there. The job's here, Zoë - we have no responsibility for what's next door.”

“But unless we check next door,” you say, “Liam's roach problem will never go away!”

“I'm sorry,” says Dan, “but that's Liam's problem, not ours. We can't go where we're not wanted.”

“But what if I knock on their door and offer them your services?” you suggest desperately. “If they say yes, that's an extra job and extra money, right?”

Dan sighs. “I'm fully booked for today,” he says. “But if you want to run next door and ask the question, go for it. My hands are full here.”

“You going next door like that?” asks Liam, amused. “The old fucker'll definitely let you in if you do, I imagine.”

“I hadn't planned on it,” you say, but the thought of putting your roach-filled clothes back on is not exactly appealing. After a moment's thought, you…

Decide to fetch your clothes, put them on, and go next door.

Decide to run next door dressed only in your panties.

Dan stares at you, then scratches his head. “Er, okay…?” he says. “Why don't you lie down on the couch, and I'll have a go.”

The Steadycam operator follows you as you walk over to the couch and lie down on your back. As Dan kneels down on the floor next to you, you spread your legs wide, and the cameraman zooms in on your pussy. Dan licks his middle finger, and rubs his fingertip between your labia before sliding it into your vagina. He frowns in concentration as he feels around inside you. “Aha!” he says. But then, “Bother - it just went deeper in.”

You brush a cockroach from your cheek - the couch is badly infested, and roaches are emerging from beneath the cushions to crawl all over your naked body. Liam is staring down at you in awe, as is Bob, while the grinning cameraman is recording the most exciting footage he has ever shot.

Eventually Dan withdraws his finger. “Sorry Zoë,” he says. “I can't reach it.”

“Ugh!” you say. “Well how am I going to get it out? You didn't tell me this kind of thing might happen when you interviewed me!”

“It doesn't, normally,” says Dan. “But then, I don't often have a woman with me when I go on jobs. I suggest you flush yourself out with water when you get home.”

You sigh, and sit up, covering your breasts and pussy as you feel suddenly very exposed in front of the camera. “I suppose that'll have to do,” you say, and then you add,

“But clearly I can't handle this job, Dan, so please could you take me back to the office.”

“In the meantime I'll just try not to get worked up about any roaches that get inside me.”

You slide two fingers into your vagina and pull them apart, forcing your vagina open. Immediately a couple more cockroaches dash between your fingers and into your vagina, and you gasp in dismay. Another follows, and yet another, and you quickly realise that this strategy is highly counterproductive. Withdrawing your fingers, you whimper as you feel all five cockroaches crawling around inside you.

Covering your vaginal opening seems at this point like locking the door after the horse has bolted - although in this case the concept is somewhat reversed - so you settle for holding a hand over your pussy and covering your breasts with your other arm, in a belated show of modesty for the cameras' benefit. More cockroaches are swarming up your legs all the time, then running up your back or belly, and some of them crawl between your buttocks. A few push their way into your vagina, but whether you have five or fifty roaches inside you seems hardly to matter at the moment.

“So are you going to be doing your job in the nude, then, Zoë?” asks Dan politely.

Frankly, you are not sure what you are going to do. Having cockroaches running around inside your clothing was freaking you out, but now that you are naked, you are still covered in roaches, so what's the difference? You were not able to stop the roaches from getting inside you, and so far you have counted twelve entering you … no, make that thirteen. Yet somehow, it does make a difference - at least when you are naked, you can get at the roaches if you want to. With clothes on, you would have difficulty reaching a particular cockroach if, for example, it started biting you.

You feel a sense of panic rising again. What if the roaches inside you start biting you? Yet they have not done so as yet… You bite your lip, and say,

“Actually Dan, strange as it might sound, I would prefer to work naked, if that's okay.”

“Dan, more roaches are getting inside me all the time. I've had enough - I quit.”

You walk over to the sofa, get down on your hands and knees, and lower your head to peer beneath the sofa. The cameraman gasps in astonishment at the incredible sight of your miniskirt riding up over your white silk panties, which are bulging hugely with a seething mass of cockroaches.

“Ah yes!” you say, “there are lots of them under here.” You reach your arm beneath the sofa and sweep it from side to side, causing a mass exodus of cockroaches. Some of them dash straight towards you, and run up your arms to your shoulders and chest, seeking the secure hiding place your cleavage seems to afford.

Meanwhile, your vagina is becoming very full of cockroaches, and from various strange twinges deep inside you, you wonder whether some of them are in fact finding their way into your womb. Your anus has by now been forced open by four cockroaches, which are now scurrying around in your rectum. A fifth is just starting to push its way through.

You get to your feet, and turn back to the camera. “Unfortunately,” you say ruefully, “it seems that I am dressed rather inappropriately for this work - the cockroaches have been getting inside my clothing a lot.”

“Cut!” says Bob. “Zoë, that was amazing - have you any idea why the roaches are so fascinated with you? I notice they're leaving the rest of us pretty much alone.”

“Could be female hormones,” suggests Dan. “Or maybe Zoë has some kind of unique body chemistry.”

“Either way,” says Bob, “I'm not sure how appropriate this is for Blue Peter, but Zoë, I'd like to give you the phone number of a friend of mine who's just started filming a horror movie. I seem to recall him mentioning cockroaches, and I'm sure he'd love to have you in his film. Would you be interested?”

Your eyes widen. “Me? In a film? Absolutely!”

Bob writes a number down on a piece of paper, and hands it to you. “There you go,” he says. “His name's Billy Anders. Good luck!”

You turn to Dan, who chuckles and says, “Far be it from me to interfere with a potential film career. Go - make your phone call.”

“Thanks!” you exclaim. You retrieve your phone from your handbag, then hurry through to the kitchen, cockroaches crunching against each other inside you as you walk. You dial the number on the piece of paper, and listen anxiously.

A voice says, “Hello?”

You shiver eagerly, and say, “Hello, Mr Anders? My name's Zoë Sterling, and I was just asked to call you by your friend Bob.”

“Zoë, I'm in the middle of shooting a movie…”

“That's what it's about!” you say excitedly. “Bob says you would probably love to have me in your movie, because I'm currently in a house full of cockroaches, and they seem absolutely fascinated with me. They're crawling all over me, and my panties are full of them - they're even getting inside me…”

“Holy shit! If this is a wind-up…”

“No! I promise it's not!” you say.

“Hehe well I was going to say if it's a wind-up, then it's a good one, but what the heck - if it's true, then so much the better! Can you come down here right away? Better still, can you bring as many cockroaches with you as possible?”

“Right away?” you say. “Oh heck - I'll have to find out. Bob's here filming for Blue Peter - I'll have to check with him.”

You trot back through to the living room, and say, “Billy wants me to go straight to his film set, and he wants me to bring as many cockroaches as possible.” Then you bite your lip nervously, waiting for their reaction, as another cockroach struggles through your anus into your rectum.

Bob says, “Well this isn't the best time … I'd like to get a bit more footage while we're here. But we should be done in half an hour, and then I can take you to the set. I know where it is - it's only about an hour from here.”

“I can be there in an hour and a half,” you tell Billy. “Bob will bring me.”

“Excellent! See you soon.”

You hang up and grin at Bob, then your face falls as you turn to Dan. “Oh, but…”

“Don't worry about it!” says Dan. “Looks like we've got half an hour to get as many roaches together as possible. Zoë, you'll find a dustbin in the back of my van - please could you bring it.”

You do so, and for the next half hour, you flush out cockroaches out of all sorts of hiding places, and Dan sucks them up. There are so many roaches that the bag attached to his PestVac keeps filling up, and then he has to empty it into the dustbin. After half an hour, the dustbin is half full and the cockroach population has been considerably thinned, but there are still a few running around here and there.

“I'll stay here and keep working,” says Dan. “You run along and have fun - and take this bin with you.”

“Will do - thanks Dan!” you say.

Bob and one of his crewmembers heft the bin outside and into the back of their van. You waddle behind them, still covered in cockroaches, with cockroaches spilling out of your overloaded panties. Your rectum is now so full that the most recent roaches to force their way through your anus have got stuck there - about five roaches are now holding your anus wide open, and a sixth is trying to squeeze its way between them. Your vagina is similarly full and stretched open.

Before you climb into the back of the van, you turn to Bob and say, “Bob, can we stop at my house on the way? I should really get myself clean, and presentable, and roach-free before going to a film set. My nether regions are just full of roaches right now, and I'd like to empty myself out.”

Bob thinks for a moment, then says,

“Sure, we can do that.”

“I think Billy would prefer it if you showed up exactly as you are, to be honest.”

Dan's face falls as you say this, but he nods. “I'm sorry Zoë,” he says. “Honestly I didn't realise it was going to be this bad on your first day. But I understand. If you want to wait in the van, I'll take you back to the office when I'm done here.”

“How long will that take?” you ask.

Dan shrugs. “Three or four hours, maybe?” he guesses.

You shake your head. “It would make more sense for me to take a bus,” you say. “Bye Dan.”

You head outside and walk towards the bus stop. Luckily, a bus heading in the right direction is just pulling up to it as you arrive. You climb on board and buy a ticket, hoping that the driver does not notice the cockroaches on you. But most of the insects have found their way beneath your clothing by now - the most obvious sign of your infestation is your hugely bulging panties, which are sagging over an inch below the hemline of your skirt. Anyone looking closely at them would soon notice the wriggling movements behind the thin white silk material, but the bus is almost empty and you are careful not to turn your back towards any of the passengers as you pass them.

You stay on your feet as the bus sets off, and try to ignore the steady traffic of cockroaches entering your vagina and anus. Three stops later, you get off. It is a short walk to the office, where you plan to sneak behind the building and empty the roaches out of your clothing. But when you turn the corner, you see a couple of workmen having a cigarette. They look at you with interest.

“Hello darlin',” says one of them, and then he gasps as a cockroach runs out of your hair and down into your cleavage..

“Er, hi,” you say, and retreat quickly back around the corner. Heading to your car, you climb in and pull the seat forward a little so you can brace your back against the back rest without putting your weight down on your bottom. In this rather awkward manner, you manage to drive home. You get out of your car, lock it, then head to your front door.

Inside, you hurriedly but carefully climb the stairs and go into the bathroom. You very much want to avoid infesting your house with cockroaches, and you decide that the best way to achieve this is to undress and empty yourself while in the bathtub, since the roaches will probably not be able to climb the smooth plastic walls of the tub. You climb in, pull the shower curtain across, and carefully take off your tank-top. You are astonished at how many cockroaches this uncovers - they are blanketing your entire torso, several roaches deep, clinging to your skin and to each other, and more are hanging on to the inside of your tank-top. You shake out the garment, then frantically sweep armfuls of cockroaches from your torso. Fortunately, as you disturb them, they start scuttling about in alarm, and falling from your body by the hundreds. Gradually your bra becomes exposed, and you see that both cups are bulging with roaches. You reach behind you, pushing more cockroaches aside as you reach for the clasp, and then you pull off your bra, revealing your roach-covered breasts. You wipe them clear of the insects, then you unzip your skirt and pull it down, with some difficulty, over your bulging panties.

You are fascinated by how packed with roaches your panties are. There must be thousands of cockroaches in there. You tug them down, and they start running crazily all over your buttocks and up your belly and back. You quickly wipe yourself down, and scissor your legs so that your panties descend to your ankles. Reaching down, you take your shoes and socks and panties off together.

You feel like you badly need to defecate. But you did so first thing this morning, and you know that the large mass currently in your bowels consists entirely of cockroaches. Straining hard, you try to force them out … and then, with a rush, a column of cockroach bodies starts to slide out of your anus. Grunting, you push harder, and the column grows longer and longer, breaking apart as the roaches try to climb over each other or drop down into the tub.

You gradually feel your bowels emptying, and with a final push, you squeeze out a few more individual roaches. There are probably a few more lurking in the depths of your rectum, you guess, but they will presumably come out when you next defecate properly.

Reaching two fingers into your vagina, you easily scoop out several dozen cockroaches. You fish out as many as you can, and then you take the shower head, change the setting to a fine, powerful stream, and run it for a few seconds, adjusting the temperature until it is comfortably warm. You press the shower head against your vaginal opening, and give it a short burst. When you pull it away, water pours out of your vagina, and with it, several struggling cockroaches. You repeat this process a few more times, until no more cockroaches appear.

But by now some of the roaches have climbed all the way up your legs and body and are scuttling around all over you. You brush them all off, shake out your hair, and then step out of the bathtub. To your alarm, you notice several roaches running across your bathroom floor, and more are pouring over the edge of the tub. You suddenly realise that they are climbing the shower curtain, and you hastily pull it out of the tub before any more climb out. Unfortunately, several hundred roaches are clinging to the curtain, and they drop off and quickly dash across the floor, seeking whatever refuge is available.

You sigh, and pull a towel off the rail, watching the floor carefully to make sure none of the roaches try to climb your legs. You dry your pussy and thighs, then you toss the towel over the edge of the bathtub and walk through to your bedroom, naked. You are annoyed that, despite your efforts, cockroaches are loose in your house and will probably start breeding. Before long, no doubt, your house will be as infested as Liam's, and you will wake up each morning to find your vagina and anus full of cockroaches, and when you pull a clean pair of panties out of your chest of drawers, you will find them full of roaches…

You shudder, and put on a clean pair of panties. You should really do something about the roaches in your bathtub, but what? You are tempted to call Dan and ask him to come and get them, but you feel bad about quitting the job he gave you. Eventually you decide…

To sweep them up using a dustpan and brush, and dump them in the kitchen bin.

To go out and buy some sort of scoop and a sealable container.

You watch in some amusement as Justine continues into the cellar, frantically flicking cockroaches from her legs and panties as they continue to try to climb up her body. She points out various places where the roaches are most numerous, such as behind or underneath boxes and other objects she is storing down here. Every so often she squeals and pulls a cockroach out of her panties.

“Ugh, drat these horrid things!” she exclaims. “They're just climbing up me so quickly!”

“I can see that,” you say. “Have you thought about just ignoring them?”

She shudders. “If I don't get them out of my panties soon enough,” she says, brushing more roaches from the backs of her thighs, “they actually go … you know … inside me. Not a pleasant experience!”

She reaches up to move a box on a high shelf, and a sudden cascade of cockroaches descends upon her, causing her to scream and jump backwards. Unfortunately she trips, falls, and hits her head on a metal shelf support. You gasp as she collapses to the floor, unconscious. Cockroaches immediately start swarming all over her, and you bite your lip anxiously. Then, after hesitating for a moment, you…

Run upstairs to fetch Dan.

Run over to Justine and check if she is okay.

“Just calm down, Justine,” you tell her soothingly, as cockroaches start swarming up your legs. “Cockroaches don't bite and they don't sting - just try to ignore them if you can.”

“But they try to get in my panties!” says Justine. “It freaks me out!”

“And what are they going to do if they do get into your panties?” you ask with an amused smile. “Mate with you?”

Justine looks at you uncertainly. “Well, I don't suppose so,” she says. “But … what if they get inside me?”

You shiver as you feel cockroaches trying to get into your own panties. “I doubt that they'd want to,” you say. “They need to breathe, don't they?”

Justine turns towards you, grimacing with disgust. “Ugh - they're in my panties!”

“Mine too,” you say, feeling a couple of roaches crawling on your labia. “Shall we just try to face our fears and prove to ourselves that nothing bad is going to happen?”

“I suppose it's worth a try,” says Justine, biting her lip.

More and more cockroaches are climbing up you, and getting beneath your sundress, and into your panties. You can feel them crawling on your belly, and on your chest - and then you feel one crawl inside your left bra cup. Your pussy and buttocks are covered in the insects.

“There are lots and lots in my panties now,” you say to Justine. “But so far none have tried to get inside me.”

“Me too!” says Justine, smiling with relief. “Thank you Zoë - I really think I needed to do this.”

She is really quite a pretty girl. You smile down at her - she is a few inches shorter than you - and…

Kiss her on the lips.

Say, “Okay, let's check this place out.”

As soon as your foot hits the roach carpet, the little insects start scurrying up your legs. You brush them off frequently, but you are more concerned at this point with finding an exit. The cellar seems very long, and only lit at this end - it disappears into darkness about thirty feet ahead of you, its far wall invisible. You nervously continue on towards the gloom, and the hair on the back of your neck prickles as you hear faint, strange noises coming from up ahead.

Cockroaches are now swarming all over you, many of them crawling inside your dress and sneaking beneath the elastic seams of your panties to run between your buttocks or over your pussy. You frantically pull them out of your panties as fast as you can, and try to stop more from getting into your underwear as you look around for another light switch. But you see nothing, so you walk over to the wall and start to feel your way along it as you search for a way out. This unfortunately means that you only have one hand free to deal with the cockroaches, and it is not enough - your panties quickly begin to fill up with cockroaches. You settle for clamping your hand over your vaginal opening, to ensure that none of the roaches get inside you. Continuing onward, you soon find yourself in almost complete darkness, with only shadows within shadows up ahead, and the cellar light a distant glow behind you.

The carpet of roaches is thicker here, and your legs are practically surrounded by tubes of climbing insects, many of which find their way into your white cotton panties. Soon your panties are bulging so hugely with the seething mass of roaches that the elastic seams are parting company with your skin. You can feel the roaches trying to push between your fingers to get at your vagina, but you squeeze them tightly together, and manage to let nothing through. Then your other hand finally finds a light switch, and you sigh with relief. You flick the switch, and then scream as you see before you…

Several flailing tentacles emerging from a huge, gaping, fleshy mouth in the far wall.

A horribly deformed man, who is grinning at you as he points a gun at your head.

The squelching sound draws nearer, and you watch with mounting panic as a hideous shape lurches towards the foot of the stairs. It is a creature out of nightmare - a giant greenish-yellow humanoid, bloated and covered with warty lumps that ooze yellow pus. It turns up towards you a misshapen face, devoid of hair but possessing two large, deep red eyes that stare at you blankly. A sphincter-like mouth dilates to a diameter of three inches or so, and a long, brown, wormlike tongue slithers out.

You turn and hammer on the door again. “Help! Get me out of here!” you scream, as the monster starts to climb the stairs below you. You turn to face it and scream again as it grabs your arms with two huge, flabby, yellow hands. Then it lifts you off your feet and climbs back down the stairs, while you struggle and kick ineffectually. It pulls you against its chest, and several of its warts burst, soaking your dress with yellow pus.

It gently lays you down on the floor, where cockroaches instantly swarm all over you. You struggle wildly and try to brush roaches from your face, while the creature grabs your panties with one hand and rips them off with a sharp tug. Then it parts your legs and lowers itself on to you, its thick, squishy penis pressing against your pussy lips.

You scream in horror as the penis suddenly sinks deep inside you. “No!” you wail desperately. “Stop this! Let me go!”

But it merely drools white, sticky saliva all over your face as it starts to thrust inside you. You are terrified that it will come inside you and impregnate you with some monstrous baby, and you continue to struggle as hard as you can. But it is hopeless - the creature has you pinned very effectively, and all you can do is try to keep the cockroaches from getting into your ears.

The rape lasts for just over ten minutes, at which point the creature utters a guttural groan, and it shudders as it presses the tip of its penis against your cervical opening and ejaculates, filling your womb with…

Thousands of wriggling maggots.

A thick, nourishing syrup, in the centre of which is a single, tiny zygote.

A writhing mass of parasitic worms.

Justine moans, and arches her back. “Ugh!” she says, “I can't believe you just did that.” But she keeps her legs spread wide, and grinds her pussy against your hand. Encouraged, you grab another cockroach, and push it into her vagina, working it as deep as you can with your fingers. Justine moans again, and you insert more and more cockroaches, gradually filling her up with the scuttling insects.

Meanwhile your own vagina is also seeing plenty of action, as your panties become increasingly crowded with cockroaches, some of which head straight for your moist opening. The hard insect bodies crawling inside you stimulate your pleasure centres, and your juices start flowing, coating the bodies of the roaches and providing lubricant that makes it easier for other roaches to enter you. As fast as you fill Justine's vagina, your own is filling up faster.

Dan comes over and stares at the two of you, scratching his head. “Would you two like to be alone?” he inquires.

Justine, who has had her eyes closed for the last minute or so, looks up at Dan and grins sheepishly. Then she…

Says, “You just carry on - but do you mind if I take your assistant upstairs?”

Grabs his hand and pulls it on to her right breast.

Justine responds to your kiss with enthusiasm, and moans as you introduce another finger into her vagina. Meanwhile, you own vagina is being invaded by cockroach after cockroach, as the scuttling creatures climb your legs unchecked and worm their way into your panties. Roughly half of the thousand or so roaches on your body are now in your panties or in your vagina - the others are crawling beneath your sundress, and some of them are tucking themselves away in your bra and staying there.

You finger-fuck Justine vigorously, but as her moans get louder, Dan comes over and stares at you. “What the heck do you think you're doing?” he demands.

You blush with embarrassment and stop your thrusting. “Sorry Dan,” you mutter. “It's just … she seemed in need of…”

“Don't stop!” says Justine urgently.

Dan chuckles. “Well far be it from me to interrupt a good thing. Carry on, Zoë.”

You grin and resume finger-fucking Justine, while Dan watches. Eventually Justine shudders and gasps, and busks her hips wildly as she climaxes. As you withdraw your fingers, a couple of roaches dash into Justine's vagina, and crawl deep inside her. Panting and smiling happily, Justine sprawls on the couch, legs still spread wide, now apparently unconcerned about all of the cockroaches swarming over her near-naked body. “Thank you,” she murmurs, slowly closing her eyes.

“Are you sure you want us to get rid of these roaches?” asks Dan. “You don't seem to mind them too much.”

Justine opens her eyes, and says,

“Oh no - please get rid of them - my friends all refuse to visit me these days!”

“Maybe I should just get used to having them around…”

Justine gasps as you slide two fingers into her vagina, and she starts undulating her hips slightly. You feel around inside her, and sure enough you find several hard objects that move of their own accord when you prod them. You look up at Justine's face, but she has closed her eyes and has a little smile on her lips.

“Yup,” you say, “there are a few of them in there.” There are also several in your own vagina, and more are entering all the time. Roaches are now scurrying all over your body beneath your dress, but a large percentage of them seem to be attracted to your nether regions, and your panties are quickly filling up.

“Do you think you could try to get them out?” asks Justine.

You are not at all sure that Justine wants them out, but you say, “I don't think I can reach far enough unless I can work my whole hand inside you.”

Justine bites her lip. “I'm not sure I can take your whole hand!” she says.

“The alternative,” you say, “would be to stimulate your g-spot and get your juices flowing. Hopefully the roaches won't like that, and will come out of their own accord.”

“Or you could just flush her out with warm water,” suggests Dan, coming over and staring wide-eyed at Justine's pussy.

“I like the g-spot idea,” says Justine quickly, and you smile.

“Okay,” you say, “here goes.” You start to caress her g-spot, and, for good measure, rub her clitoris as well. It is not long before Justine is bucking and moaning loudly, arching her back and squeezing her breasts with her hands as you stimulate her faster and faster. Then she cries out in ecstasy, shuddering in an intense orgasm that lasts for almost a minute, before collapsing back on to the couch.

“Oh my God!” she exclaims. “That was intense!”

“Unfortunately,” you remark, “it doesn't seem to have worked - none of the roaches came out.”

“Don't worry about it,” says Justine. “Thanks for trying.”

You smirk. “Don't mention it,” you say. As you withdraw your fingers, a couple of roaches scurry into Justine's open vagina, but this does not seem to bother her as she lies panting with her eyes closed and her legs still spread wide apart. She is covered with roaches, and as you watch, several more enter her vagina. You look up at Dan, who has a puzzled expression.

“So do you want us to get rid of your cockroaches, or not?” he asks.

“No, it's okay,” says Justine. “Not right now, at least. Another time perhaps. Sorry to call you out for nothing - let me know how much I owe you and I'll send you a cheque.”

“All right then,” says Dan. “Come on Zoë - let's get to our next job.”

“Bye Justine,” you say as you stand up and untie your dress, letting it fall to your ankles. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Oh yes!” she replies, smiling back at you. “It was lovely. Come back any time.”

You follow Dan out of the house and back to his van. “Well, that was … interesting!” he says. “Thank you for the show - though I hope our jobs don't all go like that or we'll never make any money.”

“I'm sure that was just a one-off,” you say. “But Dan, I'm covered in roaches and my panties are full of them. There are even a lot of them inside me.”

“Good heavens!” he says. “I must say those are some strange cockroaches, to be behaving that way! I have a friend, an entomologist, who I am sure would be fascinated by this, and would probably like to study you in your current … condition. I know it's a lot to ask, but would you mind if I took you there so that he could examine you?”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, and say,

“Well yes, I do mind! Can we just get these roaches out of me and go to our next job please?”

“I suppose that would be okay … but what about our next job?”

Justine's eyes widen a little at your suggestion, but she reaches between her legs and slides two fingers of each hand into her vagina. Pulling them apart, she reveals the moist pink interior of her vagina, into which a couple of cockroaches immediately scuttle. Justine gasps.

“Oops!” you say. “Keep holding yourself open - perhaps they'll come out again.”

But another roach crawls inside her, and two more after that. When a sixth and a seventh roach enter, one after the other, you say, “Hmm - it seems like they really want to be in there. Well Justine, I can definitely confirm that you have cockroaches inside you.”

Another three roaches manage to get inside Justine before she withdraws her fingers. “Well could you help me get them out please?”

“Sorry,” you say, “that's not part of my job description. But perhaps Dan would like to have a go?”

“Sure!” says Dan, coming over.

But Justine looks up at him without enthusiasm. “Never mind,” she says. “I'll flush myself out later in the bath.”

“Good grief, Zoë,” says Dan, looking down at your bottom. “Are those cockroaches in your knickers?”

“What else?” you say, patting your bulging panties. “They seem to have taken a liking to me for some reason.”

“They like women,” says Justine, finally closing her legs. “They don't seem much interested in men.”

“Extraordinary!” says Dan, scratching his stubbly chin. “And are they trying to get inside you too, Zoë?”

“Trying, and succeeding,” you tell him, grimacing at the sensation of several roaches crawling around inside you. “I've got about four or five of them in me right now. Oh - there goes another.”

“Incredible!” says Dan. “I've never come across anything like this. Well, I'll get to work sucking up all the roaches I can find, and then we'll try to figure out a way of getting the roaches out of you both.”

“Sounds good,” you say, and Justine nods.

You help Dan as he goes over the whole house, sucking up thousands upon thousands of cockroaches with his PestVac. Eventually he sticks the Vac's nozzle into your panties, and you giggle as he prods it around, extracting all of the roaches from around your pussy and buttocks.

“I daren't stick the nozzle inside you,” he says, “but perhaps you could use warm water and flush yourself out in the bath. Justine too.”

You strip naked, and get into the bath tub with Justine. She has brought a turkey baster with her, and she giggles as she squirts warm water into your vagina. “All right,” you say to her disapprovingly, “no need to enjoy it quite so much.” Several dozen roaches flood out of you along with the warm water, and then you use the baster on Justine, with similar results.

“Thank you!” says Justine, as you and Dan leave her house. “You've certainly earned your fee!”

“You're welcome!” says Dan, waving as he heads back to his van. He mutters to you, “Well that was certainly an unusual job. Hopefully the next one will be a little more conventional!”

You chuckle. “But what do we do with the roaches?” you ask.

“Dump them at a landfill site I know,” says Dan. “We'll go and do that now, and then it's on to…

Mr Willoughby's farm - his pig sty has a major leech infestation.”

The city hospital - they've reported maggots dropping from the ceiling.”

“Oh gosh!” says your father, appalled at the thought. “Um … so … um…”

“Quick, Dad!” you exclaim urgently.

“Oh good grief,” he mutters, and he gingerly sticks his hand down the front of your shorts. Then he withdraws it with a shiver. “I think you should do this!” he says.

“But I can't bear to touch them!” you wail. “Please Dad! Oh no! One of them is crawling inside me!”

You father quickly plunges his hand into your shorts, and works it inside your panties too. You feel his fingers sliding against your labia, and then pressing against your vaginal opening. But it is too late - an earwig has already got inside you.

“Darling, I'm really not comfortable with this!” says your father with a pained expression.

“I don't care whether you're comfortable!” you exclaim. “One of them got inside me - you're going to have to go after it!”

“Darling I really think your mother should…”

“Dad, don't be such a scaredy-cat!” you snap at him. “I'm not some stranger who might sue you for touching me inappropriately - I'm your daughter, and I need your help!”

Your father sighs. “All right - get your shorts off,” he says. “I'll see what I can do.”

You slip out of your shorts, and then you lie back on the floor with your knees up and your legs spread wide. Your father bends down with his face close to your pussy, then he pulls your panties to one side, and shudders at the sight of dozens of earwigs crawling all over and between your labia. He licks one finger, hesitates, then he slides it inside you. Looking very unhappy about this situation, he feels around inside you quite half-heartedly, but then he gasps.

“Got it!” he exclaims. He pulls his finger out, dragging with it a large earwig, which he flicks away across the attic.

You strip off your panties and brush several other earwigs from your pussy and buttocks, and then you take off your t-shirt and bra, spilling more earwigs and revealing one that is actually pincering one of your nipples. “Ow!” you say, as you pull it off.

“Oh my goodness!” says your father, watching with horror. “Well this isn't proving to be much fun - I'm sorry you had to go through that, Zoë. Why don't you take your clothes downstairs and I'll carry on up here.”

“Good plan!” you say, and you shake out your clothes thoroughly before heading back down the ladder.

Your obnoxious little brother Steve sees you coming, and is waiting for you with a broad grin on his face. “You been having sex up there with Dad?” he asks.

“Of course not!” you exclaim. “What a suggestion, you little rotter!”

“Well why are you naked then?” he asks.

“Earwigs,” you reply, heading into your room. “They were all over me! And inside my clothing…” You shut the door behind you, and walk over to your wardrobe to find something else to wear. If you are not going to be cleaning out the attic today, you might as well hang out with your friends.

You rub your abdomen absent-mindedly as you pick through various outfits. Then it occurs to you to wonder why your belly feels rather bloated and uncomfortable. It has been this way for a few days now, and the discomfort is getting gradually worse as the bloating becomes more obvious.

Then the colour drains from your face, as you recall the accident with your boyfriend's condom about a month ago. What if you are pregnant? It would explain your symptoms. Anxiously, you don some jeans and a t-shirt, and go out to the shops nearest to your house. You buy a pregnancy test kit, take it home, and follow the instructions carefully.

The wait is almost unbearable, but the answer is good: you are not pregnant. You are hugely relieved - but your symptoms are still a mystery. Over the next few days, they get worse. Another explanation occurs to you during this time, and it is even worse than your pregnancy hypothesis. A couple of months ago, you and your friends tried your hands at a barbecue, and none of you really knew what you were doing. Some of the pork sausages were burned to a cinder, while others were practically uncooked in the middle. You have heard horror stories about people who have eaten uncooked pork - what if you have a tapeworm?

You hope this is not the case, but over the next week or so, your belly grows so much that it becomes hard to hide your condition. You wear baggy jumpers, but keep putting off a visit to the doctor, afraid of what he might do to you, and what he might find.

But then, your mother happens to walk in on you while you are getting dressed one morning. She stares at you as you shriek and cover yourself with your clothes. “Mum!” you exclaim.

She folds her arms. “Something you want to tell me?” she asks.

“I'm not pregnant!” you say quickly, and then you burst into tears and fling yourself on your bed. “I don't know what's wrong with me!”

She takes you straight to the hospital, where your belly is scanned. Afterwards, the doctor sits down with you and your mother, and says, “It's not good news I'm afraid. You appear to have been infected with…

A rather unpleasant species of giant roundworm.”

A recently-discovered and very rare species of parasitic slug.”

“Okay,” says your father soothingly. “Just keep calm, and we'll get you through this, all right? First, why don't you take off your t-shirt, nice and slowly, and we'll shake out all the earwigs inside it.”

“All right!” you say, on the verge of panic. You slowly start to remove your t-shirt, but you cannot help feeling that your panties should be a higher priority - they seem to be filling up pretty quickly with earwigs. Your pussy is absolutely crawling with the horrid insects, and you are terrified that they might try to get inside you, although your rational side keeps trying to tell you that this is highly unlikely.

You manage to remove your t-shirt, and your father flicks a few earwigs from your chest and belly. “There are some in my bra!” you say.

“I think you can remove those yourself!” says your father.

Then you gasp, your eyes bulging, as the earwigs in your panties suddenly decide to crawl into your vagina en masse. “Dad!” you shriek. “They're getting inside me!” You shove your hand into your panties, but several dozen earwigs have already entered you, and you can do little to prevent others from slipping through your fingers to join their friends. Frantically you take off your shorts, and then your panties, and you brush away from your pussy all the earwigs still remaining outside your vagina. You groan miserably.

“Are you sure they went inside you?” asks your dad, puzzled.

“Yes! Lots and lots of them!” you tell him.

He sighs. “All right - go downstairs and tell your mother what has happened. She'll know what to do.”

Taking off your earwig-filled bra, you hurry down the ladder, naked but for your shoes and socks, and almost run into your little brother Steve, who stares at you in astonishment.

“Don't look!” you snap at him, before running through to your parents' bedroom, where your mother is making the bed. “Mum!” you exclaim. “I've got earwigs inside me! Help!”

“What?” says your mother, shocked.

You have to repeat yourself twice, with a fuller explanation each time, before the message sinks in. Your mother rolls up her sleeves. “All right,” she says, “go into the bathroom and climb into the bath. We'll flush you out with warm water - earwigs presumably drown just as easily as other insects.”

Your mother's calmness and confidence makes you feel somewhat less panicky, but you still feel anxious and unhappy as you kick off your shoes and socks and climb into the bath. Your mother arrives with a turkey baster and a bowl of warm water, and she gently inserts the baster into your vagina, and squeezes the bulb. You feel warm water flooding inside you, and when your mother removes the baster, the water pours out. But you see no sign of any earwigs. Your mother tries again, and again. But not a single earwig comes out.

“Darling, I think you may have imagined it,” says your mother eventually.

“I didn't, I swear it!” you insist tearfully.

“Well there's nothing in there now,” she says. “Perhaps they came out as soon as they went in.”

“What if they went deeper?” you ask urgently. “You know - into my womb?”

Your mother shakes her head. “Darling, I doubt it very much. Earwigs need to breathe - I don't think they would venture that far in. It's much more likely that they entered you by mistake, started to suffocate, and then came straight back out.”

“All right,” you say dubiously. “I hope so.”

You climb out of the bath, dry yourself, and get dressed in different clothes. The rest of the weekend passes uneventfully, as does the following week at school. But on Friday morning, you notice that your abdomen is bulging visibly, as if you are pregnant. You are a virgin, so you know that you cannot possibly be pregnant, and at first you attribute the bulge to water retention.

Over the next week, however, your belly grows steadily larger, and even your mother starts to notice. “Darling, is there something you'd like to tell me?” she asks you sharply.

“I'm not pregnant!” you say quickly. “But - I don't know - my belly seems to have been growing ever since the earwig thing.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Darling, you're not pregnant with earwigs, I can promise you that. But we'd better get you to the doctor.”

She makes an appointment for the following morning, and keeps you company as the doctor examines you. “I can't find anything wrong,” admits the doctor, “but clearly there's something inside you. I'd like you to go to the hospital tomorrow for a scan.”

Your mother thanks the doctor, and the two of you leave his office. The next day, you miss a few hours of school again as you undergo your scan at the hospital. You sit with your mother in a waiting room afterwards, and then you are called into the specialist's office.

“Zoë,” says the middle-aged woman, “I don't know quite how to put this, so I'll just come right out and say it. The scan has given us a good view of your uterus, and unfortunately it shows that you are carrying…

Seven large insect-like or grub-like creatures.”

At a rough guess, about twenty thousand tiny little larvae of some kind.”

You scream and flail at the cockroaches, wanting to get them off you but not wanting to touch them with your hands. The insects are huge - almost four inches in length, and one-and-a-half inches wide - but they are unmistakeably cockroaches, and your father comes over to help. One of the cockroaches pushes its wedge-shaped head between your skin and the elastic of your panties, and crawls inside, causing you to pull your panties down in a panic as you try to get at the creature. You slap at it gingerly, trying to knock it off, but its hooked feet are clinging tightly to your skin. Then, to your horror, it plunges headfirst into your vagina and begins to force its way inside.

“No!” you scream in terror, grabbing hold of its abdomen and pulling hard. But your fingers slip off its shiny body, and it scuttles completely inside you, crawling deep within your vagina. “Oh no! Dad! It went inside me!”

Your father flings away a few roaches that he has pulled off your back, and says, “Oh my God! What the hell are these things?”

“Cockroaches!” you shriek. “Get it out of me, Dad!”

“That's ridiculous - cockroaches never get this big!”

Another cockroach starts to enter your vagina as you are trying to pull one off your face. “Ow! Ow!” you yell, as it digs its claws into your nose. “Dad, stop the one trying to get inside me!”

But your father merely watches in fascinated horror as the huge roach disappears, little by little, into your vagina. “Quick!” he says. “Let's get out of here!” He grabs your arm and starts to pull you towards the hatch. You pull up your panties as you climb down the ladder, but unfortunately there are two other huge roaches clinging to your buttocks, and one of them now sticks its head into your vagina. You let go of the ladder with one hand in order to make a grab for it, but your father, coming down behind you, treads on the fingers of your other hand, making you squeal and let go. You fall backwards, fortunately not far above the floor below, and land awkwardly. By this point, however, the roach has made it all the way inside you.

You pull out the other cockroach and throw it hard against a nearby wall. It bounces off, lands on the carpet, and scuttles into your bedroom. “Oh great!” you shout. You turn to your father, and say, “Dad, there are three of those things inside me!”

“Three?” says your father. “Well don't worry, Zoë - we'll get you to the hospital right away, and they can extract them.”

“What's going on?” asks your mother, coming up the stairs.

“We got attacked by some bugs,” says your father. “Three of them have … er … invaded Zoë's body, and I'm going to take her to the hospital to get them removed.”

“Oh my God!” exclaims your mother, white-faced.

You put on a skirt, and your father drives you to the hospital, where you have to sit in a waiting room for almost an hour. Then you gasp, and clutch your father's arm, as you feel a stirring within your vagina. Then, “Something's coming out!” you whisper urgently. Sure enough, one of the cockroaches is crawling out of your vagina and into your panties.

“Quick!” says your father. “Get to the toilet and flush it.”

“What about evidence?” you reply.

“Good point - see if you can just kill it,” he says.

You hurry to the toilet, but by this time the cockroach has escaped out of your panties, fallen on to the floor, and scurried off somewhere. You shut yourself in the toilet and pull your panties down. Another roach starts to emerge from your vagina, and you let it fall to the floor before stamping on it. Surprisingly, this does not kill it, and it starts to run around, looking for a means of escape. You try to stamp on it again, but at that moment the third roach starts to emerge from your vagina, and you let it fall to the ground before pulling your panties back up. You leave the toilet and return to your father.

“Dad, let's just go. All three cockroaches are out of me now - I just want to go home.”

Your father nods. “Of course, darling,” he says.

The next morning, you can't help thinking that your belly seems to be slightly enlarged. By that evening, you are sure of it, and you lie awake for a while, worrying about it. On Monday morning, you wake up to find yourself looking about four months pregnant, and you anxiously show your mother. She takes you to the hospital, and you are given an ultrasound.

The obstetrician stares in confusion at the display. “That's not a baby!” she says. “It looks like … eggs of some kind! Hundreds of eggs!”

You explain about the giant cockroaches, and the obstetrician shudders at your tale. “This is way too weird for me,” she says. “We can do some exploratory surgery if you want, but I feel like I'm a little out of my depth - I don't know of a precedent for this.”

“What if we let this … pregnancy, if that's what it is,” says your mother, “come to term?”

“I don't know!” says the obstetrician. “Honestly, I don't know. But I think we should keep a close eye on you over the next few days, just to try to be better informed before we make a rash decision.”

“But I want them out of me now!” you say.

“I think we should follow the doctor's recommendation, darling,” says your mother. “We don't know what we're dealing with here. Let's just come back tomorrow, and then we'll have an idea how fast everything's progressing, and we'll be able to make a more informed decision.”

You bite your lip. “All right,” you say dubiously.

The next morning, however, your belly is huge, and you stagger downstairs in a panic, wearing only your panties. Your brother Steve snorts with laughter as you waddle into the kitchen. “Mum!” you say. “Look!”

“Oh my goodness!” says your mother. “Well, your appointment isn't until two o'clock this afternoon, darling.”

“But this is an emergency!” you say. “Can't you take me in now?”

Your mother looks conflicted. “Zoë, are you experiencing any contractions, or anything like that?”

“No,” you say.

“Then let's wait until your appointment,” says your mother. “I have a very important meeting this morning, and I really don't want to miss it. I'm sure you can hold on until two. I suggest you stay here, though, rather than going to school. If anything happens, give me a call, and whatever I'm doing, I'll rush straight home and take care of you.”

“Great,” you say bitterly. “But if I'm not going to the hospital this morning, I might as well go to school - we're presenting our projects today and I've been working on mine for a month.”

“Well it's up to you, darling,” says your mother.

You turn around and waddle back out of the kitchen. Climbing the stairs with some difficulty as you cradle your huge belly, you decide to…

Stay at home and carefully monitor the progress of your pregnancy.