NEW GIRLS AT ST CAT'S

by Some Sort of Dog





Part I





Chapter 1:- Young Lust


'Hi Sis!
Well, first things first, the kids are fine. Missing you, but ready to start at St Cat's next week and take on the world. Judy says they've made terrific progress and the two young ones are at least a year ahead of where they'd have been if they'd gone to an ordinary school. And that's making no allowance for Suzanne's schooling being affected by the hassle she'd have been getting from the other little bastards.
'It's a pity you couldn't see them before they have to go down to Wiltshire, but I took some photos yesterday of the three of them in their new school uniforms, and you will see those when I get back. You won't believe what they look like - wet-dream schoolboy fantasy doesn't come into it! Only joking, of course. Not!
'And talking of schoolboys and wet dreams, Sir Roger was away most of last week! Not that he's the schoolboy in any sense of the word, but it does mean that young Clarrie has been free at nights, and keeping Davie occupied. So we finally get around to the subject of Davie! If our girls *have* retained their precious virginity, it's no thanks to Davie! He's the horniest boy in the world. I blame Clarrie for initiating him in the first place when we were down here two years ago!
'A whole lot has happened in that time, as you know, and not just the girls continuing the growing up process. They're so grown-up now, the young ones would easily pass for fifteen if they had to (or twenty) rather than eleven which they *do* have to next Tuesday. Nobody would believe they aren't officially old enough to go to Cat's!
'I'm going to Shrewsbury to see Shan tomorrow. Remember I told you about her? Her real name's Chauntaille - stupid name - Chauntaille Gruntworthy - even stupider! She was Head Girl when the whole Sixth Form got pregnant and the school burned down. Shan didn't get preggers, nor did her mate, Smegs, but the others all did. No doubt she'll tell me all about it. She's been at teacher training, and she goes down to Cat's at the start of the term for a spell of work experience or whatever they call it. She's another of these big ones. They had a funny thing at Cat's when I was watching the twins make that film, remember?
'And all their tits got bigger, especially that great tall black one, Naomi Greene-Hunter-Wellington, hers got ginormous. Well, Shan's as big as her now. Apparently, or so she said on the phone, a bunch of the younger girls got the same thing and they all grew huge, and started giving milk, for crying out loud. It's all sorted now, she says, but at least, our three don't need anything to make them any bigger, so they've got a head start!
'Jeez, I hope the same thing doesn't happen to them. It couldn't, could it?'
'See you soon - Tanya!'

************

Pansy had biked down to the post box to post the letter. Suzanne would have offered to go, but she had a problem riding a bike. She could balance, and she could ride in a reasonably straight line, but bends caused her to fall off. It was something to do with her weight distribution.

She could see Victoria about to dive into the pool. Her older cousin was a bit of a water-baby. Perhaps she was trying to shrink her boobs, Suzanne thought. Well, if they were going to shrink, they would have done by now. Instead, in the two years they'd been here in Herefordshire, Victoria's boobs had carried right on growing, the way a twelve-year-olds' boobs had a tendency to do.

Almost! In those two years, Sandy the bra maker had been on four more visits to keep the girls supported in the manner to which they had become accustomed. Grandma Trudy was Sandy's best customer, and certainly the biggest busted, but these girls were testing Sandy's ingenuity more and more. At least it was only their bras; their swimsuits could be handed down from one to another as they became too small for their owners. Suzanne, though, the biggest, had no use for a bikini any more, swimming had lost its appeal for the ten-year old.

A resounding splash marked Victoria's entry into the water. Not her best dive, but it wasn't easy, given her shape. Suzanne reached the edge of the pool and watched her cousin lazily swishing through the blue water to the handrail in the corner. She paused a while before climbing out, standing with her eyes closed while bubbles and ripples streamed around her body.

Horny bitch, Suzanne thought; she was standing over the filter inlet where, if you got it right, a jet of water would do wonderful things to you between your legs. Victoria had evidently got it right. She was going to miss the pool next week, she spent half her life in there. I used to as well, sighed Suzanne to herself, looking down at herself. Her T-shirt bulged enormously over her breasts, but she ran a hand across her tummy, which was the reason she didn't go swimming now.

It's only puppy fat, her mother had told her. Tanya said she had been the same at her age, or a little older perhaps. It would melt away in time. Suzanne couldn't wait that long. She was fat! Gross! She walked slowly round the pool to the steps, feeling her thighs rippling heavily as she placed her bare feet carefully on the warm paving. Not easy, when you can't see your feet. But she knew roughly where they were, she was used to it by now.

"That was a good splash just now," she told Victoria as the girl came up the steps, tossing her wet hair back over her shoulders.

"I slipped as I took off," Victoria grumped. "It hurt. My toe and my tummy."

"Is that why you stood by the water jet for ten minutes, then?"

"No," muttered the older girl defensively. "And it wasn't ten minutes, anyway."

"No, more like five. How many orgasms can you have in five minutes, Toria?" She was envious of her cousin, who apart from her bust, was getting slimmer all the time, or so it seemed to Suzanne.

"What's the matter, Suze? Davie not talking to you this morning?"

Suzanne turned away without a word and set off for the house. Victoria watched her go, and sighed as she picked up her towel. What was happening? They seemed to be at each other's throats lately, the two of them. And they were going to be together at St Cat's for the next hundred years. Why couldn't they be friends as well as cousins? She watched her sister Pansy pedal vigorously up the drive and broadside to a halt, parking the bicycle on its side with the front wheel still spinning.

Suzanne saw Pansy coming, too, and stepped up her pace to avoid her. When Victoria came up to the house, Pansy was waiting for her.

"What's up with Suze these days," the young girl asked. "She ignored me just then."

"Not ignored," said Victoria, "she avoided you." She took Pansy's hand and they went indoors. "I don't know what it is either, but Auntie Tanya's noticed it too. I've seen the way she looks at her."

"I only want us all to be friends again," Pansy said quietly. "Especially with next week coming." The other girls thought of Pansy as their little sister and their little cousin. Always 'little'. She was three months older than Suzanne, but you'd never believe it if you went by their physical appearance and development. Not that Pansy was undeveloped, nor even underdeveloped for a ten-year-old. On the contrary.

She didn't *need* one of Sandy's custom bras - she could wear a standard size 32D - but Grandma Trudy had told Sandy to fit her at the same time as he measured the other girls, so as not to make her feel left out. Sandy had shrugged expressively and got on with it, and the bras he made were certainly more comfortable. But Pansy felt so much smaller than the other two. She was the same height as Suzanne, but her bust was tiny by comparison. She was four inches shorter than Victoria's five feet five, and Victoria, while nowhere near Suzanne's bust size, was still well over forty-four inches.

"I don't want to go to our bedroom, in case she's there and she shouts at me," said Pansy.

"Leave her to it, then. Go and see if Nana Trudy's in the kitchen. Maisie's gone shopping."

Pansy brightened and headed for the kitchen as Victoria made for her bedroom, towelling her hair.


**********

"Well, hello, honey! Did you get to the post in time?" Trudy was involved with a cream cake, piping an elaborate pattern on top with an icing bag. Pansy watched her, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

"Yes, Nana. The van came round the corner just as I put the letter in the box. What you making?"

"Something special for tea. Miss Gruntworthy's going to be coming back from Shrewsbury with your Aunt Tanya tomorrow, and she's sure to be starving if she's been at college. So this is one of Suzanne's favourite cream cakes!"

"It's my favourite, too, Nana. In fact," she said, "it's more my favourite than Suzanne's now. She says she's gone off food!"

Trudy had noticed, all right. Poor Suzanne's hormones were a problem right now, for sure. Tanya had told her the other day that her daughter was exactly the way she herself had been after she started developing. Big boobs, then puppy fat, then even bigger boobs. The only difference between Tanya and Suzanne was that the girl was even more advanced than her mother had been.

And now, going off her food. Whatever next! Well, if this cake didn't change Suzanne's mind when she saw it disappearing down her cousins' throats, then there really *was* a problem! She squeezed out the last of the cream in a triumphant dollop, then dipped her finger into the icing bag. There was a time when I'd have finished this cream off myself, she thought, as she held her finger out to Pansy.

The girl took it gratefully into her mouth, her eyes closed.

"Ooooh, thank you, Nana!"

Davie came into the kitchen just in time to witness the little scene. Pansy's hands were behind her back, her feet were together. She was bending forward from the waist, and her cut-off jeans had ridden up at the back. They were tight under her firm little buttocks. To him, it seemed incredibly erotic, watching the girl sucking her Nana Trudy's creamy finger. But then, to Davie, most things were incredibly erotic right now.

He had hoped to find Clarrie in the kitchen, but if she hadn't been, Suzanne would have done almost as well. And if Suzanne hadn't been there, Victoria would have been an excellent substitute. And even if Victoria wasn't there, little Pansy would be more than adequate. Davie considered himself a tit-man, and for a tit-man, there could have been nowhere, no house in the entire country better suited to his needs.

He gazed at Pansy with brimming lust. Her thrustingly full sweat-shirt, her shorts stretched so tight between her legs that it left nothing to the imagination. All Davie needed to imagine was the amount of hair Pansy had down there. Was she sparsely furred and blonde, like her sister, or densely-forested like Suzanne? He had never managed to see for himself. He'd tried often enough, hovering in corridors so he could accidentally pass the girls' bedroom doorways just as the door opened. The girls knew all about Davie, of course, and took delight in slipping in and out of their bedrooms just when he was lurking outside, so he could catch tiny fleeting glimpses of them.

He knew Victoria's and Suzanne's pubic details from a walk in the fields earlier in the summer, when the girls were still good friends. He had followed them at a discreet distance, hiding behind hedges and bushes, his feet making not the slightest sound. Not a twig cracked to mark Davie's passage through the woods as he tracked the girls to a clearing.

They had been laughing and giggling, nudging and pushing each other all the way. They were making so much noise that an elephant could have tracked them without attracting their attention. And when they sat on a fallen log and took their T-shirts off, Davie almost fainted from shock. He had died and gone to heaven! It never occurred to him to wonder why they had come all the way out to the woods just to get undressed.

He had been on the verge of directing a spurt of hot semen into the concealing bushes before him when the two girls had stood up and stretched in an exaggerated manner, before dropping their shorts. Oh, my God, Davie thought, stopping himself just in time, although it took a firm squeeze to prevent an explosion down there. He silently thanked Clarrie for teaching him this technique.

The huge-breasted cousins wore no panties. They posed before him, apparently inspecting each other intimately. They weren't more than five yards from him, and he could see every detail of the girls' glistening sex. He could hold out no longer. Jet after jet of steaming jism sprayed the bushes, as Davie grunted helplessly. It was minutes before he pulled up his pants with trembling hands and melted silently away into the undergrowth.

"Did he see, do you think?" Victoria sighed, after the crashing sounds of Davie's retreat had finally died away. She wriggled her hips as she tugged up her shorts and nestled them into her warm groin.

Suzanne was inspecting the bushes. "Did he see? Look at this bloody lot! A waste of a gallon of perfectly good come. I could have been slurping that instead of him tossing it away!" Reluctantly, she stepped into her shorts and heaved her T-shirt over her head.

"Better be getting back, then," said Victoria.

"Yeah."

Davie would probably remember the little scene for the rest of his days. The cousins had found it less satisfying. They had walked back more quietly, in gathering silence, in fact. And since then, although they still found pleasure in surprising Davie when he thought he wasn't being observed, they made sure the sixteen-year-old never saw anything again ...

Davie came back to the present with a start. "What?" he said.

"Wake up, dozy Dav-eee!" Pansy laughed. "I said, do you want a bit?" and the girl wiggled erotically across the kitchen with a little finger held out to him, a finger-full of cream. She came right up close and offered the finger to his lips, the nipple-crowned tips of her big breasts in her clingy sweater, just softly brushing his stomach. He groaned involuntarily as Pansy grinned at him and slid the finger into his mouth. It was warm, and it wriggled. Eventually, she took it out, to his regret, and wiped it on his cheek. "There!" she said. "Nice?"

"Yes, thanks, Pan!"

She giggled again, and pressed herself lightly against him before spinning round and dancing out of the kitchen. "See you later, Davie. Thanks, Nana!" she said as she went out of the back door into the sunshine.

"Were you looking for someone, Davie?" Trudy looked at him with her head on one side.

"Oh, no, not really," the boy stammered, edging away.

"Clarrie's gone into town with Sir Roger. She will be back in half an hour, I'll tell her when she comes in, then."

"Oh, good! I mean, thanks, ma'am." And he shot away, managing to adjust his groin once he was safely out of the kitchen and half way up the back stairs.

Horny little bugger, thought Trudy. Although he'd have to be made of stone not to get aroused by that Little Miss Innocent Pansy feeding him whipped cream off her finger with her big tits squashed against his cock! And SHE'S supposed to be the one who doesn't chase after boys!





Chapter 2:- Pan's Turn


"Where's Sir Roger?" Davie whispered, as Clarrie crept up the back stairs and pressed herself urgently against him.

"It's all right, I just shagged him in the Range Rover, just inside the big gates. He's gone to his room for a lie-down. I'm all yours for the afternoon!"

"Oh, Clarrie!" Davie dragged her into his bedroom and began tearing at his clothes. The buxom serving wench stopped him.

"I just told you, we've got plenty of time. Here, let me do that!" and she slapped the boy's hands to his sides and stood very close. It reminded him of Pansy's creamy finger episode half an hour ago and he shuddered. It had come to this. Every time he saw one of the spectacularly-endowed young girls about the house, he sought out Clarrie to get relief. It wasn't an ideal situation. For a start, Clarrie was often heavily engaged with Sir Roger, who was using Clarrie for very similar reasons as Davie!

The other factor was that Clarrie had some very definite ideas about sexual positions. She knew a wide range of them and had tried them all exhaustively, but she always liked to end up on top. Davie had no real problem with this. In fact, in the two years since his initiation, he had known no woman - in the biblical sense - apart from Clarrie. He knew there were other ways of doing it, but after a few half-hearted attempts to persuade his powerful and weighty lover to try it another way, he had given up trying to attain deeper fulfilment and now had sex only on his back.

For a while, he envied the boys at school, who talked of shagging girls in every position under the sun, but he reminded himself of the truth. He was certainly getting it at a minimum of ten times a week with a consummate and proven expert - who just happened to have tits like watermelons - and his schoolmates were probably not getting it at all! On balance, Davie would settle for that. The only fly in the ointment was that Clarrie had sworn him to secrecy, and he was in such awe of Clarrie that he had never even hinted at their relationship to his schoolmates. So they were fully convinced that Davie was the only virgin in the class, instead of the other way around.

His shirt was off now, and Clarrie's cool, practised fingers were releasing his belt and slipping his jeans down his strong legs. She lowered herself with them, bestowing little wet kisses at intervals on the way down, before rising to her feet again, so he felt her mighty unfettered breasts squash against his knees, his thighs, his ... "... ooooh, Clarrie! Fuckin' Hell!"

She usually left her bra off these days after a mobile session with Sir Roger, it made things so much easier when she got back to Davie. As far as Clarrie was concerned, this arrangement was fine. Sir Roger did his best, but Davie had far more stamina. Staying power. The master couldn't manage more than once or twice a day, now, although he still lasted at least an hour and a half. Still, by way of compensation, Clarrie found that her wages had risen dramatically.

"It's to cover the extra work due to our house guests," Sir Roger had explained. Naturally, the extra money was in addition to her payments for uniform and fancy lingerie. And her bras were, of course, on the house. All in all, Clarrie was rolling in money, the highest paid serving wench or concubine in the whole of Herefordshire.

Right now, she fancied a taste of something different. She lowered Davie to the floor and pausing to raise her abbreviated skirt, she sat gently and lovingly on his face. Then she bent forward. Davie sighed deeply. In this position he could think of Suzanne. Two years ago, had it been? True, it hadn't happened since, but he could still recall the sweetness of the young girl's bikini pants as she perched her cute little bottom on his face beside the river. "Ooooh, Suzanne!" he gurgled. Fortunately, Clarrie couldn't hear him.

Suzanne was much nearer to Clarrie in overall build right now. The girl had really poured on the puppy fat this past few weeks. That time he had watched the young cousins in the woods, back in June, Suzanne had been almost as slim as Victoria. Now, her waist must be at least as big as Clarrie's. And her tits, the last few weeks, were getting enormous! The thought took him closer to the edge and Clarrie expertly controlled his imminent ejaculation. Here we go, he thought, but it never happened. Clarrie could keep him simmering like this for half an hour. He closed his eyes, prepared to die for the cause.


**********

He survived, of course. Clarrie saw to that; she needed him too much to gobble him up like a female spider.

Down below, Suzanne lay glumly on her bed and listened to the creaking of the bedsprings in the room above her head. She could picture the scene. Clarrie would be on top, of course. What boy would ever want a fat pig like me, now, she thought, resting her hand on her pudgy tummy. Her breasts rolled to each side of her chest and rested on the bed beside her like a couple of strangers. Tears came to her eyes. Why do I have to look like this just when it's time to go to a new school. They'll all laugh at me. It will be as bad as it used to be. She rolled on to her side and curled up in a ball, sobbing.

She never heard Pansy come into the room. Pansy looked at her cousin and almost went over to sit beside her. She wanted to comfort the big busty girl. But Suzanne didn't seem to like her any more. She picked up her bikini off her bed and slipped silently out of the bedroom.


**********

Victoria was glum, too. It was only a few weeks ago. It seemed to have started round about the time they'd gone to the woods and showed themselves to Davie. It had been Suzanne's crazy idea, but it sounded exciting, so she'd gone along with it. And Davie had followed them, crashing through the undergrowth like a herd of buffalo trying to keep up with them.

She remembered how they had stripped their shirts off, then their shorts, and all the time, Davie was wanking away behind the bushes. Even now, remembering that it had been a sad thing to do, it still excited her to think that Davie had been looking at them and wanking. It meant that he wanted to fuck them. To take them to his bedroom and for them to sit on his face and even bounce up and down on his belly.

She thought about Clarrie doing it to Davie. Suzanne was nearly as fat as Clarrie now. If only they could still be friends like they used to be. She felt a lump in her throat, and lay down on her bed, face down. Crying felt good, somehow. It made her feel really sorry for herself.


**********

What's wrong with everybody, Pansy thought. She had only slipped into her sister's room to see if she was going for a swim, and *she* was crying, too! All these people crying all over the place. Trailing her bikini behind her, she wandered into the conservatory, where Nana Trudy was snipping bits off a plant. "Oh, Pansy, just what I wanted. Be an angel and find Clarrie for me, will you? Tell her Maisie's called from the town and she's going to be late, so I need her to start the vegetables for dinner."

"All right, Nana," said Pansy dutifully, and headed for the back stairs. She'll be in Davie's room, she thought, she's always in there. Pansy was right, of course. She pounded on the door and shouted.

"Clarrie? It's Pansy. Nana needs you to start dinner."

A groan of dismay came from inside. Two minutes later, Clarrie came out, buttoning her blouse, her face tight with frustration. "What is it this time?" she asked fiercely.

Pansy backed away. "Maisie's been held up in the town. She asked if you can do the vegetables. I'm sorry, Clarrie, it's not my fault!"

The maid looked angry, then her face changed. She grinned at Pansy and pinched her cheek between a thumb and finger. "I'll come and interrupt *you*, one day, see how you like it!" she said, and bounced away downstairs, singing to herself.

At least, she's happy, Pansy thought, and turned to go downstairs. Then she thought of Davie, alone in his bedroom. I wonder if *he's* unhappy, she thought. Everybody else is. And before she knew it, she was in the boy's room.

"Aaaagh!" he squawked, stuffing his cock back into his shorts. "Creeping about like that. You nearly made me shit myself!"

"Sorry, I thought you might be sad after Clarrie left. Toria's crying. So's Suzanne!"

"Why? What's up with them?" He dragged the bedcover to try and hide his undisciplined groin.

"Dunno. They're unhappy. Suzanne's fat and not talking to anybody, and it's upsetting Toria. That's why I came in. I wanted a cuddle." Her voice tailed away to a whisper.

She stood there, her toes turned in toward each other, pouting slightly, just looking at him. Davie was conscious of his recently abandoned erection making a comeback. A big comeback. Oh, shit!

Pansy gave no sign of even noticing it, although it was waving around like a flag of truce. At last, she sat next to him on the bed, and put her arm round his waist. Her big breast squashed against his arm. It felt burning hot. "Do you want a bit?" she said softly.

"What?" he screamed and jerked away from her.

"A bit of cream," she said, "what did you think I meant? Look, pretend cream on Pan's little finger!"

She offered her finger to his lips, and it slipped inside. His stomach gave a lurch, then hung upside down in his belly. The finger traced its way round his mouth, touched his tongue, then withdrew. Pansy's arms were around his neck, pulling him down. She wasn't as strong as Clarrie, but she was pretty determined. Her lips were soft and hot. Sheee-it, where did she learn THAT? And he was borne backwards on to his bed, as Pansy climbed on top of him, her breasts squashing against his naked chest. He felt their firm bulk through the sweater and Sandy's Patent Industrial-Strength Bra. God, she was bigger than he'd thought. Her tongue flickered like a serpent's; in and out of his mouth, into his eyes, his ears. Oh, my God. She's not even touched me down there and I'm coming!

And he did, copiously, untouched by human hand.

"Pan, darling!" he sighed into her ear as she squirmed against him.

Hey, this is ALL RIGHT, she thought. If I'd known it would be like this, I wouldn't have waited until I was ten!

"Lie still, darling," she whispered. And slowly stood up. She quickly dropped her cut-off jeans and panties, and before Davie could protest, she flopped her bottom down on his face.

"Oh, no, not another of these bloody perverts," he muttered indistinctly, then realised that this one was the sweetest and most fragrant of them all.

And ten minutes later, Pansy realised what all the fuss was about. That felt nice, she thought, like when you lie on your tummy and think rude things. Only this time it was a whole lot more so!

At last, with a warm, drowsy feeling of contentment spreading through her young loins, she leaned forward and opened her mouth as wide as it would go. Suzanne had got the bloody thing in, it must fit, she told herself, and tried again. It went suddenly, and her eyes opened wide as it slithered inside, making her gag as it reached the back of her throat. At the same time, her nose and mouth made contact with his pubic hair, still sticky and wet with fifteen-minute old semen.

"Yacchhh, what's that?" she squealed, withdrawing suddenly, and none too carefully.

Davie screamed as her sharp little teeth zipped along the stiff length of his cock. "What's what?"

"All this wet stuff? Have you BEEN?"

"Been?"

"Yes, you've BEEN, haven't you?"

"I've come, if that's what you mean. While you were kissing me."

"Come, been, what's the difference! You've made me pregnant!"

And Pansy stood up, sobbing, her breasts heaving as she found her cut-off jeans on the floor and pulled them on.

"Pan, what's the matter? Where are you going?"

"You've made me pregnant, that's what's the matter! I'm going to tell Nana!"

"Pan, no! Don't go, please. Let me explain!"

But she was gone. Davie rolled on to his back and closed his eyes. Girls! What had he done to deserve all these girls? Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something pale pink on the floor. With a low moan, he reached out and picked it up, sniffing it tentatively.

He only needed about a dozen strokes this time.





Chapter 3:- Coming Or Going?


Nana Trudy wasn't anywhere to be found downstairs. Clarrie was in the kitchen, but Pansy didn't really want to discuss it with Clarrie. It might lead to trouble, she felt instinctively.

Victoria's room was empty. So was her room. Not even Suzanne was there now.

She flopped face downwards on her bed. Pregnant! And nobody loves me. I want my Mummy.

"Nana says we've got to get changed for dinner," whined Suzanne petulantly, bursting into the bedroom. "She only makes us put dresses on because she knows I look fat and horrible!"

At least she admits that much, thought Pansy into her pillow. She sat up. "You got that new dress at the weekend," she said. She drew the line at saying Suzanne looked nice in it.

Her cousin flopped down on to her bed, her huge titties bouncing down on to her thighs and staying there. She looked at Pansy for the first time, and saw the tears on her face. "What's up with you?" she said, aggressively, as if she was the only one allowed to be unhappy.

Pansy swallowed. Shall I say it?

"I went to Davie's room," she said in a voice of doom.

Suzanne sat up straight and looked interested. "Yeah?" she said cautiously.

"Yeah! Nana wanted Clarrie, and I had to fetch her. They were in his room. Well, she came out, doing up her blouse."

Suzanne leaned forward eagerly, quivering like a puppy. "Go on."

"And I went in. He was on his bed, and he was ever so sad, so I sat next to him. Then I gave him a cuddle, and we talked for a bit, and I pretended to give him a dollop of cream ..."

"You WHAT?"

"I pretended to feed him a blob of whipped cream, on my finger, like this." She got off her bed and went over to Suzanne's to demonstrate. "I put it in his mouth ..."

Suzanne's eyes were like saucers. Pansy's technique sounded quite exciting. It felt quite interesting, too. It wriggled inside her mouth.

"... and then I kissed him!" Pansy drew the line at demonstrating that to her cousin.

"You did what?"

"I kissed him. All wet, it was, but it still felt nice."

Suzanne shuddered a little.

"Anyway, while I was kissing him he started moaning and so I thought I'd try sitting on his face ..."

Gasp. "You mean ... fucking ...?"

"... so I took my shorts off and got on him, and he was moaning ..."

"What did it feel like?"

"Sort of itchy. In my, you know. Like when you lie on your front and think rude things."

Suzanne nodded in approval. "Yeah, that's right." She knew all there was to know about thinking rude things.

"And after a few minutes, it felt, like Wow!"

"Wow?"

"Wow!" said Pansy firmly.

"Wow!" whispered Suzanne. 

"But then I got pregnant!"

"YOU WHAT?"

"I'm not saying it again," Pansy said, shame-faced.

"You got pregnant? What happened?"

"I got his thingie, and put it in my mouth ..."

"Still sitting on his face?" Suzanne asked anxiously.

"Of course!"

"Good. Go on."

"And I got most of it in. All of it," she said, with modest pride. "But it was all wet and sticky round the end. The bottom end, where it joins on. And I asked him if he'd been, and he said ..."

"Been? Been where?"

"That's what *he* said. What's the matter with all you people? He went. He'd gone!"

"He'd gone?"

"That's right. He'd been, and done it. So I'm pregnant." She started to sob again.

Suzanne thought about it for a few minutes. Something wasn't quite right.

"Do you mean he'd come?" she said at last.

"That's what I said, isn't it? That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"He came inside you?" said Suzanne, in hushed tones.

"No, it was while I was kissing him, he said."

"And while he was kissing you, while you were kissing him, where was his thingie?"

Pansy looked surprised at the question. "In the usual place. Where else would it be?"

"It wasn't inside your front bottom, then?"

"Urggghhh, Suze. You're so GROSS, sometimes. That's what I hate about you!"

"I don't think he can make you pregnant unless he puts it in your front bottom, Pan. I know it sounds horrible," she said sympathetically, "but it's something we women have to live with. Let's ask somebody. We'll ask Nana at dinner time. She's a woman."

"Do you think that's the best time, Suze? To talk about thingies and things?"

Well, afterwards, then. Trust me. I'll ask when the time is right, okay?"


**********

One way and another, the time hadn't been quite right over dinner.

"Maybe we could ask Miss Gruntworthy, when she comes back with Mummy today," Suzanne suggested next morning. "She'll know, she's been at St Cat's, they must have hundreds of pregnant girls there."

"Sounds okay," said Pansy, relieved. "'Course, I might not be pregnant today, I might have got better."

"You don't look any different," said Suzanne, scanning her cousin critically.

"How long does it take before I start getting a big lump?"

"Oh, ages! Probably not for another week, at least."

"As long as that?"

"I s'pose it's to give you a chance to buy maternity frocks and stuff," said Suzanne, and Pansy nodded in a knowing manner.


**********

"I wonder if all the girls at St Cat's have got big boobies," Pansy whispered to Victoria. "Look at her, she's enormous!"

The three girls were hiding in the shrubbery watching as the taxi unloaded outside the grand front entrance. Victoria noticed that the two young cousins seemed to have forgotten their differences. What had caused it, she didn't know, but it was a great relief.

"I suppose that *is* Miss Gruntworthy," said Suzanne. "She only looks as old as Mummy. She can't be a teacher."

"Golly, look at her TITS!," Victoria said, "She's even bigger than your Mum, Suze!"

"Nobody's bigger than my Mum." Suzanne refused to accept the evidence of her own eyes. "It must be a special bra she's wearing."

"Special or not, they stick out miles!" Pansy's eyes were like saucers. "And they dangle right down to HERE! How can she even stand up?"

Davie was watching as well, from behind the curtains of the spare bedroom in the servants' quarters. He recognised the exaggerated silhouette of Tanya, then his hand grasped his almost exploding cock as another woman climbed out of the taxi with some difficulty. Tanya, understandably, had the biggest pair Davie had ever seen, until now. This must be the schoolteacher the girls had told him about, the one from their new school, Dog's or something. She was even bigger than Tanya. Oooooh! He groaned as his fist went faster and faster.

"Let *me* do that, lover," whispered a voice right in his ear," and he nearly had kittens on the spot.

"Aaaagh! Why do you girls keep creeping up on me?" he demanded, detumescing rapidly.

Clarrie watched him shrink with some regret. "Whaddya mean, us girls? Who else creeps up and blows in your ear, then?"

"Dunno what you mean," he said sullenly.

"I looked for you in your room, and you weren't there. But these were. I found them on the floor, under your bed." She held up a pair of pink knickers, with dark blue bunny rabbits all over them.

"They must be yours," Davie muttered defensively. "You should be more careful, leaving your underwear around, you'll get me into trouble."

Clarrie held the knickers against herself. "Mine? Look at them. Bunny rabbits. And anyway, how could I get into these?"

"They might stretch. One size fits all."

"One size might fit all, but it don't fit little Clarrie," she snarled. "And they've got something all over them, too. It looks remarkably like spunk, Davie!" She held them to her nose. "It smells remarkably like yours, Davie! Who else have you been having in your bedroom when I've been hard at work in the scullery, slaving over a hot vibrating washing machine?"

"Oh, nobody. Only Pan." He sounded ashamed.

"Pansy! Christ, who's fuckin' cradle-snatching, then?"

"She only wanted to talk. And she dunnarf kiss good," he found himself saying.

Clarrie gasped. "That little slut, and you kissed her!"

"No, *she* kissed *me*. And sat on my face," he mumbled.

"She WHAT?"

"Sat on my ..."

"I heard you the first time," Clarrie shrieked. "You snog with ten year olds, and let them bring themselves off on your sodding nose. What's UP with you, boy?"

"I suppose I'm just over-sexed," he said, grinning stupidly.

Then Clarrie was storming off, and Davie was clutching his groin, doubled over in agony. She's broken it, he thought. Now I'll never be able to have children. Good job it wasn't my nose, or I wouldn't be able to have proper sex.


**********

"I'm not going back in there," said Suzanne. "I never met a woman with bigger titties than my Mummy. There must be something wrong with her. It might be a disease, and we'll all catch it."

"I wouldn't mind that," said Victoria.

"Nor would I, said Pansy.

"I don't want it, anyway," muttered Suzanne.

"You've probably already got it ," sniffed Victoria.

"You reckon there *is* such a disease?" Pansy sounded apprehensive. "I wouldn't mind getting it later - like next year - but not straight away, especially now I'm pregnant."

"You're WHAT?" Victoria stared at her sister.

"Oh, didn't I mention it? I must have forgotten. I'm pregnant. Davie went while I was kissing him."

"He went? Where did he go?"

"She means he came," Suzanne interpreted freely.

"When was this?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Have you missed a period since then," said Victoria knowledgeably.

"Of course!" Pansy was indignant. "Dozens, in fact," she said haughtily. That should shut her know-it-all big sister up.

It did. Victoria looked distinctly worried. "You should have used something."

"Huh! Like what?"

Victoria wasn't altogether sure. She looked at Suzanne for support, but the younger girl looked at her with a rapt expression, eager for knowledge as ever.

"Davie should wear one of those things. On his thingie," she said at last.

"How do you know he doesn't?" asked Pansy. "For all you know, he might wear one all the time. He might wear *two* for all you know!"

"He doesn't. I've seen it."

"And I've sucked it," said Suzanne. "If he was wearing anything, I'd have known."

"Well, I sucked it too," Pansy said, proudly. "Yesterday. And he wasn't wearing anything on his thingie. So I'm pregnant."

Clarrie crept up on them from behind.

"What are you lot doing out here?" she wanted to know.

"We're hiding," said Suzanne.

"Who from?" said Clarrie. "And anyway, you're not hiding very well. I found you straight away, just like that."

"Whaddya want, Clarrie?" Pansy asked. "Have you seen Davie?"

"Oh, yes, I've seen Davie, all right. We had quite a chat, too. So what have you got to say for yourself, young Miss Pansy?"

Pansy went pale and bright red at the same time, or so it felt to her. "I don't know what you mean," she mumbled.

"Davie says you kissed him, and sat on his face. What else?"

"What else? What do you mean?"

"What else did you do to my Davie?"

Pansy thought back. Her usual policy was to tell the whole story, in full detail. She took a deep breath.

"We were in the kitchen, and Nana was making a cream cake, and she gave me a finger-full of cream, and I asked Davie if he wanted a bit, so I gave him a finger-full in the kitchen, and later, on his bedroom, I asked him if he wanted a bit again, and I gave him another finger-full, but without the cream this time, then I kissed him, and it was nice, and he said I was good at it, so I sat on his face and bounced up and down and it felt Wow!"

"Wow?"

"Wow! And then I sucked his thingie, and it went right down my neck all the way into my stomach, but he'd been ..."

"She means he came ..."

"He CAME?"

"... and I took him out of my mouth and put my sawn-off jeans back on and went back to my bedroom and cried because I'm pregnant and I've missed loads of periods ..."

Clarrie stared at the girl, backing away. She fumbled in the pocket of her overall, took out a scrap of pink and blue, and hurled it at Pansy. It draped itself neatly across her face. Then the buxom serving wench turned and ran off, across the drive and into the house.

"I've been looking all over the place for these," said Pansy, weakly.

"What was *she* doing with them? They wouldn't fit her." Suzanne inspected the slightly soiled undergarment. "These wouldn't even fit *me*!" She felt the material, sniffed it cautiously. It was damp, and stiff. "Hey, Pan, somebody's been coming in these!"

"He's BEEN in them? Oh, the filthy rotten swine," she wailed. "Now I'm going to have twins!"





Part II





Chapter 4:- This Is Where I Come In

You remember me, of course! I have been referred to as the infamous Chauntaille Gruntworthy, but people are usually most disrespectful of public figures, as if we are common property. I mean, I've had a few boys at university, since leaving St Cat's, and lots more girls; but calling me common property is a bit rich. A public figure, though, I certainly am.

I left St Cat's after the memorable performance of the school in the examination league table - when even with the entire Upper Sixth, apart from two girls, terminally pregnant; we cleaned up with a whole load of A's. I'm still not sure how we did it, and the Headmistress never told us. She suddenly left the country immediately after that, and although I received a postcard showing the Andes, we haven't *really* heard from her.

There's a new Headmistress now. I haven't met her yet, but her name is Miss Thunderbolt, if I can decipher her signature. It seems an odd name, so perhaps it's something else. Thunderbox, maybe. I will be seeing her at the start of the new term, when I dip my toe into the waters of teaching, as it were. In fact, I don't dip my toe into anything, these days, at least, not when testing the temperature of bath water. My nipples are usually closer than my toes. More of them anon, though, I know you can wait.

No, I am half way through my teacher training course, and I have a spell of on-the-job training in an actual school. Of course, once I found that St Cat's was on the list, I requested to be sent there, and I got my wish. The other funny thing that happened was that an old acquaintance, Tanya, said she'd like me to meet her little girl, who was enrolled for St Cat's.

Well, my first reaction was; wait a minute, how can she be old enough? Tanya is only a year older than me, and for her to have an eleven-year-old child would mean that she'd been a very naughty little girl indeed. It turned out she hadn't been quite as naughty as I thought, because Suzanne was only ten. Anyway, Tanya came up to Shrewsbury the day before, to help me pack, then we went down on the train to Herefordshire to her Grandma's, where Suzanne and her two cousins had been receiving private tutoring.

Well, my second reaction was; why did they need private tuition? Then Tanya told me the kids take after their mothers, know what I mean, and they were getting teased at school. Nuff said. I never got teased, because I developed late, and even when I started to get REALLY enormous, I was Head Girl by then, and they wouldn't dare poke fun at me.

And at college, I carried on getting REALLY enormous. I mean, Tanya always had the biggest pair of tits I ever saw, but when we met at Shrewsbury, we both realised that she was now Number Two! Yep, I'm as big as that. And in my latest bra, the Boothroyd Ultra-Boomer Mark XIX, I looked even bigger. I was hoping and expecting to make a huge impression even at St Cat's, where most of the Fifth Form are still showing the effects of my ex-bestest friend Smegs and her boob-spray.

At least, the school dairy has closed down now, and those girls who felt that their preferred career path lay in milk production were transferred to luxurious new purpose-built premises at Fillamore Deepleigh, where my other ex-bestest friend Baps runs an all-girl organic dairy farm. I hope to visit the village soon, to see my parents, I suppose, but also to see how Baps is getting on and to show her my breasts. I'm sure she'd be interested, although she does get very jealous, does Baps.

Only a few of the school's other enterprises are still carried on. Of course, the highly-profitable soiled panties business has gone from strength to strength, as it were; aided by some tremendously exciting innovations in the field of fabric impregnation. The efforts of St Cat's have taken the United Kingdom to a fully-deserved position of world domination in the field of soiled panties. A richly-deserved position.

As the school strives to stay ahead of the opposition, I am looking forward to working alongside the school's Sexual Chemistry Group which in recent months has perfected the StayMoist Crotch Insert, Pungentene Odour Enhancer and the cutting edge flagship product PheroMoan, details of which are still classified Commercial in Confidence.

Built on the site of the former cricket pitch, the floodlit storage tanks of the panties factory, and its 200-feet high chimney dominate the countryside. The chimney belches highly sexually-toxic gases into the atmosphere, to be safely carried away on the prevailing winds in the general direction of Scandinavia, where they can do no harm.

But St Cat's is not the hub of light industry it once was. There's a small cannery, turning out tuna and salmon in pure girl-juice. No additives. Just juice. But the Dr Valentine range of sexual products are no longer shipped in commercial quantities, and really, anyone who was there in the heyday of free enterprise would hardly know the old place now, apparently. We shall see. I understand that the male technical staff, Jeremy, Darren and the disco lad, are still there.

Mercifully - or perhaps tragically - the bane of our lives when Smegs and I were at Cat's; Moggie Anderson, aka Dr Voluptua Valentine; was assumed to have perished in the disastrous fire which destroyed the school's historic buildings and netted me a cool 3,000 pounds in fees for the nude photographs I posed for by the light of the flames. I'd like to think with my present development I could command a much higher price, but I fear that my figure has subsequently become rather too 'specialised' for Page Three. C'est la vie!

Now I've arrived at this imposing mansion in rural Herefordshire, I am beginning to wonder why I am being involved in this whole business. Thousands of new girls start at schools every year without having to be interviewed by ex-Head Girls. I had little enough to do with snotty little oiks of First Formers when I was at St Cat's. Wretched little things, always crawling naked around on Smegs's office floor, giggling and farting. What good do they do anyone? Mind you, I will be spending much of my time teaching First Form Science, so it will be necessary to get used to being near the dreadful creatures. And two of these kids will be in my class, the two small ones. I can imagine them, one skinny and one grossly fat, with grey vests and stringy, greasy, mouse-coloured hair...

By the way, I'm taking over the narrative of this story from now on, so you'd better watch out.


**********

I met Grandma Trudy a while ago. Gosh! So far, the average bust measurement in this house must be nearly nine feet! The only man seems to be Sir Roger, who rushed off at high speed in a Range Rover five minutes ago, without being introduced to me. A servant girl was driving.

Trudy is an American, for some reason which escapes me. She seems quite nice, though, despite that. She told me to fix myself a drink, and apologised that she had to go back to the kitchen because Clarrie had gone off to see to Sir Roger. So I poured myself what turned into a curiously large Scotch and was sitting on the couch with my breasts resting on my knees and overflowing down the sides, when Tanya came in.

"I thought I'd wear my new frock," she said, giving a twirl which was perhaps a mistake as she knocked an expensive-looking vase off an occasional table with her tits. To her credit, she pretended not even to notice as it smashed into a thousand priceless shards on the parquet floor. She'd changed her bra, which made her look almost as big as me. Almost, Tanya, but not quite, I thought.

"It suits you. The yellow brings out your eyes," I complimented her.

"Do you think so?" and she studied her reflection with her head tilted. "The girls will be down in a few minutes. They're just making themselves beautiful."

Make it another three hours then, I thought, when the door opened and a youthful girl's face peered round it. "Pansy, come on in, love," said Tanya. "This is my niece, Pansy. Pansy, this is Miss Gruntworthy."

"How do you do, Miss," she said.

"Very well, thank you, Pansy," I replied. In fact, the girl was a pleasant surprise. She was quite attractive, in a sickly-sweet kind of way, and her blonde hair had been tied in two neat plaits at the sides of her head. Her bare shoulders were a little off-putting, but there was no denying the appeal of her full breasts, which were displayed to some advantage by the low neckline of her dark blue velvet dress, which flowed in soft folds over her still-burgeoning hips and buttocks.

"And here's Victoria, Pansy's older sister," Tanya said. 

We greeted each other guardedly. It was a little unnerving the way both girls stared at my bust in such an overt manner. I stared back at Victoria's, which was almost bursting out of her blouse. I found myself wishing she had worn a brassiere, as the dark circles of her areolae were most disturbing, and when I averted my gaze, I found her short skirt almost erotic in a lewd kind of way. Perhaps it was the black fishnet stockings that did it.

"And this is my daughter Suzanne!"

"Gosh!," I said, involuntarily. It was as well the girl was substantially overweight, or I might have been tempted to take her to one side and make energetic and sopping wet love to her. She was wondrous, truly wondrous. Her bust was even bigger than Victoria's, by at least six inches, I guessed, and it wobbled in a most blancmange-like manner.

All in all, these three would uphold the St Cat's tradition, I felt. It was a pity the old Headmistress wasn't around to see them and to offer them intensive counselling on the floor of her office, but perhaps the new Head would do that instead.

A gong sounded somewhere out in the hall, and Trudy appeared at the door. "Dinner is served, ladies! Sir Roger regrets, unfortunately, that he has been delayed. Not that he needs any delay spray these days ..." At least, that's what it sounded like, sotto voce, as she turned to show the way to the dining room.


**********

The conversation was quite civilised, which made a change from the teachers' training college, where it tended to centre on pubic areas, although it occasionally gravitated to the Struggle, at which point I invariably switched off. After two years, my fellow students had given up trying to convert me to the time-honoured Marxist-Leninist principles of teaching, and their modern-day offshoot, the Green Movement.

"If you hate people so much, why do you want to teach children?" I had asked, quite early on in my stay at the college.

"But Chauntaille, that's the whole point!" they insisted, and laughed in a strangely disturbing manner, rather like sneering out loud. "And don't call them children," added my roommate, "they're kids."

My roommate was called Max, an embittered, hollow-chested creature with shaven sideburns and a strange taste in aftershave. Once Max discovered I was into girls as well as boys, she erected a barricade of chairs and mousetraps across the room to keep me away from her two-thirds of it. She could have saved herself the trouble; I was happier wanking. It really offended Max to have to watch my tits grow for two whole years.

I can tell you, it was a pleasure to get back to some decent, civilised dinner-table conversation again.

"... and Pansy left her panties in Davie's room ..." Suzanne was telling her mother, who sat spellbound and open-mouthed. So was everyone else, so I made a quick adjustment to my facial muscles and joined them.

"... and they were all stiff, and quite moist when Clarrie gave them back to her ..."

I wondered if she still had them, I could send them to the Sexual Chemistry Group for analysis.

"... so now she's pregnant, with twins."

"I've missed a whole load of periods," said Pansy, ominously.

"Since yesterday afternoon?" Tanya asked.

"Yes. Is it bad news, Nana Trudy?"

"Sounds real bad!" said Trudy. "I think when you get to school, the medics ought to give you a good check-over," and she looked at me for confirmation.

A First-Former who was expecting twins, having missed several periods in twenty-four hours certainly needed medical attention, I thought. "I'll see she gets it. And of course, all our girls receive intensive sex education, although with these three, it may be a little too late to do any good."

The girls sat with their eyes downcast, too mortified even to eat. Even though they had all had hands-on sexual experience, and the younger ones had even sat on a boy's face and inhaled his boyhood; this teacher was now telling them they were too old to learn about sex. Life had truly passed them by.

"Never mind, girls, I'm sure you can catch up with the rest of the class, if you work extra hard at your sex."

"Oh, we will, Miss," said Pansy. "It's really one of my favourite subjects!"

"And mine!"

"And mine!"





Chapter 5:- Thunderbolt, Labia And Fanny


Miss Thunderbolt's office was in the new Voluptua Valentine Memorial Building, on the upper floor. I felt like a junior girl going to see the Headmistress for her very first official spanking as I crept along the polished floor, trying not to let my high heels make too much of a clicking noise. I could still escape and run away if I chickened out at the last second.

The outer office door was open, and a secretary looked up from her terminal as I appeared in the doorway, my breasts projecting over her desk. I turned slightly sideways and looked around them. Ah, there she was.

"You must be Miss Gruntworthy," she said, goggling cross-eyed at the nearer of my nipples, which was pressing lightly against her nose. I backed away a step or so to avoid violating her personal space. "Miss Thunderbolt is expecting you."

"It is Thunderbolt, then," I said. "I couldn't believe it when I read the letter."

"Couldn't believe what?" The secretary looked blankly at me.

"The name. Thunderbolt. It's a bit unusual, isn't it?"

"No, not really." She turned on her swivel chair and reached up to a shelf. To my amazement, she took down a dictionary and consulted it. She brightened. "No, here it is ...Thunder ... thunder-blast ... thunderbolt ... 1440, one, 'ay supposed bolt or dart formerly (and still vulgarly) believed to be the destructive agent in a lightning-flash when it strikes anything: Myth; an attribute of Jove, Thor ...'"

"Erm ..." I stopped her, she showed signs of going on for some time. She looked up at me in some surprise.

"It is quite a normal word, in everyday usage, as you see ..."

"But not a name, though!"

"But it's NOT unusual, you must admit."

This conversation was in danger of becoming a little unusual in itself. "Is she in, then?"

"Who?"

"Miss Thunderbolt?"

"I'll just check ..." She picked up a telephone, still looking up at my face. "A Miss Gruntworthy to see you ... yes ... yes ... it *is* an unusual name, isn't it?"

"Erm ..." I wanted to stop her before she started looking me up in the dictionary.

"I'll show her in then."

"Miss Thunderbolt will see you now."

I went in through the green baize-covered door. The headmistress's desk was in front of the window. A figure stood silhouetted against the light, looking out across the playing fields like a scene from a second-rate movie. I walked slowly to the desk. There was one chair on my side, but I stood, waiting.

The figure slowly turned. I saw a slim woman with startlingly blonde hair arranged in an oddly dated bouffant style, as if she came from Dagenham or Brentwood. Her jaw dropped as she saw my bust. I was used to this reaction, and took my customary deep breath, turning slightly for the full effect.

"Fuck me, Chauntaille, you're a big girl now, aren't you!" I knew the voice. It struck at my vitals like an ice pick.

Miss Thunderbolt took a step or two to one side to get a better look at my profile. At that instant, as the light from the window fell on her face, I knew her.

"Miss Anderson, er, Miss Valentine! Moggie!"

"Ella Wheeler Thunderbolt," she greeted me, extending an icy cold hand. "I'm sure you remember the name now?"

"Miss Thunderbolt, of course."

"An unusual name, but some would disagree." She walked round her desk, looking me up and down. "Bloody hell, you've got some tits, and no mistake!" she touched one, and it wobbled. "The real thing, too, not implants."

"You can't get implants this size, Miss. No demand for them, apparently."

"No, I suppose not. Well, this is a pleasant surprise! Quite like old times. Well, not quite," she said, glancing down at her own chest significantly.

"Where are yours, Miss?"

"Oh, mine." She seemed to notice their absence for the first time. "I had a little operation. They took away most of them, and left me these. 34E," she said proudly. "I never found out what they did with the stuff they removed ..."

"But, Miss, why? And how did you escape from the fire ...?"

"Ah, yes, the fire. You all waved to me as I stood silhouetted against the flames, I remember, but I didn't perish. Oh, no! I had an escape route planned. It nearly failed, when a girder fell from the roof, but my breasts saved me!"

"Your breasts?"

It must have been the excitement. The milk came in with a huge rush, and I was able to spray the blazing timbers which were blocking my path. The copious quantities of my breast milk, and the ejaculate squirting from my freshly-shaven pussy were sufficient to douse the flames and I leaped to safety."

A likely story. Who writes this shit?

"The truth, Chauntaille, is less enthralling. But I escaped, with most of my money, and lay low for a while. And then, a little operation, a new hair-do; I had it done in a little place in Essex, what do you think?"

"It suits you, brings out your eyes ..."

"Thank you, Chauntaille. And I was ready for my new persona. Ella Wheeler Thunderbolt. No, don't ask why."

I wasn't going to.

"There was a warrant out for my arrest. Every detail. Even my measurements ..."

"Aren't you taking a risk, telling me all this?"

"A calculated risk. But they're looking for a different woman, not me. As I said, every detail, even my measurements; 120-20-34!"

"But ... but those are MY measurements, Miss!"

"Are they really? What a curious coincidence! But there must be thousands of women in this country with those measurements. Although, to be on the safe side, it would be as well if you were to stay away from the police, wouldn't it, Chauntaille? Don't worry, I won't turn you in. I'm not one to spill the beans on an old friend who has been so good to me in the past."

"Thank you," I said, feeling a choking sensation in my throat, as if I was trying to swallow an extra large cock.

"Good. We understand each other. My God, you're ENORMOUS, Chauntaille. You really must show me those things. Not now ..." she said hastily as I reached for my blouse buttons, although as they were much closer to her then to me, I would normally have asked her to undo them. "Later, perhaps. I look forward to the pleasure. But for now, if you would please take up your duties. I have attached you to Miss Albert-Ross. Don't shoot her, it will bring bad luck. Sorry, my little joke. An unusual name, but some would disagree. On your way out, see Miss Labia."

"Miss Labia?"

"My secretary. Unusual name, isn't it?"


**********

Miss Albert-Ross was relatively new herself. In fact, all the teaching staff had been replaced since I had left. It happened quite suddenly, people said. A pity, in view of the school's dramatic success in the exam results. A success which had not been repeated, I discovered. St Cat's had slumped to a mediocre 874th in the countrywide league tables, with not one of the examinees managing better than a D grade. It was going to be a long and tedious climb before we emerged on to broad sunlit uplands.

She was a pretty woman, with a bouffant blonde hairdo. Now I came to notice it, all the staff wore their hair this way, including Miss Labia. I supposed they had an account with the same hairdresser. Miss Albert-Ross's breasts were fairly large, I noticed. I tend to notice these things for some reason. They were about the size of cantaloupes, I supposed, as I ran my hands over them through her sheer silk shirt. She opened her eyes and thanked me effusively. We rearranged our clothing and resumed our walk across the quadrangle, watched incuriously by dull-eyed Juniors.

"Morale seems low," I ventured.

"You can say that again," said Miss Albert-Ross.

I said it again.

"Yes, you could say that," she said. "The girls are really in need of a good injection of something to stiffen them up."

"Isn't there a Dr Valentine's product that would do that?" I asked.

"Several, but they need something more than hormone treatment. They need a spark to trigger off the sexual powder-keg that lies just beneath the surface."

"They need boys," I suggested, hopefully.

"Do you think so? How revolutionary! We would normally advocate straight lesbianism. Golly! Boys!" She laughed. At least, that's what I assumed she was doing. Several of the girls turned, surprised at the noise.

"It won't happen overnight," I warned her. "But I think what we need is a sexual counselling department right here on site at St Cat's."

"You'll never get it passed by the Board of Governors," she sniffed.

"As I say, it might take some time. But for the honour of St Cat's, it is worth it. Any sacrifice is worth it for the honour of St Cat's!"

As I made this little speech, we had paused in our walk, and a small but respectful group of girls had gathered to listen. As I finished, I gazed down at their eyes, which strangely had taken on a gleam. Their little fists were clenched. They were animated. Their eager faces were upturned in admiration of this strange, monstrously-breasted teacher who didn't wear her hair piled up like a blonde bee-hive, but tied it in two pony-tails, one on each side of her head.

For a brief moment, I felt a wave of something passing between myself and these junior girls. The moment passed, leaving them dead-eyed and bewildered as before, but I had reached them, however briefly, and I could do it again.

Was this, then, teaching? It was unlike anything I had learned in two years.

As the crowd dispersed, Miss Albert-Ross helped me with my blouse buttons, which had become unfastened in the passion of the moment. She admired my cleavage, almost three feet long and two feet deep between the vast scarlet cups of the Ultra-Boomer Mark XIX. I had to prise her head from between my breasts, and we needed to make a diversion to the staff room to fix her hair.


**********

"Here's the timetable. You'll see you have a number of free periods, more than the full-time staff. This will help you settle in. Later, you may find you have less free time." Miss Albert-Ross toyed with my nipple as if she'd never seen anything like it. I suppose she hadn't. They are tiny, in comparison to what they are attached to, but they're still two inches long, which meant that Miss Albert-Ross could hold one in her fist. She did. It didn't feel too bad, so I let her carry on holding it. She burrowed around in the other bra cup, looking for the other one. A couple of the other teachers, watching, lent her a hand, and the gym teacher, in a sweaty grey leotard, dragged it out into the open with a cry of triumph.

"It's mine!" she shouted.

"S'not! It was my idea to play with her nipples, gerrof, yer stinking slag."

"Who are you calling a stinking slag, you mare? I'll tell your new girl-friend all about you, you three-timing bitch ...!"

I detached both squabbling women from my nipples and piled them back into the bra cups.

"There, all gone!" I said. They watched them disappear with deep sadness, and the gym teacher began to suck her thumb, her blonde hairdo sagging sadly down the sides of her damp red face.

"That was your fault she took them away," she accused Miss Albert-Ross. "Now they're gone." She stamped her foot and began to sob.

"Oh, fuck off," Miss Albert-Ross retorted. "Anyway, she's *my* student teacher. She's been attached to ME!"

"That doesn't mean you're the only one who gets to fuck her. You've got to share her around. I'm telling Old Thunderbolt."

"You daren't."

"I do, so there. Just watch me!"

"I'll tell her about you and old Labia."

The gym teacher paled. "It's all lies," she said. "Nothing happened."

"Huh! We'll see about that."

"Huh."

That seemed to be that for a while, as the two stopped snarling at each other. The fight over, the rest of the staff moved away to resume their various duties. Miss Albert-Ross turned back to the timetable.

"So you start tomorrow with First Form Chemistry, okay?" she said, as if nothing had happened, although she was still panting heavily.

"Right," I said confidently. "Look," I said after a pause. "I can't keep calling you Miss Albert-Ross. You can call me Chauntaille, or Shan for short. What's your name?"

"Persephone," she mumbled.

"All right, Persephone," I said. "Can I call you Fanny for short?"

"You might as well, that's what the kids call me," she sighed. "Fanny Albatross."

"It's a nice name," I told her soothingly. "It suits you."

"Do you really think so?" she said, brightening.

"Ooooh, yes," I gushed.

"See!," she rounded on the gym teacher triumphantly. "I fuckin' told you it suited me, but you said it sounded stupid. It's you that's stupid, nyerrrrr!"

The gym teacher pouted, her face crumpled, and she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

"That told her, the sweaty cow," I said encouragingly.

I think Fanny and I could become really good friends.





Chapter 6:- Use It Sparingly, If At All


"My name is Miss Gruntworthy, and I am going to be taking you for Science this year". So far, so good. The First Formers sat attentively at their seats behind the long benches, the apparatus and Bunsen burners scattered before them like icons of progress.

"I'll get to know you all in time, but meanwhile, we'll both be learning, not just yourselves. Now, this term is probably your first ever time in a laboratory, so things might seem a bit strange. But we're going to be doing something really useful, something that will make a profound difference to all your lives! Trust me on that!" Eager faces looked up at me. Trusting faces.

I could see Pansy and Suzanne, sitting together at the front. The busty cousins had probably told their classmates about me already, and would be feeling superior because they knew Miss Gruntworthy personally. The rest of the class, I saw, looking around, was uninspiringly flat-chested. They showed no sign of even noticing that Pansy and Suzanne weren't the same as them. They hadn't even noticed *my* tits! That had decided me on my bold course of action. I hadn't planned it that way. It was just that from the moment I stood up in front of that class, I knew it as a fact: these girls need tits.

And they shall have them, I thought. We have the technology, after all. The formula was mine. Before Smegs had parted from me at the railway station, she had tearfully handed me a piece of paper. 'The latest formula,' she had sobbed, 'use it sparingly, if at all!'

I had hugged her through the open window as the train pulled out of the station with a sigh of brakes and a roar of powerful diesel engines. And as the London train roared away, I brushed away a tear and realised that Smegs was still crushed to my bosom.

"You're on the wrong train," I pointed out to her, kindly.

"Shit!" she said.

So we had been obliged to make love for a further three hours until the next train arrived. A small but appreciative crowd gathered to watch us. A bright, intelligent, informed crowd, who made sensible and creative suggestions. Later in our performance, we even solicited requests, which Smegs and I did our very best to interpret to their satisfaction as well as ours ...

I dragged myself back to the present. The First Formers still hung on my every word, even though I had said nothing for the last five minutes.

"But first things first. We must learn how to boil water."

A chorus of groans went up. That was more like it. The class was reacting. This was what I had been led to expect by my tutors over the past two years. "Pour exactly one hundred milliltres of water into the conical flask on the bench in front of you ..."


**********

It went off quite well. We boiled water for the whole afternoon, with only a few minor scalds and a notebook fire which was easily extinguished by rolling the owner of the notebook on top of it on the floor, which routed the flames at the cost of a few scorch-marks on the girl's new blouse.

I even made her stop her ridiculous crying with a smart slap to her bare leg. I could sense the class's growing respect for me as the blow resounded round the lab, echoing glassily off the apparatus. The girl snapped out of her hysteria immediately and got on with her work.

By the time the bell sounded, the class had boiled enough water to sink a battleship. "Write up your notes on the experiment by morning. I will be asking questions. Thank you, girls!"

They filed out at about a hundred miles an hour, in search of food. Suzanne, I observed, used her enormously superior upper-body strength and weight to claim the lead at the first corner, a lead she would not be denied, I knew all the way to the queue in the cafeteria.

I had a free evening, with no marking to do. I whipped out the old mobile phone and tried Smegs's number. It answered at the third ring.

"Smegs? That you? It's me."

...

"No, I'm at St Cat's. No, I'm teaching! Just finished in the lab."

...

"One or two, but most of them are totally flat-chested."

...

"Not bad! And guess who the new Headmistress is?"

...

"You guessed! How did you know that? What do you mean, you were only joking?"

...

"But she's not dead, she's Miss Thunderbolt!"

...

"Thunderbolt."

...

"Yes, I know."

...

"It's not unusual at all," I said sharply, "1440, one, 'ay supposed bolt or dart formerly (and still vulgarly) believed to be the destructive agent in a lightning-flash when it strikes anything: Myth; an attribute of Jove, Thor ...'"

...

"I was only trying to tell you there's nothing unusual about the name Thunderbolt ..."

...

"Oh, sod you, too, then!"

But she'd hung up on me! The cow. What was wrong with my ex-bestest friend?

The phone rang and I answered.

"And she's had her tits reduced!"

...

"About an E cup. Tiny!"

And so on. I don't need to bore you with my phone conversations. Of course, you have heard only one side of the conversation. One can only hope that readers will be able to work out for themselves what Smegs was saying in the silences from my end.

I told Smegs we needed a moral-booster at the old school. Someone to give the girls something to live for, joie de vivre, esprit de corps, honi soit qui mal y pense ...

Fortunately, Smegs was at a loose end.

"I've just got to get rid of these boys," she told me. There were five of them, apparently, in her flat, and it took a while to get them all thrown out, as each time she got rid of one, two more came clambering back in through the window. But at last, she called back and said she was packing her bag.

"I don't know where you're going to stay, yet. I haven't even mentioned this idea to Moggie. Miss Thunderbolt."

"I'll find somewhere, don't worry," she said. "And no worries about old thunderthighs. I'll remind her about the police and everything."

"Oh, Smegs, you can't. That's why she had her tits reduced, the police were looking for someone with tits her size. But now, the only one with tits that size round here is me!"

"What size?" she demanded acidly.

"A hundred and twenty inches, why?"

She'd hung up again, the stupid cow.


**********

It was the next day when Labia sent for me. "Miss Thunderbird wants you in her office right away," she barked down the phone.

When I went over there half an hour later and knocked on her door, Labia jerked her thumb at the green baize, so I went in.

"Smegs!" I shrieked.

"The same," she said. "I thought I'd better come over and sort you out. Fuck me, Shan, look at the size of those things. Have you seen yourself lately?"

"Oh, these, you mean? Give them another year or two, and they'll be REALLY big. I see yours are no bigger, then."

"There's nothing wrong with mine," she shouted. She whirled round and snapped at Moggie, who had so far been looking from one of us to the other. "Is there?"

"No, Megan, yours are just fine, Megan."

"There, see, the Headmistress thinks so, too. And if she says so, and so does the Deputy Headmistress, then you're outvoted, Miss Gruntworthy."

"The Deputy Headmistress?" I looked round.

"That's me," said Smegs.

"Chauntaille," said Moggie sweetly. "Let me introduce my new Deputy Headmistress. Miss Megan Mountains."

"Megan what?"

"Mountains. Not an unusual name at all, is it?"

"It makes her sound like an exotic dancer."

"I am," said Smegs. "I have been for eighteen months. What's more, I'm the only one with all-natural home-grown titties. No silicone, no saline, these puppies are all Megan's." Unnervingly, she vaulted lightly on to the leather-topped desk and began a slow grinding striptease. Moggie leaped up and went to a hi-fi in the corner and pressed a button. Appropriate music immediately began to thump out of the speakers. We watched Smegs for several minutes, to an accompaniment of tearing brass and clashing cymbals.

"Do you want to see the rest?" she asked suddenly, stopping in mid-bounce.

"We might as well," said Moggie, and I nodded in agreement.

"Only it'll be extra. I need an extra twenty quid."

We grumbled, but paid up, dropping the money into the moist fishnet stocking that Smegs held out to us. Only then did she continue. She jumped down off the desk as we applauded at the end, gathering her scattered clothes and dressing again matter-of-factly.

"You're not qualified, how can you be a deputy headmistress?" I asked her as I helped her with her bra strap.

"She's as well-qualified as me," said Moggie. "And she's just what we need to get St Cat's back on the map, sexually speaking. Miss Mountains will be teaching Sex, by the way. Pure Sex as well as Applied Sex. Sexual Studies. Sexual Art. The Science of Sex. Sexual Positions. Straight Sex. Curved Sex. Sex in the Kitchen, Sex in the Bathroom ..."

I stopped her before she reached the toilet. "I get the picture," I said.

"Excellent! From now on, Miss Gruntworthy, you will take your orders from and report directly to Miss Mountains. As will the rest of the teachers. Miss Mountains will act as a buffer between myself and the rest of my staff."

"Right?" said Smegs. "Satisfied?"

"I suppose so."

"Okay, we knew you'd understand. Just strip off, will you, please?"

"Do what!"

Smegs snapped her fingers at me. "Get yer fuckin' gear off. We wanna see those tits of yours."

And I had no option but to undress in front of the two of them, right down to the Ultra-Boomer and beyond. At last, I stood on the desk with my tits bumping gently against my knees. The audience certainly seemed impressed. Their jaws hung open. At that very moment, the door opened and Miss Labia came in. She was impressed as well. I can tell these things.

In fact, I had the very definite feeling of a good old-fashioned St Cat's Lesbian Orgy coming on. I could almost smell it.

My nose rarely deceives me on these occasions. It was dark outside when the four of us staggered to our feet.

"Shit, I'm gonna be late for the Methodist Young Shitting Wives Group," said Miss Labia, dressing frantically. She was another candidate for enhancement, like the First Formers. I shuddered at the sight of her. After she had gone, I outlined my plans to the other two.

"I think straight breast enlargement is a little outmoded for a modern girls' school," said Smegs. She drew up a notepad and started making a list of points. "We need a unique selling proposition to attract a better class of parent. Now we've tried lactation, with some success, but it's messy and it's backup-intensive. We can grow the girls' tits, but we have to come up with something extra."

All this removal of clothing had given me an idea.

"How about strippers?"

"How do you mean?"

"You remember 'Fame'?"

"You mean 'Fame, we gonna live forever ...'" Smegs went into a dance routine while Moggie pressed another button and instantly found the right music. A brief karaoke followed. We stopped, panting. My tits stopped some minutes later.

Smegs's eyes were alight with inspiration.

And at that moment was born the St Cat's Academy of the Performing Arts.

"SCAPA. I can see it now!" she crowed, her eyes on an imaginary neon-lit billboard. "SCAPA, the Home of Tease. We will turn out the best educated strippers the world has ever seen. With the biggest all-natural tits, of course!"

"Of course!"

"Our girls will get their gear off before all the crowned heads of Europe," Smegs shouted.

"A Billion Inches of Bust!" yelled Moggie.

"I can see it now," Smegs was having a vision, and we leaned closer together. "Strippagrams! Striptease! Modelling! Porn Videos! Exotic Dancing! Lap Dancing!"

"What's that?" I have led a sheltered life.

"Sort of wanking with a girl on your lap."

"Why?"

"Fuck knows, but it's a living!"

"Our girls can sit on yer face," I announced proudly, thinking of young Suzanne and Pansy.

"Why?" said Smegs, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
 
"Why what?"

"Why should our girls sit on people's faces? It sounds gross."

"Trust me, the punters will lap it up."

"Hmm. We'll have to see about that one."

But their scepticism aside, I think I'm going to enjoy working for my new bosses.





Part III





Chapter 7:- Firing And Hiring


Smegs called a staff meeting for ten the next morning. The entire teaching staff, plus Jeremy, Darren and the disco lad gathered in the gymnasium, where the Maternity Unit had been housed for so many busy and productive months.

"Who's looking after the kids?" I asked Smegs, as we waited outside for ten o' clock.

"Shit knows. Not my problem. I only call meetings, I don't wipe teachers' arses for them."

Moggie sat in the chair. It wasn't the only chair, but it was raised up above the others, balanced on a table so everyone in the room could see her. Smegs marched in, and I followed in her wake. A gasp went up from the assembled multitude. I suppose there were quite a few of the staff who hadn't yet seen me, and I had made sure that the Ultra-Boomer was cranked up to its maximum support setting. This had the effect of supporting my breasts almost horizontally in front of my chest. It is tiring on the back muscles and I tend to fall over rather frequently, but at the same time, it is rather spectacular.

I glanced out of the corner of my eye to where our three male staff members were sitting, and was gratified by their response. At the first sight of Smegs, they looked at each other with their mouths open in amazement. At their first sight of me, they opened their mouths several inches more; and at their second glance at me they clutched instantly at their groins. In fact, Darren and the disco lad missed their own groins and grabbed each other's by mistake. It was some time before they noticed. Jeremy smiled up at me and I favoured him with a wink. After all, we had presented each other with our virginities, all those years ago. In the back seat of a Jaguar, no less. Doggy fashion.

Moggie rapped on the table for attention. For a moment, the whole edifice of her table and chair wobbled dangerously and Smegs and I darted forward to steady it. None of the teachers had moved a muscle to help, so we knew where they were coming from. They were plotting the downfall of the Bosses; the first phase of their Struggle against miserable pittance wages and only three months' paid holiday a year.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," said Moggie. "Your attention please. Shortly I will introduce Miss Mountains, who is my newly appointed Deputy Headmistress. She may be known to a few of you." Her eyes flickered across the three boys, who were gaping again. An angry murmur had built up in the room. The word 'deputy' could be heard welling up like vomit from the angry ranks of militant throats.

"I am concerned, as I am sure you must be, about the low morale among the pupils of St Cat's. Our girls are not happy. I look around me and I see sadness. St Cat's has a glorious past, and was always thought of as a model for schools which aspired to true greatness, especially in the field of entrepreneurism."

Perfectly on cue, sneers appeared on the faces of the assembly. We were going to have trouble with this lot. Sack them, I thought. Plenty more teachers around. Start again with a clean sheet of paper.

"And St Cat's made its greatest strides in entrepreneurism during the time Miss Mountains was a student here. I will hand over to her now, and I am sure she will have something to say which will be of interest to you."

Smegs stood at the front of the hall and waited for silence. Eventually the jeers and catcalls died away. "I will be brief," she said. "We have work to do. It has been decided that St Cat's should make the most of the unique talents of its girls. With that in mind, we intend to launch a new venture, the St Cat's Academy for the Performing Arts, or SCAPA. We intend to turn out the best educated and most talented female artistes the nation has ever seen. We will require specialist teaching staff with experience in dramatic art, film and television, exotic dancing and striptease."

An angry murmur was building up again. Smegs pressed on.

"If any of you feel you are qualified to teach in these areas, please raise your hands ..." She looked about the hall. Not a hand was raised. Well, one was, but it was hauled down by its neighbours in a demonstration of militant solidarity. Smegs looked satisfied.

"In that case, then," she beamed, "you're all fired! Please call at the school secretary's office and make the necessary arrangements. Thank you!" She stepped back and sat down.

Uproar broke out. I can't think why. Surely, these people must have realised their performance was below par. Apparently not. They rose to their feet, stamping and jeering. Fists were raised. A huge, ornately-embroidered union banner came from somewhere and fluttered above their heads. Placards were waved, reading 'Mountains Out'.

"Out, out, out!" they chanted with deep creativity and originality. We turned and walked out, Smegs, Moggie and I, followed by the three male technical staff, with worried expressions on their faces.

"That doesn't apply to you three, of course," said Smegs.

"Smegs, that was amazing!" I gazed at her in open admiration. "I was just thinking we ought to sack the lot of them, and you did!"

"It came to me on the spur of the moment: I hadn't even thought of it until then. But it's great! We can get all new teachers, and start with a clean sheet of paper!"

"My thoughts precisely," I said.

Moggie looked stunned by these events. "Surely you can't sack them, just like that?"

"I just did," said Smegs.

"Gosh! If I'd know that, I'd have done it two years ago."

We had reached the office. Sounds of rioting still came from the gym. Smegs turned to Jeremy. "Better call the police and get them slung out, Jez," she drawled. "Then start some rough costings for converting the gym into a theatre. Stage, curtains, dressing rooms, lighting, sound system ... all the usual stuff."

The boys ran off, twittering like excited schoolgirls.

"Shan, go round all the classes and dismiss them. Give them the rest of the day off, but get them together at tea time for an important announcement in the restaurant."

"Yes, Megan!" and I scampered away, too. I hope I wasn't twittering like an excited schoolgirl, but you never know.


**********

"Teachers, specialised subjects," Smegs barked. "Shout out some subjects we will need to recruit teachers for ..." It's called brainstorming, or something.

"Maths, English, Science," I said.

"I suppose so. Perhaps we could keep one of the old teachers on to do all that stuff. Who do you suggest, Moggie?" I raised an eyebrow at this familiarity, but Moggie hadn't noticed.

"Fanny Albatross, probably," she said. "She's fairly harmless, militancywise, and she's a perfectly straight lesbian."

"Good. We'll keep Fanny." Smegs made a note on her pad. "Now, Dance. Or perhaps we should call it exotic dancing. Send one of the boys out to buy a tit-mag or two. We'll find some big names and approach them."

I picked up the phone and called Jeremy.

"Got just the thing," he said, and minutes later he delivered a pile of dog-eared glossy magazines. "It was tits you wanted? 'Cos Darren's got a lot of Milking and the disco lad says he's got some Teenage Sluts ..."

"No, tits are fine, Jeremy, thank you!" and I ushered him out.

Moggie and Smegs were already buried in the magazines. "Oh, look at these, they're gross!"

"She's fat. That's the only word for it. Fat!"

"What about these?"

"Big, but not as big as yours, even."

"What do you mean, 'even'?"

"No offence. I meant yours as opposed to Chauntaille's."

Smegs glowered at us both.

"We'll try her, anyway. Make a note of the name: Donna Dumbo."

"Is that her real name, do you think?" I asked tentatively.

"It might be, she is American after all," Smegs said. "It says she's billed as measuring 120-20-34."

"That's the same as me," I said. "Let's have a look!" Well, they were big, all right, but not even a quarter the size of mine.

"What about this one?" Moggie held out another magazine.

"She's English," I said, "she might be cheaper!"

"She's certainly bigger," Smegs sniffed. "Nearly as big as Gruntworthy."

"They look too ... perfect ... somehow! As if they're not real."

"We'll get her in for interview, we'll see if they're real or not. What's her name?"

"Belinda Balloons," said Moggie. "Unusual name, you might say!"

Coming from someone calling herself Ella Wheeler Thunderbolt, that was rich!

"Now then," said Smegs. "Men!"

"Men?"

"You remember men, Shan-tail, darling? Tall things with willies?"

"I remember men, Megan. If you must know, I can take them or leave them. But what about men? Why did you mention them at this moment of moments?"

"We need men. Male teachers!"

Moggie gasped at the sheer audacity of that statement. So did I. There had never been male teachers at St Cat's. Never ever.

"But what would they *do*?"

"Oh, the usual things. But even in class, there's so much they could teach the girls. And they could be essential when it comes to learning about lap-dancing."

Oh, I don't know about that, I thought. Desirable, but not essential.

"How many do you think we'd need?" asked Moggie.

Smegs looked round at her and me.

"I think three would be ideal, don't you?"

One each. I couldn't fault that at all. Male teachers would need careful handling in an all-female school. We three would act as a safety valve to prevent them running amok and screwing everything in sight. As long as we had a say in the selection process.

"We'll need a very long short list," I ventured.

"About a thousand," said Moggie, dreamily.

We were all getting a little moist, just thinking about it. I could feel an orgy coming on, but it was getting dangerously close to tea-time. We had to brief the student body at tea-time. We all looked at each other.

"Adjournment for a quickie?" suggested Smegs. We nodded eagerly.

It was a quickie, but not quickie enough. We hurried into the restaurant five minutes late, fastening stray buttons. Moggie was hopping along behind, trying to struggle into her panties. She gave up and stuffed them up the sleeve of her jumper as we came to a halt and faced the eager upturned faces of the student body. Respect radiated in our direction, you could feel it like a warm glow. Although, thinking about it, the warm feeling might have been coming from somewhere else.


**********

"So there you are, girls." Smegs's voice was quiet, reassuring, confidential. The audience hung on her every word. "We are all going to learn together. Exciting new things, skills which will stand you in good stead as you go out into the wide world. As long as you have your bodies, girls, you will never be out of a job."

I scanned around the faces of the girls. Some of them giggled and nudged each other. The hyperdeveloped Lower Sixth Form girls looked superior, peering down their noses at the other girls, cupping their enormous breasts. I looked around for the new girls. Pansy and Suzanne were sitting with Victoria. They looked puzzled. Their mothers had never mentioned exotic dancing and striptease. It must have slipped their minds. It sounded exciting, but worrying. Dancing might be difficult with such big breasts, they were thinking, I could tell.

"There will be new teachers," said Smegs. "In fact, your old ones are already either gone, or are leaving at this very moment!"

A cheer rang out.

"Apart from Miss Albatross!"

Hisses, jeers and catcalls. They were behaving like a bunch of teachers.

"The new ones will be experts in their own fields. Some of them will be men!"

A chorus of Ooooh's. Suzanne and Pansy brightened visibly, I noticed.

"Your new timetable will be published tomorrow, although it will be a few weeks before we get into top gear. You will see unfamiliar subjects, like applied contraception, tassel control, lap-dancing, male masturbation techniques and fetish management. If any of these terms are difficult for you to understand, speak to Miss Gruntworthy. And if any of you are dissatisfied with the size of your breasts, remember, St Cat's is the home of Natural Breast Enlargement. Thank you girls, good luck and bon appetit!"

As we turned and marched out of the restaurant, applause welled up and echoed around our heads. Smegs and I turned and smiled, waving our thanks. Moggie was still trying to get her panties back on.


**********

"That went off all right," said Smegs. "We'll be able to start interviews next week. Let's get on the phone to all these names we've got."

"I've put my heel through the crotch of these panties," said Moggie. "They were brand new, too."

"Don't throw them away," cautioned Smegs. "They're running a special line in the pantie factory. Apparently some customers have requested holey crotches as well as fluid contamination."

"What on earth for?" I said.

Smegs just looked at me in that pitying way that always makes me feel so inadequate.

"If you need to ask, you'd be better off not knowing," she said.





Chapter 8:- Interviews


"Who have we got today, then?" I asked Smegs. We had been interviewing for three days, with mixed success. Half of the applicants were totally unsuitable: they seemed to think we wanted school teachers. I can't think where they got that idea.

She consulted her list. "Two this morning, two in the afternoon. And one this evening. First one's a man, used to be in a TV soap, written out after a disagreement over political bias ..."

"Sounds okay to me ..."

"Then there's a woman, bisexual, tap-dancing, soprano, plays keyboard instruments, IQ of 148, hairdressing, computer skills, tennis, squash, swimming, karate, dog-training, Honours Degree in Lesbian Studies at ... can't read her writing, some University or other, sent a Polaroid ..."

"What are her tits like?" I reached out for the picture. "Hmm, not much up top."

"No, but she's a good all-rounder apart from that."

"We won't write her off just like that, if she's any good, we can always give her some tits. Who've we got this afternoon?"

"Donna Dumbo. The American one. Stripper, exotic dancing, three XXX-rated videos, interests are cake-baking, tapestry, cat pedicure and fucking, not necessarily in that order. Sounds like a nice girl. You've seen her tits."

"Yeah, marginal, but she's pretty enough. Who does that leave? The English girl with the big ones?"

"Belinda Balloons. She's coming over from Salisbury, been entertaining the Army."

"What, all of it?"

"Doesn't say. Appearances in the Sunday Screw, Daily Shag, several video productions including 'Mammoth Melons at Montague Manor,' seen that one, anybody?"

"Is that the one where the Lord of the Manor wants to interview a new maid?"

"And she meets his daughters?"

"And the head gardener?"

"And his dog?"

"German Shepherd?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, no, I haven't seen it, then. The one I saw had a GSD in it."

"Not a Staffordshire Bull?"

"No, that was Megaboob Mansion. Where she sucks off that pony ..."

They both stared at me in silence as if I was some sort of pervert.

"The last one's a bloke. This evening, it is. His name's Pym. Oldish bloke, but he seems to have an excellent background in breast fetishism."

"Could be useful. Where have I heard that name before?"


**********

"I don't think you should have asked him for his autograph, Shan, it gives the wrong impression," Smegs said to me sternly. "Even if he used to be in Jubilee Street."

"But he's so dishy. And just like he is on the box. Really nice. I hated that wife of his, the shitty little cow, no wonder her killed her and went to jail. I'd have gone to ..."

"Chauntaille!" Megan used my full name. "It's a play. He's an actor. He's not married, at least, not to a woman. He didn't kill anyone, and he's not in jail. He came for an interview. Moggie, what did you think?"

"He wasn't interested when I flashed my tits at him on the way out," she said doubtfully.

"Moggie, he's an ACTOR!"

"So was that one last week, and he gave me the best fuck I've had for simply days. Of course, I had to fake an orgasm."

"I bet he did, too. They're very good at it, actors. So, not him, then?"

We gave him the thumbs down, regretfully in my case.

"There'll be plenty more men, Shan, don't worry," she said softly. "If you're all ready, then, we'll see the next one? The know-it-all bull-dyke bitch. Right, remember not to make a judgement until we've seen the lezzie cow."


**********

Donna Dumbo fell asleep during the interview. She sort of keeled over in her chair and started snoring. One of her tits plopped out of her bra and fell on the desk with a solid-sounding clunk.

"That sounded a bit strange," said Moggie.

"Silicone," said Smegs. "Grab a tape measure while she's asleep. If she's 120 inches, I'm Shakespeare's sister."

Moggie helped me with the tape. "She weighs a ton, considering her waist's only twenty inches," she said. We wrestled with her body briefly, then Smegs came over and pulled the woman to her feet by the scruff of her neck.

"Quick, do her while I hold her up," she panted.

"There we are, 46-29-38! I checked them twice," I said.

"Can't we get her for giving a false description under the Trades Descriptions Act?" Moggie was tapping on the side of one of Donna's tits with her fist. It made a dull thump, and it quivered a bit.

"No, she'll only blame her agent and say she has no idea what her own measurements are. Isn't it time we woke her up?"

It took three glasses of water before she stirred. She looked down at the water pouring into her cleavage. "Shee-it, what happened?" she said.

Smegs explained. "You fell asleep. Must be jet-lag. It's okay, we carried on the interview without you. Have you any questions you'd like to ask us?"

"What would you like me to ask? Usually they ask *me* all the questions."

"Oh, all right then. Do you ever come while you're on stage?"

Donna perked up. "Gee, what can I say? I ain't s'posed to admit that. In some states, if you achieve an organism, it's against the statues."

"Really?"

"But since it's just us and your readers, yes, I do!"

"Do you squirt when you come?"

"Hey, how did I KNOW you were going to ask that one? Wow! Ten feet sometimes. What's that in meters?"

"Never mind," said Smegs, "and your breasts, how sensitive are they, can you reach an orgasm just from having your nipples sucked?"

"Ooooh yes, they are SO sensitive!"

Moggie stopped what she was doing. She had been kneeling beside Donna's chair chewing the nipple of the breast which had fallen out of her bra some time ago. She stopped, and wiped the end of it with her sleeve. Donna gave no sign of having noticed.

"And have you always had big breasts, Donna?"

"Since I was thirteen, when I wore a Double-D. The boys were all scared of me, so I ..."

"... used to go with older men, until ..." I continued.

"... I lost my cherry to the school janitor ..." added Moggie.

"... behind the gymnasium ..." said Smegs.

"... and I said to him, was that IT, I waited sixteen years for that?"

We all four of us finished together in unison. Well, not quite in unison, Donna's version said she was eighteen, but she had to comply with the laws of her own enlightened country.

"One more question, Donna, is Donna Dumbo your real name?"

She dissolved in giggles. "Oh you're so cute, you British. Of course not. It's Geraldine. But my agent thought Geraldine Dumbo sounded schlocky. Whatever that means."

Smegs looked at us both. "Thank you, Donna, I have no further questions at this time."

Smegs has been watching too many courtroom dramas, I thought, as Moggie and I carried Miss Dumbo out. She'd fallen asleep again.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Perfect," we said.


**********

Belinda Balloons came from Luton. For those readers who are ignorant of British Geography, so are girls who come from Luton.

"Are those things all your own?" asked Moggie, her mouth watering.

Belinda took a deep breath and wiggled her bottom into her chair. Through her knitted jersey dress, she cupped one stupendously large breast in two tiny hands and hefted it upwards. It made a curiously hollow squeaking sound.

"All mine, yeah!" She shifted her chewing gum to the other cheek and smiled blankly around at us without missing a single chew.

"And are they real?"

"'Pends what you mean by real. No silicone, no nuffin. Just good old genuine rubber. Dunlop rubber," she added proudly.

"You mean, you wear rubber breasts? How big are your own?"

"These are me own, I paid wiv me Access card ..."

"No, Belinda, watch my lips. How big are your real tits?"

"Oh, me tits? I fought you meant me breasts. Oooh, they're about a 32AA."

"I see. If you came here," said Moggie, "you might have to give up wearing rubber breasts and have something more realistic."

"These are realistic enough. It's only in me videos, when I go in the shower, the water sounds like someone pissin' on a beachball. And they crinkle a bit in the cleavage, but I always wear this big gold chain necklace ..."

"No, we would have to grow you some real tits. What would you think about that, Belinda?"

"You can't have real ones this size. That's the 'ole point," she explained patiently.

Smegs nodded to me and I stood up behind the desk.

"Cor, you got a pair as well," said Belinda, grabbing at my nipple.

"Ouch, you bastard!" I yelped.

"Hey, you FELT it! Are they your real ones? Fucking hell!"


**********

"My nipple is still sore from where that stupid cow grabbed me," I complained.

"Shan, you've done nothing but moan all day. For the last time, are we all agreed. Belinda Balloons, yes, but she's got to have the boob treatment?"

"Right!"

"Objection!"

"Yes, Shan, what is it this time?"

"I'm a bit worried about the boob treatment. We all know what it is capable of doing. I vote that we don't use it on anyone, ANYONE, unless all three of us are in full agreement. It's got to be unanimous or there's no deal."

"No enhancement without agreement, is that what you're saying?"

"If you must translate everything into sound-bites, Megan, yes!"

"Agreed, Moggie?"

"I suppose so," she sighed. I think she was having second thoughts about her reduction operation.

"Right then! Tea-time, then there's just one more to see.


**********

He does look rather James Bond, I thought. A little ancient for me, but he was probably a bit tasty when he was younger. And he's never taken his eyes off my tits from the moment he came in the door. What's his name? Roger Pym. It does sound familiar, but I can't remember where I've heard it before.

"... thank you, my dear ..." he was saying. Smegs looked as if her knees were melting. Mr Pym was gazing into her eyes. Moggie was making little twitchy movements, trying to get him to look at her for a change.

"And you are an expert on breasts, female breasts?" Smegs burbled.

"Oh, yes, m'dear. Yours, for instance, hmm, sixty inches?"

Smegs blushed. She actually blushed. "Erm, yes, more or less, sixty, yes."

"And yours!" He turned to me. I was scrunched down in my chair trying to look small and insignificant. "Difficult to tell with you sitting down, but, oh, a hundred and twenty?"

My turn to blush. "Oh! Well, yes, that's right. Ten feet exactly!"

He glanced at Moggie, then turned back to Smegs, leaving Moggie open-mouthed and dribbling. "Any further questions on breasts? Or ... other parts?"

My other parts chose that moment to overflow. A low moan escaped, and I changed it into a cough, which had an unfortunate effect down below. I was sitting in a puddle. I hated to think what it was.

"I am sixty-six, but highly active. I have no intention of retiring for a few years yet. I am ... sexually active. With my wife as well as my mistress. I can, of course, last much longer than younger men! I have made extensive studies of the larger female breast and its implications. My mother and my wife had huge breasts, as have my daughter and granddaughters. Even my great granddaughters! And my personal assistant is also very well endowed."

What was the matter with us. While Moggie squirmed around trying to get him to look her way, even for a second, Smegs and I were sitting with bright red faces and drenched knickers, mumbling incoherently and fingering ourselves intimately beneath the desk, while this old fogey talked about the fact that he no longer suffered from premature ejaculation.

"I have never seen such a display of craven girlishness," said Moggie, sternly, after Mr Pym had gone. "Giggling and coming in your pants just because some old geezer takes a look at your tits! And you've gone and offered him a job as a breast enlargement consultant!"

She shook her head sadly. "What in shit's name does a girl's school need with a breast enlargement consultant? Two days a week. At least he said he didn't want to be paid! Honestly, though, Megan, I credited you with more sense. And you, Chauntaille!"

We made no reply. We sat looking down at ourselves in deepest shame. Our bottoms were cold and wet. At least, mine certainly was. I couldn't speak for Megan's, and for once, I was in no mood to try and find out.

"Where's he gone," Smegs mumbled. "Perhaps we can call him back and say we made a mistake."

"Too late for that," said Moggie. "When I escorted him outside to the car park, he said his maid was waiting for him in his Range Rover. She drives him everywhere, apparently. It's his eyesight, he said, although I couldn't see a lot wrong with it. But they'll be miles away by now. They're going back to Herefordshire tonight."

I had just remembered where I had heard the name Roger Pym.





Chapter 9:- Once A Knight


"I'm going to have to confront this Pym bloke, Smegs. It will come out anyway once his great granddaughters see him."

"Why didn't he recognise you if you had dinner with him?"

"He wasn't there. He sent a message to say he'd been detained. Apparently he fucks his maid, Clarrie."

"Has she got big tits, too?"

"Not as big as yours, even, but she's a raving nympho. She's been having the housekeeper's son ten times a night as well as Sir Roger!"

"Sir Roger! Gosh, I'm impressed. And I wish you people wouldn't keep saying 'even' when you're talking about my tits. They *are* five feet round, remember."

"Well, he's here tomorrow, I'm going to beard him in his den."

And I did. He was in the staff room, studying some photographs. I couldn't see what they were of. He looked up and leered at me as I came in. "Ah, my dear Chauntaille. You're looking good enough to eat this morning." He'd have to go hungry, I decided. Don't look him in the eye, Shan, I told myself, or you will be destroyed. I looked away.

"Does Trudy know you're working two days a week at St Cat's, Sir Roger?"

"Whaa...?" Got him on the back foot at last, whatever that means.

"Your wife, Trudy. Is she aware of your connection with St Cat's?"

He sighed, and decided to make a clean breast of it. "Not exactly, it is not really a matter of concern to her. Purely business, you understand. Not something for my wife to bother herself with."

"But Clarrie knows, she drives you down here, doesn't she? Isn't she likely to say where she goes?"

"Clarrie is the very soul of discretion, I can assure you of that. She would never divulge commercial secrets."

"What about the girls? Your great granddaughters? They are bound to see you."

"Not necessarily, my business would normally be with the older girls."

I bet it will, I bet it will!

"And I am sure you wouldn't find it necessary to mention it to the little girls yourself, Chauntaille. What a lovely and unusual name that is, too! Chauntaille. French?"

Was that an invitation, I wondered.

"Probably," I said. Don't look at him, Shan.

"Your breasts fascinate me. They are truly the largest I have ever seen. I would like to study them more fully, at close quarters. Perhaps we could arrange a meeting, somewhere more private...?"

I would say this for Sir Roger, he didn't beat about the bush. I happened to glance down at him. He was looking at my nipples which were becoming erect. Perhaps it was the temperature in the staff room. He looked up at me. "Remarkable. Truly unique!" he purred.

"Oh, really? Oh, well, if you say so, Sir Roger." I couldn't believe I had just said that.

"Sit down, Chauntaille, and look at these photos. You will find them interesting, I am sure."

Oh, my God, here we go. I sat down, and the pictures swam before my eyes. They showed women with extremely large breasts. None as big as mine, of course.

"Not as big as yours, of course, Chauntaille. Few are. Possibly none in the world."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that ..."

"I might ..."

And he was unfastening the buttons of my blouse, not hesitantly, in quite a matter-of-fact way. I watched his fingers, fascinated like one of those snakes with a mongoose. Or is it the other way round? I'm getting wet again, I thought. I am rarely mistaken about that. I am sitting in a puddle again, I thought. Right again, Shan. I peered down into my cleavage. So did Sir Roger. The cups of the Ultra-Boomer were down there somewhere. I felt the velcro creak as it took the strain. Shit, as if I *needed* to be any bigger right now!

"Is this what 'bearding in his den' means, Shan?" Saved by the bell. Smegs, in the nick of time.

"Megan, my dear. Such a pleasure. As you see, Chauntaille has been showing me her delightful breasts. Truly a wonder of nature."

"Not exactly nature, Sir Roger," she said.

Oh no, don't try and explain it all now, Smegs.

But she did. Sir Roger listened intently, asking questions from time to time. The whole story came out. The accident in the lab, the surges of growth, the various batches of boob-spray. The story of the dairies, the lactating juniors, the rampant horniness and finally my massive development in the last two years. At last, the story was complete, and we waited silently for Sir Roger's comments.

Why, I found myself wondering, were both Smegs and myself completely naked? I rather imagine Smegs was wondering the same thing. Why indeed, was I lying spreadeagled across the staff room table with both my nipples in my mouth, while Sir Roger was buried up to his thick hilt in my glistening cooze? Why had Smegs done nothing to prevent this happening, instead of wanking herself silly on the staff room armchair? Still, no point in worrying about these things. There were more orgasms to be enjoyed.

I have to confess, I faked the eleventh and the seventeenth.


**********

"We can't let him into the school," I said, "he'll cause havoc."

"He certainly caused havoc with you, anyway." Smegs sounded just a little jealous.

"Hey, what is all this?" Moggie felt she was missing out. "What's he been up to, your Sir Roger ?"

"He's not my Sir Roger, he's Gruntworthy's. She went to confront him about having a job here and to ask if his wife knew about it. She ended up getting screwed rotten." I felt myself going bright red, not so much in shame this time, just at the memory of the scene in the staff room.

"Is this true, Chauntaille? Well?"

"Well what?"

"What's he like in bed?"

"We didn't go to bed. There wasn't time. We did it on the staff room table. To tell the truth, I don't remember much of it, so it can't have been that memorable a performance."

"Huh!" Smegs was scornful. "Memorable or not, Ms Alzheimer, you were making enough noise about it. Screaming the school down. That's why I stuffed your nipples in your mouth, to shut you up."

"*You* did that?"

"Well YOU certainly couldn't. It took me all my strength. YOU couldn't even REACH your nipples!" This was all getting unpleasantly personal.

Moggie summed up the story so far. "You were on the staff room table ..."

"Naked," insisted Smegs.

"... naked, getting rodgered by Sir Roger, and making so much noise that your bestest friend had to stuff both your nipples in your mouth to avoid rousing the whole school? And you say you can't remember how good it was?"

"I had to fake a couple of orgasms ..."

"So what," snorted Smegs.

"The eleventh and the seventeenth, actually."

That shut them up.

"But he was no more than a mediocre fuck, by MY standards. And at least, it was ME he chose. I wasn't the one spreadeagled in an armchair with six fingers up my splotch!"

"Megan!" Moggie was doing her Lady Bracknell voice. "Is this true? You had six fingers up your ... splotch?"

"What's a splotch, for Chrissakes?" said Smegs, exasperated.

"I dunno, I just made it up."

"But you were watching them, and masturbating, Megan."

"Yes, Miss."

"You, a Deputy Headmistress of St Cat's, sat and played with yourself while your bestest friend was being serviced on the staff room table by a peer of the realm. A knight, or whatever he is."

"Only once a knight, apparently," I reminded her.

"But I agree, Chauntaille. He will cause havoc amongst the girls. He will have to be stopped. Or diverted. But why did he fuck Chauntaille, rather than you, Megan?"

The cheeky cow. "Perhaps it was because my tits are three times the size of hers. Mine are almost immeasurably more massive, gargantuan and truly immense," I suggested with all due modesty.

"You have put your finger on it as usual, Chauntaille." I jerked my hand away quickly. "You have stumbled on the true reason for Sir Roger's apparent infatuation. The bigger the breasts, the more the attraction. But you have it the wrong way round! It is not Sir Roger who is attracted to *you*. My theory is that the bigger your breasts are, the more likely you are to fall into Sir Roger's clutches. You, Chauntaille, were three times more likely to throw youself at Sir Roger than Megan. QED."

We were silenced by the brilliance of Moggie's scientific reasoning.

"If that's the case, the juniors will be safe from his clutches, but the Lower Sixth will be creaming themselves over him," said Smegs.

"Quite right. Chauntaille, allow me to delegate this task to you. You will carry out a controlled experiment. Introduce Sir Roger to girls with no breasts at all. Then introduce him to a group of girls with larger ones. Finally, introduce him to the Lower Sixth. Note the results."

"It could be dangerous, Miss ..."

"It could be dangerous, Chauntaille, but you are the man for the job. Be off with you. Do what you have to do and report to me ... to us ... by Friday. Now go and get dressed, you'll catch your death of cold."


**********


I drew up my plan of action. Sir Roger would be here on Thursday. I would take him firstly, to see the First Form. They had no breasts at all, most of them. They would not be attracted to Sir Roger at all. There were, in fact, two of them who did have breasts, excessively so, but they were his great granddaughters, so would not be attracted to him anyway. A neat solution.

Next, I would take him to the Fourth Form. These were a typical group of English fourteen-year-old private schoolgirls: stuck-up little tarts who had at least started to develop something under their blouses. They would present a spread of breast sizes which would, with any luck, show different degrees of attraction to Sir Roger. These I would note carefully.

Finally, I would present him to the Lower Sixth. These girls were the remnants of the old Junior ex-Drama Group, and the Junior IT Studies Group, now grown up young ladies with such immense breasts that, if Moggie's theory held water, would fling themselves at Sir Roger with joyous abandon. None of the girls were lactating, fortunately. The best milkers were now working at Fillamore Deepleigh for Baps's Organic Girl Dairies, the others had dried up.

I checked the batteries in my lapdog computer and put on my mirrored dark glasses. These would protect me from Sir Roger, provided I didn't look at him too hard. Now I knew what to expect, I felt able to ward him off. If push came to shove, I could always hang garlic and asafoetida grass round my neck and sprinkle holy water on him.

First things first. I would have to warn Sir Roger's great granddaughters.


**********

"Suzanne, Pansy, a moment, please!"

I stopped the girls as they rushed out of the lab to get to the restaurant. They fretted and hopped anxiously from one foot to the other as their classmates disappeared out of the door.

"I won't keep you long, and there will be plenty of food left for you." They obviously didn't believe me.

"Now then, you know your great grandfather, Sir Roger?"

"He's been here, hasn't he?" said Suzanne, "'Toria said she'd seen him!"

"Well, yes, she did. He's been here. For an interview."

"An interview," said Pansy, "like on television?"

"Sort of. In fact, he's going to work here two days each week."

"Oh, wheeeee!" Pansy sounded excited.

"Oh, you like him a lot, then?" I said, encouragingly.

"Oh, he's all right," said Pansy with a shrug.

Suzanne shuddered, which did interesting things to the contents of her blouse. She screwed up her nose. "He gives me the creeps," she said.

"Oh, why?"

"I dunno. But when I see him, it makes me want to try and sit on his face, and that's rude, 'cos he's my great granddad."

"Yeah, insects do it," said Pansy.

"Insects?" I asked. This conversation was taking a strange turn, as most of my conversations with these girls tended to do. "Anyway, I just thought I'd warn you, in case it came as a shock. Off you go, then. You still pregnant, Pansy?"

"Oooh, yes, Miss!"

"She's missed six more periods these last two weeks," said Suzanne, as they collided in the doorway. Their breasts squeezed together as they went through at the same time. By the time they were in the Fifth Form, they'd never even get through that door one at a time, let alone two!.





Part IV





Chapter 10:- Sir Roger's Rude Awakening


It was going to be a busy day. Sir Roger was here, and it was my task to take him around the school, meeting three representative groups of girls with different sized breasts. I had some misgivings about it. The plan had seemed fine at first. In theory, the bigger a girl's breasts, the more she was irrationally drawn to Sir Roger. When I had met him, fatefully, in the staff room, he had comprehensively screwed me on the table, while Smegs, so much less well-endowed, was reduced to frenzied wanking. (The best sort, I always think.)

I checked my state of readiness. Suitably chaste dress of rough grey wool. Hessian would have been better, perhaps, but too scratchy. High neck showing no more than a foot or so of cleavage. Severe hairstyle. Lapdog fully charged. "Ah, good morning, Sir Roger!"

"Chauntaille! Ah, my sweetness. As voluptuous as I remembered. Your immensity has never been far from my thoughts."

Oh, shit. I was soaked already. This wasn't going to work! We should have got Fanny Albatross to do this job. I put on the reflective sunglasses. That was better. My panties hadn't dried out yet, but at least I felt slightly safer.

"Miss Thunderbolt has explained our little project to me."

"She HAS?"

"We will be meeting three groups of children so that I may assess their relative development as a basis for my studies. I am looking forward to the experiment. Especially to working closely with you, my dear. Very closely!"

The countermeasures were working, just. The dark glasses were holding him at bay, but it was going to be a close thing. We set off in the direction of the lab, and I briefed him on the way.

"The first group we are going to see are the First Formers, my little girls. We will see them in the science lab. They will shortly be working on breast enhancement techniques, but for the time being, they are on basic chemistry; learning how to boil water. Your younger great granddaughters are in this class, of course."

"I know, never mind. Treat them exactly as normal girls." I opened the door and we went in. The girls were being supervised by the disco lad, who sat at the desk in abject boredom, his earphones leaking high frequency sounds. The girls looked up indifferently at Sir Roger before returning to their experiments.

"They seem to be concentrating beautifully on their work, Chauntaille," Sir Roger whispered, looking round at the girls' bent heads. Only Pansy and Suzanne looked up, seeming a little agitated. Pansy was frowning and cupping her nipples. Suzanne had a hand up her skirt and a panic-stricken expression on her face. They hopped up and down. The other girls in the class glanced up at them curiously. We went over to them.

"Are you all right, Suzanne?" I asked her quietly. Sir Roger stood beside me, smiling encouragingly at his vast-meloned great granddaughter.

"It's nothing, Miss. I just feel uncomfortable. Like I told you, Miss, yesterday. You remember?"

"I remember. If you've seen enough, Sir Roger, we could move on to the Fourth Form. This class was really only a control?"

"Yes, yes. Of course. He seemed to tear his eyes away from Suzanne's extravagant bosom with an effort. The girl was almost frothing. I steered Sir Roger in the direction of the door, thanked the class and marched him out into the corridor. Phew! Poor Suzanne! I peered back through the glass door. The poor child was perched on her lab stool, leaning back on the bench with her bosom quivering above her heaving chest. Her cousin was fanning her face with her notepad.


**********

"The next lot are the Fourth Form," I said, guiding him by the elbow. He seemed a little dazed, as if confused by conflicting emotions. "Fourteen, mostly. The usual mix! They're doing ... I consulted the lapdog ... modern dance. The teacher is from America, a Miss Dumbo."

"Dumbo? Not Donna Dumbo?"

"That's her name, yes. You know her?"

"I know of her, yes. A fine specimen of young womanhood. 120-20-34, I believe she is billed as. Perhaps exaggeratedly, but splendid breasts, nevertheless...!"

I opened the door. A strange scene met our eyes. Obviously, the class was well advanced. Twenty girls, in sweaty leotards, lay on their backs on the floor. Miss Dumbo lay at the front of the class.

"Now, HUP!" she shouted, flinging her legs up and clasping them behind her neck. The difference between the girls and Miss Dumbo was that the teacher was naked. Fully naked, I observed. Well you could hardly miss it. Her nether regions were bald as a badger. Or a coot. I gazed at them for a while.

"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" she yelled at the girls, scrambling to her feet and striding between the bodies, prodding here and there to correct their positions. "Shawnella, you're so inflexible, get those legs BACK! Roxanne, clasp those ankles, clench, clench! Arantxa, you've split the crotch of your leotard again, I can see every tuft. Lose ten pounds immediately!"

I peered anxiously at Arantxa. She had indeed, and you could. I coughed and held myself back with an effort.

"Right, girls, rest, we gotta visitor." The girls grunted in chorus and sat up, panting.

"Ah, Miss Dumbo," purred Sir Roger, I have long been your greatest admirer!"

"Who's the old guy, Shan?" the teacher asked, rudely.

"This is Sir Roger Pym, Donna."

"Sheesh, he wants an autograph, he should call my agent," said Donna, turning away to her class. "Right, on your knees! Now bend backwards until your heads touch the floor ..."

Remarkable! Not a glimmer. Those things must be pure silicone. So, she'd been lying about being a Double-D in the seventh grade.

Sir Roger had turned his attention to the girls. Presented in this revealing pose, bent backwards with their chests thrust out, we could see the full menu from fried eggs to pineapples. Sir Roger bent to inspect one of the bigger girls, the Mediterranean Arantxa.

"Hold it, HOLD IT! Break it up, class! Shit, is he still here? Shan, you gonna sling this jerk outta here, or do I do it myself?"

Arantxa had sat upright, her big breasts bouncing into a bobbling mound in her lap. She was making mewing sounds. One or two of the other well-endowed girls were looking across at her and Sir Roger, and moaning softly. Fingers were exploring sweaty crotches. Other girls seemed indifferent. Some were picking their noses or squeezing spots.

"I warned you, asshole!" Sir Roger found himself being lifted bodily by his collar and the seat of his pants. Donna was certainly supremely fit. I joined him outside the classroom door. Already Arantxa and the bustier of her colleagues were undertaking the first of their two hundred punishment press-ups.

"I honestly thought her breasts were real. I must be slipping," Sir Roger marvelled.

"She's certainly a strong girl," I said.

"You can say that again," he said, but I didn't.


**********

"Right then. The Lower Sixth. I must warn you, Sir Roger, these girls are unusual. Every one of them has been subjected to a powerful breast-enlarging chemical. You will see, they are EXTREMELY well-developed. Right now they are doing Solo Video Techniques with our Miss Balloons."

"Belinda Balloons?"

"That's her," I sighed, "another of your favourites?"

"I have all her films. 'Belinda Does Hardcore,'" he sighed. I wasn't familiar with this work, but assumed it wasn't one of her solo oevres. "She seduces this chappie, and takes him to her room. Her tits, honestly, even in a bra they hang down to her pussy!"

Not much of a bra, then, I thought. I'll introduce her to Mrs Boothroyd sometime. Perhaps after she has the treatment: no point in supporting those Dunlop blimps, she can't even feel them.

"Okay, this is the big one," I said, shaking Sir Roger by the hand, "Good luck, everyone!"

The Lower Sixth Formers were lying on their backs. Their clothes were scattered around on the floor. Gigantic, bloated breasts wobbled and flopped wherever you looked. It was a disturbing spectacle. Syrupy soft rock from a small combo drifted sleazily from the loudspeakers. Belinda's corncrake voice rose above it.

"Right, hold yer lips apart wiv yer left hands. No, yer LEFT, Felicity, now, get one finger of yer uvver 'and, and slip it in yer mouth. Yer MOUTH, Astrud, now make it wet, yeah, great, now into your puss wiv it. Up and down, up and down, up and down, now anuvver finger, make it two more ..."

A scream rang out.

"STOP!!! 'Oo's that coming?" Belinda screamed. "You can't fuckin' come till I tell yer. Start again!"

The girls stopped what they were doing, reluctantly in one or two cases, and sat up, grinning at each other and flicking their hair out of their eyes. The atmosphere in the room was stuffy.

"Take five, girls," called Belinda. She lumbered over to us, holding her breasts with both hands. "Hi!" she said to Sir Roger, in a friendly manner.

"Miss Balloons, at last!" he breathed.

"Sorry to keep you waitin', they was getting close to the climax."

"No, not at all. I have been waiting years for the pleasure."

Belinda looked him up and down. I shouldn't 'old yer breff, mate, grab it while yer still can, I reckon."

"I might just hold you to that, my dear," he smarmed. Shit, he was an oily bastard.

"Forty years ago, maybe, mate. Still, I s'pose the old right hand still works, yeah?"

I was beginning to feel sorry for the old boy all of a sudden. With an effort, I looked elsewhere rather than at his crestfallen face. I looked round the room. A number of the girls were taking notice of Sir Roger. All of them, in fact. They were primping their hair, inspecting their nipples, plumping up their breasts like cushions. Some of the less-endowed ones, those with less than ... oh ... about six feet of bust, were sighing in resignation and playing with their fortuitously already moistened pubic regions.

The others, the majority, began to rise to their feet and advance on Sir Roger. He looked like a child in a toy factory. He didn't know which one to grope first.

"How old are these?" he grated, through clenched teeth.

"It's all right, legally, they're all over sixteen, but you are in loco parentis ..."

Sir Roger licked his lips and made his selection. So did she. The largest pair of breasts in the class was edging forward, followed at a substantial distance by Rotunda Ampleforth, a plump-featured girl with a bottom which bordered on the gigantic. Her stomach overhung her crotch to an extent, which must have made this particular subject a difficult one for her. No doubt, she would find a market for her charms, on the basis that it takes all sorts to make a world. In fact, Rotunda would be classified as obese, if it wasn't for her breasts, which must have been almost as big as mine. Ridiculously large, in fact.

Sir Roger had eyes only for Rotunda. They moved towards each in slow motion, spreading their arms in embrace. All that prevented the consummation of their union was that Belinda grabbed Sir Roger by the back of his jacket, leaving him straining like a dog on a leash. Meanwhile, Rotunda was seized and held by her classmates. They weren't trying to stop sexual intercourse taking place, they just wanted it to take place with them, rather than with anyone else.

I helped Belinda drag Sir Roger out, his heels drumming along the floor. We just made it. As the door closed after us, fifteen incredibly-endowed and stark bollock-naked young ladies slammed against it in an avalanche of yielding breasts. Nipples were flattened against the glass, a strangely arousing sight.

"Yowee!!! Did you see the tits on those kids?" Sir Roger howled, scrabbling to get back. We yanked him round the corner to the water cooler. Belinda splashed a cup of icy water on his head. He looked around, blinking, as if emerging from a dream. A wet dream. "Thank you, Belinda, I'll be all right now." And he stood up to his full five feet four, straightening his tie and clearing his throat.

Belinda shook her head. "Stupid old bugger," she muttered to me, and set off back to her wanking-class, hanging on to her twin pontoons for dear life.

Sir Roger came along with me. Back to the staff room. He made a few token efforts to get back to the bosom of the Lower Sixth, but I restrained him with a half-Nelson. At the last moment, I decided not to take him to the staff room, the scene of our seduction. I frog-marched him straight to the car park, and up to his Range Rover. I tossed him into the back seat like a rag doll.

Clarrie was at the wheel, sipping coffee, reading a smutty book and playing with herself. It showed remarkable powers of concentration. The girl had hidden depths. She leapt out of the driver's seat as she heard the car door open, revealing some of her depths that weren't hidden. The wench was wearing the shortest skirt I had ever seen in my life. From belt to hem, it was no more than six inches deep. As she stood in the car park, her furry bush was fully revealed. Fascinating, I thought, I wished I had a spare hour or two, I could investigate that lot a little more closely. Another time, perhaps!

"Take him home, Clarrie, he's had enough excitement for today," I told her.

"Fuckin' hell, I hope not!" said Clarrie, with deep feeling.





Chapter 11:- Guinea Pig Girl


"There we are, then," I said, "we daren't let him anywhere near anything with tits. Even his great granddaughters started getting the hots for him, some of the bigger Fourth Formers are nearly as big as young Suzanne, and they started chewing the curtains, and the Lower Sixth are still frothing. I passed their room on my way back from the car park and they were still trying to get out of the door."

Moggie looked pleased with the success of her diagnosis. Or was it a prognosis? Whatever, she looked pleased with herself. "Even with you around, Chauntaille, he still had this effect on the girls?"

"Yes, in theory, with me being the biggest, he should still have laid me down and given me a good fucking, but I was dressed like this!"

"Yes," said Smegs, "you do look fairly off-putting, dear."

Oh, har har.

"We'll, I'm more or less convinced," said Moggie. "We need a diversion. What's this Clarrie of his like? The other day, I saw her in the Range Rover, but she didn't get out. How does she dress, for instance?"

"In a word, unwillingly," I suggested. "She's rather abandoned, sexually-speaking."

"So, she doesn't dress like you are, hessian and sunglasses. She looks more ... available?"

"Oh, she's available all right. I threw Sir Roger in the car and she got out. Her skirt was up to here. You could see her armpits. Furry, they were, too."

"What stopped you, then, Shan-tail?" sneered Smegs.

"It wasn't easy, I can tell you," I told her. "I fancied giving her a good licking-out, but I had to get back here and report to you."

Moggie looked pained. "Really, you two. Try to curb your lust. Now listen. I need your agreement, because we said we wouldn't enlarge anybody unless we had a concensus. I suggest we grow Clarrie. Dramatically. She's going to have to be substantially bigger than you, Chauntaille. What do you think?"

Smegs smirked. "If it would cut Gruntworthy down to size, fine by me!"

"If it would stop Sir Roger ravishing the entire school, I'd be happy with it too."

"Right. Do we have any boob-juice in stock?"

Smegs consulted the computer. "Only some out-dated stock in the Dr Valentine product range. But I think we need something stronger. Full strength. Clarrie needs to grow very big in a very short time. Can the First Formers mix some up for us?"

"This afternoon," I said. "Then we could test it out, and use it on Clarrie next Tuesday. Perfect!"

"Perfect, apart from the testing," said Moggie. "What are you going to test it on? White mice?"

"Aaah, pick a Fourth Former, they're dispensable."

"Yeah, s'pose so," said Moggie. "I'd thought about having some tits myself again, but I'm not about to become a guinea pig for your First Form chemists, Chauntaille. Later, perhaps. Okay, Shan, go for it, get them girls mixing!"


**********

The First Formers were excited. Anything would be better than boiling water for another whole afternoon. The girls set to with a will, measuring and weighing the ingredients.

"We're mixing a large quantity, as it is easier to be accurate," I told them as two of them wielded a huge wooden paddle in the three hundred gallon tank.

"What do we do with the rest of it, Miss?" asked Pansy.

"We neutralise it, then we dispose of it. You know that the constituents are all organic and harmless in isolation. Oddly enough, once it's been neutralised, it becomes an excellent organic fertiliser. The farmers pay good money for it. So carry on mixing, girls. When it's done, transfer 250 millilitres to a spray bottle and label it as I have told you. That will be enough for our guinea pig girl. If it works satisfactorily, we will bottle some more for use next Tuesday. I'll leave you with Darren now. Carry on!"

They carried on happily, splashing away in their big rubber overalls and face masks. Darren slouched at the desk and promptly fell asleep.

It was an extra loud splash that woke him up.

It wasn't Suzanne's fault. She told me later.

And it wasn't Pansy's fault either. They had helped little Kirstie out of her clothes when something went down the back of her neck. Apparently it was a laboratory mouse, which one of the other girls had released from its cage. Nobody was sure how it got down Kirstie's neck, but one minute she was stirring away, engrossed, the next minute she was leaping around, screaming.

Pansy and Suzanne grabbed her and tore her overall off, then her blouse and skirt.

"Hold still, Curse!" said Suzanne. "And shhhh! It's here, I can see its head poking over the top of your knickers."

Silence fell as Suzanne crept up on the poor mouse, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her little mouth. Kirstie stood transfixed and tearful as the busty girl persuaded the mouse out of her bum-cleavage. It didn't want to come out; it was lovely and warm in there, if a little pungent, but Suzanne suddenly grabbed it with a cry of triumph. "Got him!"

The mouse wriggled, the way mice do, and jumped straight into the top of Suzanne's blouse. As girls screamed and scattered, it shot straight down between the girl's pineapple-sized breasts, down through the gap at the bottom of her bra, and on southwards, past her waist. At last, sensing freedom, it dived to the floor.

Nineteen girls leaped on to stools and benches, squealing and holding up their skirts. One girl, Kirstie, with no skirt to hold up, gave a wail of terror and fled. The mouse gave chase, and Kirstie, looking over her shoulder, ran faster.

"Curse! Look out!" shouted Pansy.

Better, perhaps, if she had looked where she was going.

It was the extra loud splash that woke Darren up. Once awake, he moved with commendable urgency and hauled Kirstie's slippery little body out of the 300-gallon tank of boob-juice. He dumped her on the bench, where she dripped and bellowed in fright and indignation. Suzanne collected the mouse and put it safely back in its cage.

Meanwhile, the others kept carefully away from Kirstie, handing her rolls of paper towel to dry herself. Eventually, she was more or less dry.

"What is this shit?" asked Darren.

"Boob-juice," said Suzanne.

"Oh, not that stuff again," Darren groaned. He looked up at Kirstie, still standing on the desk. "Shit, it's started already!"

Indeed it had.

By the time Pansy came running to the office in panic to fetch me, it had worked a treat. 

"What's happened?" I asked as we panted along the corridor.

"It's Curse, she fell in the tank!"

"Curse?"

"Kirstie Wykehame-Arthurstone-Smythe," she elaborated. "That little skinny girl."

Not any more. Must have been a good batch, I realised, as Pansy and I burst into the lab. Kirstie was still on the bench, the other girls gazing upwards in a wondering circle about her. Darren looked panic-stricken in the background.

"Shit, Curse," shouted Pansy, "look at your tits!"

"I'm looking at them," screamed Kirstie Wykehame-Arthurstone-Smythe. And they were well worth looking at. Even as we watched, they were still slowly growing. Fat, bulging cones, capped with puffy areolae and tiny pink nipples, they steadily expanded. Already, they occupied the whole of her rib-cage, right down to the navel. Looking up at her, we saw them gradually settle under their increasing weight. They had reached her lower stomach when they finally stopped.

We all started breathing again. Someone helped Curse down off her bench, and she stood amongst us, where she overbalanced occasionally and lurched into one or other of the girls, who shoved her away rudely.

"Gerroff, you fat moo!"

"Don't come over here with those things!"

Darren had seen a few sights since he came to St Cat's, but this surpassed them all. "Fuck me!" he said. An attractive offer, at any other time, but I wasn't in the mood, and all the other girls were only First Formers. 

Suzanne looked at Curse in awe. She hadn't seen many girls bigger than her, and now here was one who had grown that big in ten minutes! "You can try one of my bras," she said kindly.

Curse burst into tears. I took her in my arms. "Come here, sweetheart," I said. "Darren, go to the office and fetch Megan. Tell her to bring a curtain or a tablecloth or something. Meanwhile, one of you girls, fill a spray bottle with this stuff. I think we can assume it works."


**********

It certainly did.

We sent for Mrs Boothroyd and asked her to bring Curse a Junior Boomer. We found her a blouse  and extended tie. Her original skirt fitted, of course. Apart from a tendency to fall over, she was none the worse for her experience.

"She's only a little bit bigger than you, Smegs," I said as gently as I could. "Only nine inches or so. You shouldn't be so jealous. It's not Curse's fault. It was the mouse."

"Fuck the mouse. Making little girls bigger than me is undermining my authority as Deputy Headmistress. It's just not good enough, Shan!"

I can't understand her sometimes.

"We could make YOU bigger," I suggested.

"Oh, yeah. And have Sir Roger coming on to me? Or into me. If you think I'm going around wrapped in sackcloth just to keep that horny old bastard away from my pubes, you've got another think coming, girl!"

"It was only a thought."

Well, don't even *think* about it, right?"


**********

"Right! Plan A." Moggie pulled a notepad to her and wrote a large number one on it.

"Operation Clarrie," I said. Smegs sniffed and looked away.

"How do we spray her?" said Moggie. "We need her breasts naked, if possible."

"They're usually almost naked anyway. She'll be unbuttoned down to her navel, playing with herself in the car."

"Does she play with herself the whole time?"asked Moggie.

"Oh, no, only while she's not fucking."

"That's a relief. I'd hate to think she was obsessed with sex. So, we persuade her out of the driver's seat, spray her tits ..."

"And step back smartly," I said. "If we do it as soon as Sir Roger's out of the car in the morning, they'll be up to full size by going home time. Or even earlier, with any luck."

"Do you need a hand?" Moggie asked, "or can you handle her on your own?"

"I think I can manage her single handed. It will avoid making her suspicious. I can come up and pretend to wash her windshield with the spray bottle, then when she gets out for a chat, I'll do her tits! Simple!"

"Good. We'll leave it to you."


**********

It went off like a charm.

I strolled out to the car park with my spray bottle, and approached the Range Rover. It was rocking gently from side to side on its suspension. Clarrie was obviously inside. She was, indeed. I held up the bottle and indicated that I wanted to clean her windows. She nodded, but carried on with what she was doing. Obviously she had unfinished business down between her thighs.

Eventually, she got out, although by then, I had cleaned all the glass, including the headlamps, and had started on the number plates. Clarrie stood next to me, very close. God, she smelled sexy! It was like the soiled pantie factory on a summer afternoon. She was wearing her short skirt again. Perhaps it had shrunk in the wash.

Playfully, I pretended to spray her breasts, three-quarters of which were in full view in the neckline of her unbuttoned shirt.

"What's that stuff?" she said.

"It makes your tits grow!" I said.

"Ooooh, yes, please," she said, almost ripping her shirt off, and offering them up to me. I nearly dived in head first, but remembered my task and gave a good spraying, left and right, top and bottom, and down between when she obligingly held them apart for me. "Oooh, it tingles," she giggled.

"Does it?" It must be strong, I thought. I gave her a squirt up the skirt, just for luck and she squealed for joy and grabbed me round the neck. "C'mere!" she purred. "I feel horny as shit!"

"Oh, all right, you've talked me into it, you smooth-talking fucker," I said, returning her friendly embrace with interest, and bundling her before me, I climbed into the back seat.

God knows what time it was, but all the windows were steamed up. There was a polite knock on the window. "Who's that?" Clarrie said, climbing off me with a sucking sound like an emptying bath. She rubbed away at the window. "It's Pansy. Wonder what she wants."

She opened the door, and Pansy peered in at us with fascination, as if she would have liked an invitation to join in. The atmosphere escaped into the car park, and the girl stepped back a pace or two. "Are you eating kippers in there?" she asked.

"You kids are obsessed with kippers," Clarrie yelled. "What did you want?"

"Clarrie, what's happened to your titties? They're enormous!" She was right about that. It was a good job it was a Range Rover and not anything smaller. Clarrie had passed me in size about an hour ago. She was now going to find driving an impossibility, unless she could steer from the back seat.

"They grew," she said, simplifying things a little. The explanation seemed to satisfy Pansy. Tits grew, everyone knew that.

"I have to see Miss Gruntworthy," she said. I sat up. Clarrie had already heaved her breasts out of the way and returned to slurping away at me.

"Speak up then," I shouted, "Clarrie's making rather a lot of noise."

"All right," yelled Pansy. "It's Curse. Miss Mountains said to see you if it wasn't too late. She's giving milk!"

"MILK?"

Clarrie disengaged with a grunt. "Milk?" she said.

"Gallons of it! She said, if it wasn't too late, I had to stop you spraying Clarrie, whatever that means."

Too late, of course. We both looked down at Clarrie's nipples, which were dribbling two streams of white.





Chapter 12:- Fluids


They had surrounded Curse with buckets and towels. She'd got it bad. Everything that was worst about boob-juice, Curse had got it.

Enormous breasts: she'd grown even more, and Mrs Boothroyd had been summoned for a second time in the day, this time for an Ultra-Boomer Mark XX-bis.

Milk: Curse had already filled several two gallon buckets. The disco lad had been called for and was just about keeping up with the flow, but was beginning to look bloated. Jeremy was installing the emergency milking apparatus in the First Form dormitory.

Finally, she was uncontrollably horny: she had ravished the disco lad's trousers several times, until someone went to a local sports outfitters and came back with a cricketer's protective box. It didn't stop her trying. And she grabbed at anyone who passed and tried to have casual sex with them, like an over-enthusiastic dog.

"Will it wear off, do you think?" I asked Smegs.

"She'll be back to normal in two or three weeks," she reassured me. "Apart from the ten-foot tits and the twenty gallon milk habit, she'll be right as ninepence!"

"Thank God for that," I said.

"How's Clarrie?" she asked.

"Difficult to say. I assume she's normally fairly over-sexed, but she's never let up for a second since I sprayed her. I feel like I've been Hoovered. And my nipples are red-raw. She's started lactating, by the way. And her tits are about down to her shins. Apart from that, not a lot to say, really."

"Well, at least, she ought to claim Sir Roger's attention full-time. Moggie's just taken him out to the car park after another brush with the Lower Sixth. Apparently he got Rotunda alone behind the groundsman's shed. Or *she* got *him* alone."

"Any damage?"

"They've crushed some small trees and demolished the potting shed. And there's a brick wall that will have to be rebuilt. And a lawn mower is broken. One or two windows. And we'll be needing a new tractor. But the other girls dragged Rotunda off him after an hour or two. They're drying her out now."

"Bad enough, then."

"It's as well it wasn't her that fell into the tank. Be thankful for small mercies."

Moggie came staggering in and slumped in a chair, holding her head.

"Shee-it!" she said.

"Have they gone?"

"Clarrie nearly ate him alive. She literally tore him out of my grasp. If he gets home alive it will be a miracle. I opened the door of the Range Rover and it came pouring out. Gushing. Milk and girl-juice, flowing down the car park in a stream. The smell in there! I nearly came myself!"

"Sorry about that, some of it was me," I explained. "My vagina got a bit moist."

"I thought I recognised yours, Chauntaille, but I didn't want to appear rude."

I blushed prettily.


**********

It was quite dark outside when we heard the Range Rover slowly crawl out of the car park and pull away up the driveway. Later, we heard it start up again and go out of the main gates. At that rate of progress, they would get home to Herefordshire by March 9th.

We turned our attention to Curse.

"She's asleep at last," Smegs whispered. "It took all three of my vibrators to get her off."

"Three?"

"There's one you haven't met yet. I was going to introduce you some time."

"I don't think I want to meet it now I know where it's been."

"Suit yourself. It won't stop me using it. It's not a battery powered one, you know."

"Mains?"

"No, diesel. Very economical, and keeps going for hours on a tank of fuel."

"What about the smell?"

"You're a fine one to talk. Gruntworthy, the Great Unwashed!"

"Sorry," I said, sniffing myself in various places. Smegs was probably right. I was not nice to be near, unless you happened to be an amorous halibut. "Stop it, you'll wake Curse," I told Smegs, pulling her off me. She reattached herself immediately. She was all mouths and hands.

"Oh, come on, Shan, we haven't done this for ages."

So I let her have her wicked way with me. Moggie came over and joined in. We made rather a lot of noise, but Curse slept through it like a baby.


**********

We kneeled in a circle on one of the beds, on our knees and elbows, concentrating on the piece of paper between us.

"What time are they all due back from supper," I asked.

"'Nother twenty minutes," said Smegs.

"Excellent timing, having our little orgy while the girls were out of their dorm," Moggie said, "But a little risky. If we'd got carried away, they might have come back and found us at it."

"They'd have to find out some time," Smegs said. "There, that's one of Moggie's, makes seventeen."

"And another," I said, "eighteen, and another of yours, Smegs, twelve!"

"Right, here's another one of yours, Shan. That's forty-three." Moggie counted them carefully.

"Another of yours, Mog, and a whole tuft of Shan's. Sixty-one!"

"Oh, it was *you* was it?"

"You never complained when I pulled them out. You squirted, if I'm not mistaken!"

"Oh, it was *you* that squirted, was it?" Moggie said, "It simply soaked the bed. You know, I thought it tasted like yours, but there was so much of it, I thought it was Megan."

I found another pubic hair between my teeth and tweaked it out. "I think that's my last one. It's one of Moggie's, you can see where the colour is growing out at the roots," I said, sticking it to the paper with the others."

"Are you *sure* it's mine? It looks like one of yours.

"It can't be mine, it was in *my* mouth. I can't suck my own fuckin' pussy, can I?"

"It's mine," said Smegs, to settle the argument. "Mine curl the other way, look. My mother came from New Zealand. So that's me, thirteen, Moggie, eighteen, and Shan, sixty-one. You win again, Shan. Claim your reward!"

"Not now," hissed Moggie, "they're coming back."

The room filled up with First Formers, their babbling voices dying away to respectful silence as they spotted the three teachers crouched on the bed in their dormitory. As I have said, we were on our knees and elbows. I could try to explain what I did with ten feet of tit in that position, but you'll just have to work it out for yourselves. Most of it, though, went out to the sides, under my armpits.

I noticed Pansy walking silently round and round the bed. She seemed to be inspecting us all in turn from behind. She made several circuits before I heard her voice behind me.

"Oh," she gasped. "Oh, MISS!" She sounded shocked to the core.

"What is it, Pansy?" I asked over my shoulder. Instead of replying, Pansy beckoned to her cousin. Suzanne came over as well. She gasped in horror.

"Oh, Miss GRUNTWORTHY! Oh, Golly, MISS!"

"What's the MATTER?"

Pansy was standing there, bright red, biting her lower lip. "Oh, Miss! It's your ... Ooooh!"

"She means your pussy, Miss," Suzanne interpreted, amid gasps of horror.

"What about it, Pansy? What's so special about my pussy?"

"Ooooh, Miss. It's twice as big as Miss Thunderbolt's and Miss Mountains's put together, Miss. It's HUGE, Miss!"

The subject of the size of my pudenda seems to come up altogether too often. At teacher training college, they talked of nothing else for days on end, it seemed. Now even the pure and innocent First Formers were at it.

"Miss?" Suzanne asked in a whisper. "Will ours be as big as yours when we grow up?"

Pansy gasped again. "Oooh, Suze!" she said, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"Not much danger of that," laughed Smegs. "Nobody's is as big as that!"

"Thank you, Megan!"

"I hope it doesn't get that big," said Pansy. "'Cos I want to be able to have sex!"

Moggie and Smegs were taking lots of interest now. "How would having a huge - a simply enormous - pussy stop you being able to have sex, Pansy?" asked Moggie.

"Well, when you sit on the boy's face ..." scandalised gasps from Suzanne "... it wouldn't be just his nose, his whole HEAD would go inside."

"His whole head and SHOULDERS!" said Suzanne.

"We'd have to throw him a LIFEBELT!" gasped Pansy in horrified delight.

"Or a rubber DINGHY!" cried Suzanne, and both girls, crimson with excitement, hugged each other. Their eyes were bright. Their nipples were like chapel hatpegs. Moggie and Smegs were rolling about, spluttering.

I'd had enough of this. I sat up on my haunches with a resounding squelch, and the girls looked disappointed as my ridiculously outsized pussy disappeared from view.

"Shouldn't you two be getting ready for bed?" I asked the two cousins. The rest of the class were in their pajamas. One or two were on their knees, saying their prayers beside their beds.

"I can't, Miss," said Pansy patiently. "You're all lying on my bed."

"Well why couldn't you say so, stupid girl," I said, and with as much dignity as we could muster, we all climbed off, Moggie remembering to bring the paper with the pubic hairs attached.

Suzanne ran her hand across the bed covers. "It'll soon dry out, Pan," she said, soothingly. "We'll hang the covers on the radiator and you can sleep with me."

"But what about the smell?" said Pansy.

"I'll hold my breath," said Suzanne. She was going to do well at St Cat's, this one.

I smoothed my sackcloth dress down over my hips and thighs - it had ridden up - and piled my breasts back into the bodice with a little help from Smegs. That's what bestest friends are for. Moggie was naked, which is an embarrassing condition for a headmistress of an exclusive girls' private school. We found most of her clothes on the floor where she had scattered them. Smegs was dressed for action in an extra long T-shirt which she slipped on over her head in a matter of seconds.

"All ready, then?" she said.

"Ready!"

"Let's go, then. Good night, girls!"

"Good night, Miss," they chanted dutifully. I turned off the light as we went out.


**********

"Not an entirely unsuccessful day," said Moggie, in summary, as we walked across the quadrangle. She was rather breathless as she was trying to put her skirt on as we walked, amd Smegs always walks twice as fast as anyone else.

"One or two loose ends to tie up, perhaps," said Smegs.

"Nothing to lose sleep over. One First Former with a lactation problem, but we've taught her how to connect herself to the milking machine when she wakes up. Nothing to worry about. And she will soon get used to having a hundred inch bust, it's all a question of balance."

"Perhaps," said Smegs, "we ought to send young Curse down to Baps's Organic Girl Dairy for a couple of weeks. She's giving an excellent yield."

"Good plan, Megan, see to it, will you?"

"See to it, will you, Shan!"

"Certainly, Megan. And what about Sir Roger?" I said.

"Clarrie will keep him under sedation from now on. Although who is going to satisfy Clarrie? That could be a full-time job for somebody."

"Sounds like more work for her young Davie," I said. "I'll give them a call tonight and see if they got home yet."

"There you are girls," said Moggie, struggling into her knickers. We stopped and waited for her to catch up. "Your first lesson in running a successful girl's school."

We all said it together in perfect unison.

"Delegation is the art of management!"




The End

Copyright - Some Sort of Dog - 1995

