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

