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1

If one went by the numbers, Lagoon's population of sixty-five million was low when compared with other Commonwealth worlds. A planet of island chains and smallish continents, Lagoon had no intention of getting much larger. One would find only a few residential arcologies (megastructures) on this planet, and while the cities were many, most were less than one million in population. This suited the citizens of Lagoon just fine, for they were in the business of tourism. One beach per family was the trademark phrase of native Lagoans. With more than 200,000 beach-fronts of all sizes available, that phrase would remain true for many years to come.
    Besides its beaches and oceans, Lagoon had another major attraction. It was a franchise of the Cloud 9 Club. Like the other franchises, it was a space station devoted to adult entertainment. What set it apart from the others was its history. Back in 2417, Lagoon was the test target for the late Mr Big's breast-expansion beam. Over 51,000 women were endowed with beachball breasts in seconds. Of that number, the majority opted to have their breasts restored to more 'normal' dimensions. However, within that group of 51,000 women, one could safely expect a handful opting to get much bigger. Fifty-one women decided to make the most of the situation, enlarging themselves to pillow woman size and becoming Cloud 9 employees.
    Fifty-eight years later, the Cloud 9 Club at Lagoon continued to enjoy great business. With fifty pillow women on the payroll, the club held two simultaneous shows per night. Just as important, fifty tired men could sate their need to sleep between beanbag breasts. With Lagoon tourism increasing each year, preparations were made to add ten more pillow women to the club staff. Recruitment was never a problem for Cloud 9. Selecting women suited for the job, however, was an exacting task. Training, particularly for zero-g movement, and breast expansion takes time. Only a handful of women had the required mindset to be pillow women for the standard two-year contract.
    Laila Delman, the Headrest Mistress, was giving a talk to Cloud 9's newly hired pillow women. Considering Laila's ample mass, one would have to look from the side or rear to realize she was actually standing up. The standard size for pillow women in 2475 was a bust/height ratio of three. This was due to the increasing number of basketball and football players that used pillow women. Laila, endowed with a 520cm bust, could easily satisfy the tallest man with her awesome cleavage.
    Smiling, Laila looked past her beanbags at the ten new hires. "I'm happy to see you, ladies. Any day that you can see past your own boobs is a good one." Everyone in the conference room had a chuckle. "For one reason or another, all of you chose to become pillow women. Besides the demonstrated dexterity such a job will demand, and the desire to have an awesome bustline, each of you had the required amount of maternal instinct as well. You may be wondering why the 'mothering instinct' is considered a vital part of being a pillow woman." Some in Laila's audience nodded their heads. "Look at it this way. You'll have a large man sleep between your breasts for an entire night. He'll be twisting and turning, and his arms and legs will be moving as well. Your job is to make that man's stay as comfortable as possible. Therefore, the possession of patience worthy of a saint is required." Laila winked at the audience. "The restless men know about this, and compensate us by giving generous tips. Those tips add up really quickly. So think of it this way. Every twist and turn a man makes in your flesh canyon is just his cash eager to leave his wallet and into your hands." The crowd laughed, only silencing when Laila raised her hands. "Okay. Now if you will follow me, its time to see the Cloud 9 doctors. Your growth period starts today."

The Cloud 9 Club was contained within four levels of the space station. The pillow women suites, all sixty of them, were on the outer edges of those levels. Each suite had a large clearsteel viewport, allowing a magnificent view of the planet Lagoon. In daylight, one could see the light blue oceans and a smattering of island chains. Even the occasional hurricane could be appreciated safely by the casual observer in orbit. At night, the light of cities and massive oceangoing pleasure craft plying the dark waters could be seen. Whatever the time of day, the beauty of Lagoon could sedate the most restless of men to slumber.
    Laila, waking from her own well-deserved rest, only spared a brief look at the viewport. There'll be plenty of time to gaze at the planet later. Work had to come first. Expertly, knowing hands dipped into her monumental cleavage. She found the shoulders of the kindly old man that spent the night sleeping between her mighty breasts. Like a mother waking a slumbering child, Laila gently shook the man awake. "Get up, Mr Johannes. It's seven o'clock."
    Rising like a giant between two flesh-colored hills, Mr Johannes sat up and yawned. He turned with a boyish grin fixed on his face. "Ah, Mom," he said in jest, "do I have to get up now?"
    "Mr Johannes, you've been a customer long enough to know the rules." Laila gave a sly wink to the wily man. "Next time you should ask in advance. Pillow women such as myself have to budget their time with care."
    "I will remember that when I'm here next month." Johannes extracted himself from the security of Laila's beanbag bosom. He went to a night table to pick up his minicomp. "I hope I didn't snore too loud this time."
    Laila blushed. "Honestly, Sir, I didn't even notice. It has to be something really onerous to get me riled up."
    "What would that be, if I may ask?"
    "A man who eats crackers while resting in my bosom. Cracker crumbs irritate my skin."
    "Shameful. I will never do that while resting in your ample beauty." Johannes worked on his minicomp for a moment. "To show my gratitude, your tip will be 500 credits."
    "Thank you, Sir. I'm delighted."
    Johannes smiled. "Oh, before I leave, I was wondering if you have an opinion on what I said last night."
    Laila tried to assume the pose of Ronin's Thinker, her elbow planted on the upper slope of her right breast instead of her knee. "I'd say you should get that family van for your daughter's wedding gift. A touring car is delightful, but not altogether practical for family use. From the way you describe your daughter," Laila grinned, "you'll be a grandfather nine months after the wedding."
    "So true, Laila. The van will prove its worth many times over in the years to come." Johannes stepped over to Laila's side. He took her hand into his, raising it as he bent down to brush it lightly against his lips. The pillow woman blushed. "Take care, my patient pillow provider."
    "You take care as well, Mr Johannes."
    At that, the sweet old man entered the next room to change out of his rented pair of silk pajamas and showered. Only then did Laila spare a few minutes to gaze at Lagoon. Then she made herself get out of the special recliner that served as a pillow woman's bed. Showering with a beanbag bust was an adventure all unto itself, and one that Laila and her co-workers did at least twice a day. Needless to say, the laundry crew had its work cut out for it, supplying fresh towels for their over-ample co-workers.
 

2

Jasper Klerman, owner of the Lagoon Cloud 9 Club franchise, wasn't feeling well this particular morning. He sat behind his expensive desk in his equally expensive private office. One of the club's basketball-bosomed waitresses was setting a breakfast service on a portable table. The pretty woman had poured a cup of hot coffee for Jasper. The cup sat before him on the desk, slowly cooling to a much more bearable temperature. Jasper drank too much liquor the night before, and the effects had caught up to him. This time, however, the thought of personal finances was more painful to his brain than the effects of too much whisky. To put it simply, Jasper was in debt. Up to his eyeballs in debt. An unrepentant gambler, Jasper had squandered his considerable reserves of cash. Now he was in deep with a group of unsavory characters that would just as soon shake him down for loose change than break his legs for nonpayment.
    Jasper had another person in his office. Across the desk was a well-groomed man by the name of Willard. He too had a cup of coffee, which he drank in small sips. One would be forgiven if they thought Willard was anything but a mobster. Jasper waved the waitress to leave once she had finished her work. What Willard was about to say was meant for Jasper's ears alone. "Mr Klerman," said Willard, "I appreciate the financial situation you're currently facing. We all have occasional spells of bad luck. But that doesn't excuse oneself from their obligations."
    "I'm well aware of that, Willard." Jasper felt sweat running down the back of his neck.
    "Glad to hear, and I'm sure that you're aware that your first payment is due at the end of the month." Willard made a smile fit for a tiger.
    "You'll get your money. On that you have my word."
    Willard stood and adjusted his suit jacket and tie. "You're a bright man, Mr Klerman. With all the business your club takes in, you'll be able to pay off your debt in two years time."
    "Two years? I thought . . . "
    "You forgot about the interest, Jasper. I have my own bosses. They like to see a return on the money they've entrusted to me. Besides," Willard looked slightly menacing, "they're not as patient, or forgiving, as me when it comes to a delay in receiving payment. I trust we understand each other now?"
    Jasper nodded curtly, his face unmoving.
    "Good. I'll be seeing you in thirty days, Mr Klerman. Have a bountiful day."
    Only after Willard left did Jasper resume breathing. Being in debt to a mobster was galling enough, but it shouldn't have happened in the first place. What Jasper needed were some 'creative financing' options to keep his head attached to his neck. To that end, he fetched a viewing pad that displayed the financial status of the Cloud 9 Club. Jasper thought that there was surely an answer, a scheme, for him to use. In the complex weave of numbers and figures before him, Jasper knew an answer was waiting for him.

The afternoon exercise and dance rehearsals were over. Though held in zero gravity, the pillow women put tremendous effort to stay fit and agile. The zero-gravity dance and exhibition routines they performed each night (and twice on sundays) demanded that they stay on top of their form. Leading the tired and sweaty pillow women to the Olympian-sized locker room was Laila. The chief pillow woman's head and wrist bands were soaked in sweat, as were her shorts and leg warmers. Starting a line, Laila took off the little bit of clothing she had on, handing the garments to a normal-sized locker room attendant. Last to come off were the bust management straps, also wet from accumulated perspiration. Now walking like a toddler, Laila made the final meters to the shower area. Pushing off with her well-toned legs, the outrageously ample woman entered the huge room.
    A set of ceiling-mounted tractor beams latched onto the woman and lifted her two meters off the floor. Showerheads placed all around the room sprang to life, shooting streams of warm water all over her body. The computers controlling the shower made sure that each part of Laila's body was serviced by the sprayers. Laila attended to the skin she could reach with her own hands. With the amount of breast skin to consider, that wasn't much, but that was where the computer-operated remotes came in. With gentle care, oversized robotic hands soaped and lathered the breasts. Another set of hands parted Laila's breasts so the shower sprays could reach the inside of her stunning cleavage. The cleavage received special attention in regards to washing. A paying customer expected no less than a clean place to sleep each night.
    While being tended by the remotes, Laila had her wetware activate the nerve endings in her breasts. Before wetware was generally available, pillow women had the majority of nerve endings in their breasts turned off. Otherwise, a pillow woman would be too sensitive to have a person sleep between her breasts. Now with wetware (molecular circuitry inside a person's body) those nerve endings could be turned on and off as needed. Right now, Laila wanted the full feeling of her breasts. Having so much feeling, so much sensation at the same time from so much skin surface area was like being drunk without the unpleasant side effects. If she could, Laila would spend every waking moment in the shower. Ending up looking like a pair of giant prunes, however, was something she definitely didn't want, though Laila could always dream about endless showers.
    Showering was one of the top pleasures for pillow women. It was the effort to make this group of special ladies comfortable that enabled them to feel like queens. Aside from the showers, there were the hairstylists, cooks, laundry workers and locker room attendants that waited hand-and-foot on the beanbag belles of Cloud 9. Laila liked the pampered treatment as much as the next woman, but she appreciated the showers much more.
    With the last trace of lather washed away, Laila was carried out of the shower by tractor beams. Another set of beams took over, holding her in midair as a bevy of towel-wielding, arm-equipped remotes tended to her wet skin. Waiting patiently, Laila had to giggle as her ticklish bottom was freed from the last vestiges of wetness. Another giggle escaped her throat as towel-clad robotic hands briefly teased her tiny nipples. Next came a locker room attendant, helping Laila into a fresh pair of panties and shorts. Still held in the tractor beams, Laila was guided by the attendant to a waiting recliner. The hair stylist, with hair dryer and comb in hand, did her part to make Laila feel like royalty. The Thursday night show was scheduled to begin in two hours. For Laila that meant waiting four hours before she received her next shower and her customer for the night. She made a mental note to have rose-scented perfume applied to her canyon-like cleavage just before she 'pillows' with her customer. The customers likened the experience of sleeping between breasts to that of a sweet bed of flowers. Laila wanted to do her part to enhance the customer's experience. Besides, she liked the smell of roses as well. She also had her wetware turn down the sensitivity of the nerve endings in her breasts. Another tidal wave of pleasure might just make her fetch a fresh pair of panties and shorts.
 

3

Like everything else in the Cloud 9 Club, the break rooms for the pillow women were on a scale wrought large. Break Room 3 was no exception. The room had several amenities. There were tri-dee projectors for games and films, robotic servants that dispensed food and drink, and wall-filling screens that offered space-scapes and real-time views of Lagoan beaches. Added to this were dozens of recliners especially made for pillow women. For a woman using such a recliner, it was more accurate to say that she was 'taking a load off her chest' instead of her feet.
    With thirty pillow women present, it was a full house in Break Room 3. That suited Laila's purposes just fine. With a determined look, the head pillow woman glided into the room, her bust supported by an anti-grav pallet. Laila was dressed up in the business fashion of a young Lagoan woman - black miniskirt with matching sleeveless vest, a tie, and white blouse. Considering her size, Laila's fully-buttoned blouse had enough material to make a sail for a rowboat. It took the help of a Cloud 9 assistant to get Laila dressed, for pillow women rarely wore shirts. Only on official business, such as a meeting with Mr Klerman, did pillow women fully clothe their bosoms.
    The other pillow women knew Laila had a contract meeting with Mr Klerman that morning. They wondered how much of an increase their salaries would receive. When they saw Laila's face, however . . . "Laila, what's with the harsh face?" said Patty. At two meters, Patty was the tallest (and subsequently largest) pillow woman on Cloud 9. "How was the meeting with Mr Klerman?"
    "I've had dentist appointments that were better," said Laila, her tone vitriolic. "Wanna hear the good news first?"
    A crowd formed around Laila. It was like a collection of flesh-colored bubbles, wobbling in expectation. Patty decided to ask a safe question. "Klerman increased the price of our pillow service?"
    "That's the good news, Patty. We all know prices could be doubled with no ill effect on the business. But Klerman only raised the price for one night's pillowing to 1,250 credits."
    "A fifty credit increase?" said another woman. "It would make more sense to increase the price by two hundred credits."
    Laila snorted. "Ha! That fifty credit increase was called a 'long overdue adjustment for inflation' by Klerman. He's decided to take home more money. Money that he considers 'rightfully his'."
    Patty and the other women looked indignant. "Hey, you're not saying that he wants a cut of our tip money?"
    "Cut? More like an amputation! Klerman is going to take 15% of our tip money. He said that since we're operating in Cloud 9 territory, all money earned while on duty is rightfully his! That jerk even showed me the fine print of the employment contract."
    "Why the Hell does he want our tip money?" Patty looked rightfully indignant. "Doesn't he know that's one big reason why women take this job? We earn far more in tips than what the regular salary pays."
    "It's even worse," said Laila. "Under the Lagoan laws governing adult establishments, as long as employers don't take a cut of the tip money, the employees get to keep all of it." Her face turned a bit crimson. "Now that Klerman had done this, the tip money is now considered a part of our salaries. In turn, that means an increase in payroll taxes and other deductions."
    The level of dissatisfaction in the room rose dramatically. "How much more?" Patty asked guardedly.
    "I ran the numbers before I arrived. We're looking at another 20% in station, planetary, and Commonwealth taxes." The women around Laila gasped. "That's right. Thirty-five percent of our tip money will be taken away from us. You'll have to work another full year as a pillow woman to make up the difference. Friends, that money should be left alone altogether!" Laila's audience murmured in agreement. "Ever since the Cloud 9 franchise started 224 years ago, it was understood that a pillow woman's tip money can't be touched. It may have not been written down in any document, but it's an understanding that has existed between owners and employees ever since the first club opened for business."
    "What are we going to do?" said another woman, her arms spread out across her slightly quivering beanbag bust. "Can't we negotiate or something?"
    "We can certainly try," Laila answered truthfully. "Just remember that our contracts are running out. Klerman could get new women, though it'll take him time to do so. He can find women with the right qualifications, especially those that'll gladly work for a lower amount of 'reimbursement'. That's the term Klerman used when he talked about the tip money."
    Patty nodded. "We're due to sign those new contracts at the end of the month. If negotiation fail, there's only one thing left to us."
    Laila smiled, her flashy teeth perfect for a hungry tiger. "Girls, if Klerman fails to reverse his ill-conceived decision about the tip money, I'd say we should take 'unique action' and make his life miserable!"
    "You mean . . . " Patty said past a smile of her own.
    "Yes! I want to see Klerman's face as he tries to break the first strike in history held by pillow women. Just let him try to get past our picket line!" The cheering in Break Room 3 could be heard down the hall.
 

4

Once again Jasper Klerman had Willard in his office. Two weeks had passed since their last meeting. What prompted Willard's early arrival was Klerman's 'wage dispute' with his pillow women. His face fixed with genuine interest, Willard looked at the modest wall screen mounted behind Klerman's desk. Also in the office was Klerman's preferred bosomy waitress. She gave Willard a serving of bourbon from the office's small wetbar. With an occasional sip of drink, Willard watched the screen for a few minutes. An honest smile then filled his face. "Mr Klerman, it's unfortunate that your financial restructuring has resulted in such an . . . ample display of displeasure."
    "It was a risk, but my debts needed to be addressed." Klerman made himself look at the wall screen. It was a view of the entrance to the Cloud 9 Club. The pillow women, lead by Laila, had decided to strike after two fruitless weeks of contract negotiations. Observing station regulations, the women were ten meters away from the main doors. However, considering the womens' size and numbers, the resulting 'picket line' was a formidable barrier. Pressing breast-to-breast, the women also had anti-grav signs floating above their heads. Those levitating signs proclaimed Klerman's greed for claiming the legitimate compensation for services rendered by the pillow women. With all the media coverage and sensationalism a lesser man would've folded. Klerman, though, was as stubborn on principle as he was unlucky at the card table.
    Willard rubbed his chin. "Why did you go after the tip money? A logical increase in the price for a pillow rest would've served your needs just fine."
    "That's where the money is, Willard." Klerman glared at the wall screen. "I could increase the price of a pillow rest. My share of that increase, however, would've been minuscule. Rental of cubical space, station maintenance, insurance . . . " He turned. "Tip money. Generous are the men that use pillow women. You know, an average pillow woman makes eight times her salary in tips each year. As owner, I figured that I'm entitled to my share."
    "I see." Willard gazed at the screen. "However, by taking this course of action, you've placed yourself in an unenviable position. In two weeks your first payment is due. That large contingent of Shriners you're expecting will be denied use of your pillow women if the strike continues. Just what will you do Klerman? What will you do?"
    Klerman turned back to the screen. "They'll lose heart and give up. You'll see. Those anti-grav pallets they're using belong to the Club. I'll take those away. Just let them try to get around on their own feet in normal gravity. Besides the zero-g hub, Cloud 9 is the only club on the station that's permitted to have low and zero-g rooms. Safety regulations, you know."
    "Have you considered getting replacement pillow women?"
    That comment made Klerman face the honest-looking man. "Willard, are you suggesting that I use new talent? It'll take weeks to get them up to speed on zero-g performances."
    "Zero-g performances are just icing on the cake, an extra. I know for a fact that there are hundreds of women on Lagoon with the requirements to be pillow women."
    Klerman wore a crooked grin. "Oh, so the mob has a secret stash of ready-made pillow women for me to hire, is that it? Even if I hire now, and with the efforts of overworked seventh-generation nanites, the new women won't be anywhere big enough for the Shriners. Don't even suggest using plastiskin boobs in the interim. The customers want to sleep between the genuine articles."
    Willard raised his hands in defense. "Easy now, Jasper. There's a way out of this mess. Let's look at the facts. You owe my associates money. At the rate events are progressing, you have the distinct chance of default on your payment." Willard turned a bit menacing. "I hope that never comes about, Jasper. As it happens, I have a rather unique solution to your problem."
    "Hopefully one that's not horrendously illegal."
    "Pace, my good man." Willard smiled warmly. "There is a perfectly legal way of getting new, ready-to-go pillow women in time for the Shriners' arrival. If you will be so kind as to mix us a pair of drinks, I can explain the details."
    Klerman once again had the waitress leave, slipping her a generous tip into her equally-generous cleavage. He then listened attentively to his guest. What Willard proposed held much risk. If the Cloud 9 Board of Directors knew a fraction of Willard's background, then the strike would never have occurred. Klerman would've been fired for his dealings with Willard, and he loathed the prospect of hiding from the mob for the rest of his life. However, the plan Willard offered should settle matters relatively quickly. Only if the strikers proved intractable would the plan be put into motion. A shot of bourbon settled Klerman's nerves for a few minutes. He had managed to down a full glass of the liquor to achieve that peace of mind.

5

With anti-grav pallets generously provided by Johannes, the pillow women continued their strike. Thanks to their numbers, the women were able to picket around-the-clock. Adorned with enormous red T-shirts, the pallet-assisted belles looked as if they were pushing miniature suns ahead of them as they walked. It was a feast for the eyes of breast-loving men, watching the most ample picket line in history going back and forth in front of the Cloud 9 entrance. While it was a feast for some, Klerman was starved for money. Each day the strike continued meant less money for him to pay off Willard and his associates.
    During the first week of the strike each day was virtually the same. The regulars of the Cloud 9 Club had their sympathies with the strikers. Money that would've gone for drinks and dinners, not to mention tips, stayed put in debit cards. Only male tourists dared to challenge the picket line. It was a comical sight. Like the salmon on Earth, the tourists braved the moving current of beanbag bosoms to reach the club entrance. On the whole, most succeeded, but only after experiencing the sensation of being pushed ahead by giant fleshly boulders. A handful of them failed, for they didn't move fast enough as they scooted between the pillow women. Some were entrapped in the T-shirt clad cleavage, akin to salmon stuck on rocks at the base of a waterfall. Others stumbled, falling down and pushed ahead of the breasts and anti-grav pallets alike. Those men knew what it felt like being gravel in a rushing river.
    It was the fourth day of the strike that the pillow women made up their minds about the tourists. On that day, every-other 'blockade runner' didn't even try to break through the picket line. Like limp dolls, the perverted tourists allowed themselves to be pushed ahead by the pillow womens' considerable assets. Rightfully resentful for being used that way, the women called upon some special help. Off-duty Cloud 9 bouncers stepped in to assist, making the impromptu joyriders think twice before making another half-hearted attempt to break through the picket line.
    There was one major problem for the strikers. The pillow women's living quarters had been within the Cloud 9 Club proper. Klerman declared those quarters off-limits, citing station and Lagoan law and regulations pertaining to strikes. The showers and break rooms were also denied, but substitutes for those were readily had thanks to the generous help of the other station-based establishments. What the women missed most were the recliner beds they slept upon. The cliche of women sleeping atop their own breasts came to mind to everyone who thought about it. With profound gratitude, that cliche never came to pass. Acting as one, the whole support staff for Cloud 9, from waitresses to laundry crews, offered the use of their private quarters (located elsewhere on the station) to the strikers. Klerman, who had enough problems finding replacement pillow women, had no choice but to tolerate the benevolence of his remaining employees.
    Laila and the others could shower each day, but they missed the luxury of having their other needs attended on a regular basis. Stepping in to help the strikers were the female employees of the Miracle Massage Parlor. Armed with hand-towels and shampoo, the 'Mavens with Magic Fingers' ensured the strikers were fresh as daisies each day. It was the morning of the fourth day when one of the Mavens, Dorothy, decided to make conversation with Laila. It was after washing the strike leader's golden blond hair that Dorothy asked her question. "Laila, whatever the outcome for the strike, what will you do with all the money you've earned at Cloud 9?"
    The blue-eyed leader of the pillow woman thought for a moment. "You may think my plan for my money is a bit odd. Did you ask the others the same question?"
    Dorothy, with brush in hand, began to straighten out Laila's hair. "I did. Most of them are going to use their money for higher education. With the amount of credits you pillow women pull down, you'll never have to worry about paying off student loans." She giggled. "I didn't realize that men paying for the privilege to sleep between pairs of outlandishly huge breasts would be so profitable. Some of your friends plan to be doctors, lawyers, or engineers. Others want to start their own businesses with the money they've earned here. How about you?"
    Laila caressed the breast skin before her with her fingers. She had her wetware turn on the nerve endings in the top of her prodigious norks. The sensation of her fingertips moving across her vast bosomy expanse was like a boat traversing a placid sea. "Well, after the strike is over, and when my contract is done, I'm going to one of those recently established colonies. Like Bellevue and Nuevo Mexico." She made a grin. "I'll be much smaller, of course."
    "Of course," Dorothy grinned back. "Go on."
    "Before going to the frontier, I will marry a man that will make my dream become reality."
    "That dream being what?" Dorothy asked earnestly.
    Laila spread her arms over her bust like a goddess clearing the sky of clouds over a landscape. "I want a home that I can honestly say I've built with my own hands. With my husband I will fill that home with children. With those children the land around that home will be tamed and made productive. I want to be the benevolent matriarch of a family that keeps getting bigger year by year."
    "That's not so odd, Laila. You'll make an excellent mother." Dorothy gave Laila's hair a final promise before putting the brush away. "How many kids are you planning to have?"
    "Six or seven," Laila answered assuredly.
    Dorothy grinned again. "I can understand having that many kids on a colony world. But is there another reason?"
    "Frankly, yes. Nine out of ten former pillow women have at least four children. They miss the feeling of having men sleep between their breasts. The closest thing to replicating the feeling is by breast-feeding babies, but after having several children those former pillow women lose to urge to make more. I think in my case the number will be at least six. I really enjoy the sensations I feel in my breasts when all my nerve endings are active."
    "Laila, you're a hedonist," chided Dorothy.
    "Yes, but it's for a good cause," replied the happy woman.
 

6

It was the seventh day of the strike. In one of the station's shuttle bays Klerman watched in anticipation as the last of the replacement pillow women disembarked from the transport. All sixty women had the requirements necessary to be pillow women except one - beanbag-sized breasts. Overworked seventh generation nanites would only bestow a minuscule fraction of the mass needed in the week before the arrival of the Shriners. Plastiskin breasts were not even considered as an option. Customers wanted to sleep on the real thing. If plastic boobs were used and found out about, it would really be the end for Klerman and a black eye for the other Cloud 9 franchises. Klerman still wondered why the Board of Directors hadn't sent an arbitrator. Except the press release stating that it was just a local problem, the Board had shown very little interest in the strike. Perhaps they would give more attention after Willard's plan was put into effect. Klerman decided to think about the Board later.
    Willard was the last one off the transport. He walked up to Klerman, confident and beaming. "Your troubles are over, friend. You'll find these women excellent replacements for the strikers."
    Klerman eyed the women critically. "Are you sure your plan will work? People will ask questions."
    Willard waved off Klerman's concern. "Relax. There's nothing illegal in what we're about to do. It'll be chalked up to good fortune. Our good fortune. Are the anti-grav pallets here?"
    "Yes. There's enough floor space for our purposes."
    "Then let's get started." After a few minutes of direction, both Willard and Klerman had the new hires arranged in a rectangle, ten across and six deep. Before each woman was an anti-grav pallet, floating a scarce meter above the floor. The assembly faced a small platform, upon which both Klerman and Willard placed themselves. Klerman's favorite waitress was on the platform as well, holding a tray containing a pair of bourbon-filled glasses and a compact megaphone. With a relaxed look on his face, Klerman took the megaphone in hand, speaking to the assembly of women before him. "Ladies, what you're about to do will be just as memorable as what my former pillow women did. The strikers believe I will cave to their demands if I want to stay in business." Klerman briefly made eye contact with Willard, noting the man's poker-face look with concern. "However, due to the unique opportunity offered by my associate here," he said, indicating with an open hand to Willard, "this strike will be brought to a swift end. Now, use the hypos that were given to you earlier on the transport. In moments you'll be taking up space just like all the other pillow women."
    Like the women who applied the hypos to their necks, Klerman knew what was going to happen next. Actually seeing it happen, though, would be an altogether different experience. In each of those hypos were breast-enlarging nanites . . . and a minute amount of Bubbles, the breast-enlarging soft-drink created by the late Mr Big. Past incidents have shown that a mix of nanites and Bubbles would enlarge a woman's bust instantly. Now incredibly rare, bottles of Bubbles could still be had for the right price. Klerman didn't had the courage to ask Willard how much money he spent to get the Bubbles. At this particular moment, Klerman didn't care for the cost. Watching the women expand before his eyes was worth all the money in the Commonwealth.
    With urgency, the bosoms on the women grew and grew. The cheap T-shirts they wore were easily ripped apart by the ever-increasing mass of female flesh. The growth occurred at such a speed that air had to have been displaced, if not the very fabric of space itself. Once the breasts reached watermelon size the anti-grav pallets began to do their job, holding up the expanding mass so the women could remain standing. Excitedly, the women watched themselves grow. Some even whooped in delight, trying to jiggle their new breasts before they became too large to do so. The sixty pairs of filling bosoms made their supporting pallets hover lower and lower. The nipples on those wonderful feminine fronts were now out of the reach of those hands that wanted to tweak them one last time.
    Klerman's look of wonder could've easily been mistaken for a prize deep-sea bass. He downed his glass of bourbon in one draw. Willard, on his part, was the epitome of a car dealer selling the best car on the lot. Awestruck, the waitress drank the bourbon meant for Willard, though the man didn't mind one bit. The new pillow women, as far as they were concerned, had just received an extra-special visit from the breast fairy. Sixty pairs of beanbag breasts, all colored with distinctive shades of humanity, floated gently above the shuttlebay floor thanks to the good graces of anti-grav technology. Then there was the other effect of beanbag bosoms. If one cared to listen closely, a particular sound would've been heard. It was a sound created by the interaction of air currents and the canyon-like cleavage of the women. Called 'soothing softness' by pillow women, this sound relaxed men who slumbered between the very breasts that created it. The whispers from the assemblage of beanbag cleavage were as loud as the wind itself.
    As much as Klerman wanted this happy scene to continue, there was work to be done. "Ladies," he announced into his megaphone, "you'll have time later tonight to get well-acquainted with your new 'friends'." The laughter in the bay drowned out all other sounds. Klerman silenced the group. "You may feel a bit woozy just now. With all the new blood vessels in your boobs, your blood pressure has lowered. Your nanites will be making micropumps in your breasts for the next several days. Wear no other jewelry on your person except for the rings you were given earlier. Nanites will make micropumps from whatever metal is available, whether it is plastisteel or gold." He grinned. "No one can appreciate gold micropumps since they'll be inside you. With the possible exception of the nanites, of course." More laughter was made. Klerman's hopes of success swelled just like the bosoms of his new women. "Ladies, it's time to take you to your new home for the next two years. Form a line and follow me. We'll go through the main entrance of Cloud 9, and nothing is going to slow us down!"
    It was a relieved Klerman that handed the megaphone back to the attending waitress. He then led the women toward the Cloud 9 Club. He was glad that his expectations were met. More important, Klerman felt confident that he'll enjoy the company of so many bountiful women for decades to come. In exchange for his services, Willard 'asked' for a percentage of the club profits. Klerman, in return, was assured that nothing would happen to him or his business from now on. Unless, of course, Klerman did something that 'annoyed' Willard and his associates. The club owner took it to heart that he would never give reason for Willard to be annoyed with him.

Patty was awakened abruptly by an urgent wetware message from Laila. She spoke a minimal amount of epithets before making a mental acknowledgment. There was only one reason why she received such a message in the first place. Concentrating, Patty 'read' the message, and she frowned out of reflex. It was particularly bad news as far as the striking pillow women were concerned. Banishing sleep from her eyes, Patty then worked on getting the man slumbering in her cleavage to awaken.
    The man, George by name, was one of the Cloud 9 bouncers. Since the living room of his station quarters was big enough to hold a pillow woman, George offered it for use by the strikers as a place to sleep overnight. The fact that only Patty made use of his living room didn't bother George at all. For that first week the lucky man got the unique compensation of sleeping with a pillow woman for free. Being said pillow woman's boyfriend made the experience much more memorable for George. Only after being shaken by the shoulders did he finally rise like a leviathan from the deep.
    "Took you long enough," said Patty in a condescending tone. "I was afraid you died of asphyxiation. You slept like the dead."
    George yawned. "Sorry if I wasn't moving about like a restless weasel on acid. You pillowers keep harping about the wonderful feeling you get when a man tosses and turns in your flesh canyon."
    Patty smirked. "Before I answer, could you turn around so I can talk to your regular face? The one before me now is hardly flattering." Like a mother disciplining an impudent child, Patty delivered a knowing slap to George's satin-covered backside. "And another thing. If you keep wearing my panties overnight, you'll ruin their elastic bands."
    Rubbing his smarting bottom, George turned like a man in wet cement. Despite the discomfort, he was smiling. "I will gladly do so if you would stop wearing my boxer shorts as well. They do nothing to highlight that all-so pinchable bottom of yours."
    "All the more reason why I should be wearing them while in your presence," Patty crooned. Then she turned serious. "I'm needed right away at the picket line. Klerman has brought himself a new set of replacements. All the girls are needed to reinforce the picket line to keep those newbies out."
    "Then we better move quickly." Like he did the last six days, George helped Patty wiggle into a fresh pair of shorts and T-shirt. On this morning the huge piece of red fabric refused to cooperate. As soon as George moved to secure one part of the T-shirt over Patty's six-meter bust, another part would come undone. It was like an ancient slapstick gag, one that got old very quick. With a flash of inspiration, George dashed into the kitchen. He stuck his hands in the freezer unit for a moment, then went back to Patty. He placed his chilly palms on Patty's exposed breast flesh, causing her nipples to become erect. Thus, using the proud nips like restraining nubs, George was able to complete the task of clothing Patty.
    "A neat bit of improvisation, George. I give you that. But," Patty smiled seductively, "warn me the next time you do that. I want to be prepared."
    "The same goes for you, my ample queen. You know, some things get smaller instead of bigger when exposed to cold water."
    "George!" Patty giggled.
    Not missing a beat, the happy man maneuvered Patty's bust onto the awaiting anti-grav pallet. From there the pillow woman left, heading for the picket line on the other side of the station.
 

7

Laila, standing tall, looked past her tee-clad bust directly at Klerman. Just as Laila had her girls behind her, Klerman had his replacements behind him. With so much breast mass in the general area it was a wonder that the station didn't wobble out of control that very moment. It may soon have its chance. "Mr Klerman," said Laila in a diplomatic tone, "care to explain how you found replacements so quickly? It's practically impossible to find pillow women outside the Cloud 9 franchise. I also doubt that you could lure so many privately-employed pillowers on Lagoon in a mere fourteen days."
    Klerman looked smarmy, as was his wont when about to roll a pair of game-winning dice. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Miss Delman. There are a fair number of women on Lagoon who would love to work at the club. All the women with me," he motioned to the mass of femininity behind him, "wanted to be pillow women more for the experience of being outright enormous than for 'economic expediency'."
    Laila knew several of her friends were wearing faces of disgust. He would say that, she thought. It's mainly due to the huge sums of money that would convince a woman to become a professional pillower. Women only allow themselves to get so big because there's a support structure to accommodate their special needs. Privately employed pillow women need as much care as that given to Cloud 9 pillowers. "That's all the well and good, Mr Klerman. I'm sure those women behind you will get all the 'experience' they want, but in private employment, not here at the club." The strikers agreed with their leader, hooting and whistling, their busts wobbling like thick industrial rubber underneath their red T-shirts. "I daresay those women behind you aren't sporting the real article. Prove to me that those are real breasts! Don't tell me that you're so desperate to win this strike that you made those women wear plastiskin boobs?"
    Red of face, Klerman had the beanbag sheilas on either side of him step forward. Like the women behind them, the duo's chests were naked for God and everybody to see. "How dare you make a suggestion like that! This strike is a bad enough blemish on Cloud 9's name. Plastiskin breasts are anathema to the Cloud 9 charter. Want proof?"
    "Please oblige us," Laila demanded.
    Out from Klerman's coat came a small silver aerosol can. "This here is industrial-strength bioglue dissolvent," Klerman proclaimed like a defense attorney before a jury. "I will spray the chests of these two women with a liberal amount of this dissolvent. You will see, Laila, that they're the proud owners of the 'real article'." Parting their breasts as much as they could, the buxom women giggled as Klerman applied the bioglue dissolvent to their chests. Completely harmless to normal skin, the dissolvent nonetheless would've broken the bond between plastiskin and real flesh in no time. A minute past. The watching crowd was anxious to know the results. Klerman looked smarmy again. "Oksana," he said to one sprayed woman, "Try to walk backwards while I hold one of your breasts. If the breast is indeed plastiskin, then it will be plucked off your front like an oversized cherry."
    With some in the crowd looking on in voyeuristic pleasure, Oksana tried her best to walk backwards. Klerman's hold on her left breast was as tenacious as a dachshund fighting a badger. After a half-minute of effort the unusual display of veracity was over. Klerman, victorious and smug, looked upon the face of a perplexed Laila. "There you go, Miss Delman. I can perform the same test on all the other women that I've hired to replace you and your friends. If I did, I could charge people a fee for the privilege to witness it." Somewhere behind him Klerman knew that Willard was smiling in agreement.
    With an upraised hand Klerman snapped his fingers. Another new hire, easily the same height as Patty, came forward. Nestled inside her stupendous cleavage was a low-set bar stool affixed to the anti-grav pallet. Like a pilot entering a fleshly cockpit, Klerman sat on that stool. He would've been holding a steering wheel or control stick had there been one in front of him. "Now if you would be so kind, Miss Delman," said the old man from his impromptu buxom throne, "have your girls stand aside. My new hires are anxious to get acquainted with their new home."
    "Only if you can get past us," Laila replied in challenge. "Girls! Assemble and stand fast!" The strikers formed a narrow rectangle. At twenty pillow women across and three deep, this display of female fun-flesh effectively blockaded the entrance to the Cloud 9 Club. The anti-grav pallets were powered down, bringing the women's massive charges to rest upon the floor. Leaning forward onto her resting mass, Laila raised her head in defiance, daring Klerman to make a move.
    Tugging at his collar to release some imaginary steam, Klerman glared at a nearby station security officer. "What are you waiting for, Pegler? Can't you see that those women are denying rightful access to my business? Arrest them!"
    The man named Pegler looked at the human blockade first and then at Klerman. "I can't arrest anyone until someone trying to gain entrance is stopped by the strikers. For all I know a path could open at the last instant."
    "If that's what it takes, Officer Pegler." Klerman raised his right arm like a leader of a cavalry troop. "Women!" he exclaimed, bringing his arm down rapidly and pointing it at the entrance. "Forward, Charge!"
    It was a priceless scene. Both security and privately owned video systems recorded the unique stampede of pallet-assisted bosoms. All the station-side bars and restaurants had their tri-dees switched to the unfolding scene. Bets were declared just as Klerman finished his command of charge. Money amounts and bet stipulations filled the air. Also filling the air were sounds of grunts and exclamations as the first impacts of breast against breast were made. Breasts meant to provide unique resting spaces were instead employed as natural battering rams. Despite being prepared for the charge, Laila's fellow strikers were pushed back by the sheer mass employed against them. The front row, along with Laila, lost ground to the replacement pillow women. The relentless push back was halted when the front line of strikers gained the mass support of the two rows behind them. Grunting and cursing, both sides tried to displace the other. The women in the center, being the focus of all the exerted energy, felt like squeezed grapes.
    Klerman and his pillow-chariot were directly opposite of Laila. Had he wanted, he could've stretched forward and slapped the boss striker's impudent bosom. Knowing that such an act would land him in court made Klerman think the better of it. He did know that the pushing match wouldn't last forever. "Enough of this noise!" barked Klerman. "Rise and fly!"
    Using subtle wetware commands, the replacements had their anti-grav pallets operate at 80% power. At that level of usage the power cells would drain in minutes. They only needed seconds. Laila and her fellow strikers looked up in belated amazement as the replacements floated two meters off the floor. Now the floating women looked as if they had twin dirigibles stuck to their fronts. Klerman was pleased as he sat in his now-airborne perch. "Okay, girls. Have your 'ware send the forward command to your pallets. The dining hall and showers are ready for your business."
    It could've ended there, but Laila and her friends still had some fight left in them. Pallets activated, the strikers rose to block their replacements in midair. The area immediately in front of the Cloud 9 Club looked like an aerial version of bumper cars. If one had an inclination to physics, the scene could've been described as atomic particles colliding. The sound of fleshly slaps competed with grunts, exclamations, and the din of pallets hitting other pallets at speed. Neither side wanted to lose, but the authorities had enough.
    With some regret, Pegler pressed a button on his minicomp. A mandatory power-down command was sent to the strikers' anti-grav pallets. Descending like flower pedals, the strikers were reduced to making resentful faces as the replacements floated one-by-one into the club. The last to enter was Klerman, smiling victory from his pillow woman conveyance. Had Klerman been any other man Laila wouldn't have felt so bad about the outcome. Instead, she felt a new wave of hate as Klerman, just before entering the club, turned to give her a raspberry. This isn't over yet, you jerk, Laila thought as sympathetic onlookers came to provide aid to the strikers. Getting those replacements so fast must've cost you some favors, Klerman, and your pockets aren't that deep.
 

8

"Ouchies!" cried Patty from her recliner. "Be careful, George. I'm still tender on that side."
    George pulled his hands away from Patty's bosom. "I would like to be more careful," he said slyly, "but there is so much of you that it's practically impossible."
    "Well, can you at least kiss my boo-boos to make the hurt go away?" Patty offered warmly.
    "How about I just stick to the ice packs? I don't want to get contaminated with girl germs."
    "George!" Patty said with humorous authority.
    The grinning man offered an upraised hand. "Peace, good woman, peace."
    Thanks to the generosity of Mr Johannes, a luxury suite was reserved for use as an impromptu first-aid station. Doctors and nurses from the station's other businesses volunteered their help to the injured. Bruises to body and ego alike were the only injuries sustained by the strikers. Considering their size, the women had rather large areas of tender and discolored breast skin. However, with the good graces of ice packs and modern medical science, such ugly blemishes would disappear completely in three days.
    Laila frowned as Johannes helped her into a pillow-woman recliner, another amenity provided by the generous patron. "I still want to know just how and where Klerman got those replacements. Especially since they're carrying the real articles on their fronts."
    Johannes, ever attentive, offered his opinion as he applied ice packs to Laila's massiveness. "That's a good question, fair lass. It takes a fair degree of effort to make a pillow woman comfortable. Apart from Cloud 9, only wealthy men with ample leisure time have their own private pillow women. It's not likely Klerman found sixty women that happened to be that big already."
    "We know that their boobs are real." Laila looked more relaxed as Johannes continued with his ice pack placement. "Could have Klerman gotten his hands on a case of Bubbles?"
    "That would be a logical explanation, Laila, if Bubbles wasn't so rare. If it's true, I wished I had a bottle. I know a certain lady who could do with a bit more frontage."
    Laila's feminine giggle made her breasts wobble, sending a precariously placed ice pack to the floor. "Are you implying that I'm not large enough to suit your sleeping needs?"
    Johannes reapplied the fallen pack, smiling with schoolboy innocence. "Your bosom is an outward expression of love and comfort. I see no downside of having more of what obviously are your best qualities."
    "I agree, unless you consider the increased number of towels needed after a shower."
    "True, but you like taking showers anyway."
    Laila giggled again, making three ice packs fall onto the floor. "Mr Johannes, unless you want to be smothered by the very love I expose to the world, I suggest you fetch the ice packs that fell just now. Especially the one that's in my cleavage. You don't want to see goosebumps form on such ample beauty, do you?"
    "That's a sight I could do without, Laila. I'll help."
    The attention chime for the door sang its note. Upon inspection, Johannes saw it was Officer Pegler of station security. He allowed the officer to come inside the suite. "Hello, Officer Pegler. I hope this is just a courtesy visit to see how the girls are doing."
    Pegler looked taciturn as he greeted Johannes. "I wish it were no more than that, Mr Johannes." He then walked up to Laila, his face now clear of emotion. "Laila, the station council held a meeting an hour ago. They had to make a decision about you and your strikers. Since Klerman had gotten his replacements inside the club . . . "
    "We've been kicked out." Laila finished. "I read the station regulations carefully. The council waited as long as they could before making the decision. With no jobs and no quarters suitable for long-term use by pillow women, the strikers are required to leave the station as soon as possible."
    Patty sat up straight in her recliner, peering over the tops of her ice-pack-covered norks. "What are we going to do now, Laila? I can't exactly go straight home, and finding a place on Lagoon will be problematic at best."
    Johannes smiled as he held up his hand. "I believe I have a solution in hand. I have a friend who owns his own island down on Lagoon. His house on that island has room enough to handle all you buxom belles. Plus there'll be plenty of hired help to lend assistance."
    Laila nodded. "If your friend agrees, Mr Johannes, we can continue to state our case for the courts. We'll remind people that this issue isn't over yet. I hope the rest of the girls will be able to continue with the strike."
    "The others are just as ornery as you, Laila," Johannes commented. "They'll stand with you until the end."

Willard looked at the schedule Klerman provided him. He gave a curt nod as he handed the file pad back to its owner. Klerman's waitress, ever attentive, gave Willard a cup of fresh Jadestone tea. The sweet-tasting beverage made the man's approving grin more prominent. "You've come up with a good plan, Jasper. Going with three 800 credit sessions per day instead of one 1250 credit night session will increase your profits. Not to mention that it will help pay off your considerable debt that much faster, and make my associates all the happier. The Shriners will arrive in two days. Each will get at least one session with your women during their week-long convention."
    "The Royal Order of Oran Shriners will be happy about that," said Klerman. He took a draw from his Jadestone tea-leaf cigar and exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "Now that station security has finally sided with Cloud 9, I expect the strike will fold once I announce the profits I made from the Shriners convention."
    "True, Jasper. Your plan is ambitious, but may I make a suggestion?"
    "I found your suggestions to be beneficial so far," said Klerman, tapping his cigar into an ashtray provided by his shapely waitress. His grin turned down at the corners ever-so-slightly. What does he have in mind now?
    "As you know, Jasper, that bottle of Bubbles I've purchased was quite expensive. Even after giving the replacements that nanite/Bubbles mix, there's still part of that special potion left. I could give it all to one woman, endowing her with an acceptable bustline. Or, I can give ten of your women another shot of nanites and Bubbles, making them bigger than their co-workers."
    "What purpose will that serve?"
    Willard smiled his car lot salesman smile, which made Klerman a bit nervous. "Well, if those ten women have a bust/height ratio of five, then you can rightfully charge a higher price for a full night's pillowing. Let's call it 2,700 credits for eight hours of heightened bliss and wonderful sleep. You'll earn all that much more profit and," Willard's eyes had a glint of menace, "you'll can clear your debt with me much sooner as well."
    "A BH ratio of five? Willard, that's the upper limit placed on the size of a pillow woman here on the station, and for any other station for that matter. If just one of these 'super-sized' pillow women gets aroused, her bust will swell to a size where she can't even leave her room. You know the implications of that, don't you?"
    "I'm sure you'll figure a way to ensure that the enlarged women don't get aroused, or you'll just have to do a bit of remodeling. The life pods connected to each of the pillow suites are big enough to handle even an aroused pillow woman. So you're covered from that angle."
    Those lifepods he mentioned are big enough to be considered assault shuttles, Klerman recalled. "Having thought this out, I assume you already have the ten women lined up and ready to grow?"
    Willard looked playful as he took Klerman by the arm, escorting him to the pillow women quarters. The waitress followed, bringing an ashtray along for Klerman's benefit. "Jasper, remember that one key requirement of being a pillow woman is that she must enjoy being incredibly huge. The women I've chosen are quite eager to be bigger than the rest." After several moments of walking the duo entered one of the living quarters. Barbara, the woman who served as Klerman's booby chariot a few days earlier, radiated with joy as Willard came toward her. "Hi, Barbara," said Willard affectionately, raising her hand to his lips. "Ready to displace even more of the space/time continuum?"
    "I've been waiting all day," replied an enthusiastic Barbara. She had her recliner bring her up to a standing position. At two meters in height, Barbara was just as tall as Patty and equally busty. That was about to change quickly. "Will I get so big that I'll be raised off the floor?"
    Willard applied a hypo containing the nanite/Bubbles mix to Barbara's neck. "With four additional meters added to your bust, I'd say you'll have a shot at it."
    Eyes closed, the tall woman leaned forward to rest upon her breasts. With a smile that no one else could see, she spread her arms and legs wide, ready to feel them being pushed apart by her new expansion. It was only a moment's wait before she felt the same wonderful warm and tingling sensation she experienced the first time. Knowing, feeling, and experiencing the growth was an erotic pleasure for Barbara. Living out a fantasy of being astonishingly huge-bosomed and being paid for it was too good an offer to pass up. Besides, Barbara's own parents said that sofa-sized norks would be the only things to slow their vivacious daughter. If only they could see her now.
    Klerman unconsciously took a few steps back as Barbara's expansion began. He knew it was only four meters being added to Barbara's six-meter bust. Then it occurred to the man that he never imagined, much less saw, a woman with a ten-meter bosom. It was like watching a pair of advancing glaciers as the joyful woman grew. Klerman heard a few pleasurable moans escape from Barbara's mouth, and was somewhat aroused by the sight. Those glorious orbs filling space before him was not an abstraction, but were actual parts of an actual woman. Satisfying his curiosity, Klerman placed his hand on Barbara's left breast. He felt that his hand was being pushed away by warm bread dough. Perspiration on the breast covered his palm as he ran his hand over the front of the massive mammary. Stopping at the little nipple, he involuntarily tweaked it. Barbara made an exclamation of joy in response, rubbing her new mass with her hands and feet. The attending waitress was also taken aback the queer scene. Though ample herself, the woman felt that her basketball boobs were mere mosquito bites when compared with Barbara's fleshy sofas.
    "I have a new appreciation of the support structure the club has in place," said Klerman as he stepped back, giving the breasts their space. "The tractor beams in the showers will get a workout."
    "Not to mention the shower room attendants." Willard walked up to Barbara. Her incredible growth had stopped, leaving the pleased woman resting on top of her new ten-meter glories. Giving assistance, Willard brought Barbara to an upright position, only to find that her feet were some 30 centimeters short of the floor. Bringing the recliner forward, Willard adjusted the controls so that Barbara could sit comfortably. "That was wonderful and inspiring," he said, kissing her hand again. "You'll only be able to 'stand' in low-to-zero gravity. But that shouldn't adversely affect your work here."
    Even with head raised high, Barbara couldn't readily gauge just how big she was. She liked it that way. "Two years of not having my feet touch the floor is small potatoes compared to being this big." She moved her hands over her new flesh like a cook smoothing out bread dough. "I do feel a bit woozy, and I'm warm and sweaty."
    "Then you'll need these." Willard placed two plastisteel rings on her ring finger. "Your nanites will be busy making more micropumps. Those two rings I just gave you will satisfy their construction needs. Your blood pressure will stabilize in a few days. Considering how big you are now, you'll need two anti-grav pallets to move around. We'll send for the other pallet so you can take a shower tonight."
    "Perhaps I need a guide." Barbara tried to compare her size with that of the door and the hallway beyond. "I'll be running into everything like a runaway train."
    Willard patted Barbara's hand reassuringly. "Just use your wetware, dear, and access the hallway cameras and monitoring systems. You'll navigate throughout the club like a pro in no-time." He kissed her hand again, making her blush like a birthday girl. "Klerman and I have to go and 'upgrade' the other nine women. But once I'm done, and when you've had your shower, would you like me to come back tonight? I very much want to be the first man to nestle in that new bosom of yours."
    "You certainly may, Willard. What perfume would you like applied to my cleavage?"
    "Strawberry. I like strawberries because they're sweet, just like you."
    "You rascal," Barbara said in a tease.
 

9

The Royal Order of Oran Shriners arrived at the beginning of the strike's third week. Adorned with trademark fezzes that indicated membership, one thousand 'knights of the temple' descended on the station like famished sailors rescued from the sea. The Shriners heard of the strike, hoping to take pictures of the most buxom picket line in history. Instead, they learned that the strike, for all practical purposes, was over. Sure, the strikers will take their case to court, but that mattered little to the Shriners. Their way to the Cloud 9 Club was now clear, and they indulged themselves in all the services that the club had to offer.
    Below on Lagoon there was an island called Langston Island. On that island was a rather large house belonging to one Kyle Langston. A direct descendent of Isidora Langston, the woman who started the Cloud 9 Club franchise 224 years ago, Kyle was more than eager to provide the strikers all the assistance they needed. The house had built-in anti-grav plates in the floors, thus removing the need for anti-grav pallets while inside. Ceiling-mounted tractor beams gave the strikers access the second and third floors, enabling them to use the sundecks located on those floors to full effect.
    Large as it was, the house couldn't hold all the pillow women. Portable structures were built, giving protection to those women who couldn't be accommodated full-time in the house. With anti-grav pallets on hand, the women had the run of the island. They even made use of the sheltered lagoon. Laila, bare for all of the world to see save for a simple thong, sat on the beach with several of her fellow women. Langston hired a group of cabana boys, eighty strong, to attend to the women's every need. Right at that moment, a group of cabana boys was applying suntan lotion to the women on the beach. The boys would've gladly done the work for free. Being the servants of a group of ultra-buxom women was its own reward.
    Laila spied Patty approaching the beach. Her mighty bosom supported by an anti-grav pallet, Patty was running as fast as any pillow woman could under the circumstances. Intrigued, Laila just had to speak. "Hey, Patty, what's the hurry? Is there a rabid fanboy after you?"
    Coming to a stop, Patty collected her breath. Her supple breast skin rippled in sympathy to her lung-filling inhales. "Not that . . . it's George. He's convinced that . . . " Patty waited for a few seconds so she could talk normally. "He's convinced that he can turn me into a . . . giggling mass by tickling my bum."
    "Sounds like he's not trying very hard. And why are you grinning?"
    Patty was looking quite naughty indeed, her face red both from physical exertion and naughtiness. "He's found a three-meter pole and lashed a feather palmleaf to it. So far I've been able to keep ahead of him. But the pallet's power supply is almost out."
    "Let me guess. You have no intention to have that pallet recharged right away."
    "Righto!" Patty craned her head toward a set of bushes. Out of those bushes came George, brandishing his tickling spear with gusto. "Whoops! Gotta go! George enjoys the thrill of the chase as much as me!"
    Laila watched as Patty 'ran' around the beach-lined lagoon with the help of her anti-grav pallet. George could've easily caught up with Patty at any time. Seeing a pillow woman run was a rare sight indeed, and George wanted to prolong the experience as much as possible. Turning, Laila noticed that the cabana boy attending her had finished applying suntan lotion to her bosom. The boy, a 19-year-old named Mikey, had a face as red as Patty's. It was clear he was red from the pleasure of applying the lotion to Laila. From her recliner, Laila inspected what she could of Mikey's work. "Excellent job, Mikey. You'll make a great masseuse on Cloud 9. If you need a reference, you can use me."
    "Thank you, Miss Delman," said a proud Mikey. "My cabana boy training has really paid off in this instance."
    "Yes, it has, and for that I'll reward you. Tonight, you'll have the pleasure of sleeping between my breasts for free. It's the least I could do for the genuine effort you placed in making me and my friends comfortable and welcomed."
    Mikey's face was as bright as a Christmas tree. "Thank you very much, Miss Delman! That's very generous of you."
    "Thank you, Mikey. Be in my room at nine p.m. and wear your best set of silk pajamas. If not pajamas," she said spiritedly, "then a pair of loose-fitting boxers will do."
    "Okay, Miss. I'll be ready." At that Mikey turned and left, already imagining the night of pillowing that waited for him.

The new pillow women Klerman hired were still adjusting to the realities of their jobs. One of those realities was the daily workouts and the showers that came afterwards. They knew that their special needs required special measures. In all fairness, even Laila and her girls had to get use having tractors beams, computer-directed shower sprays and towel-wielding robotic arms tend to their showering routine. Having very recently been able to wash and dry themselves, the women had to be patient and allow machines and human assistants to do their work.
    Along with adjusting to their respective surroundings, another similarity between the new hires and Laila's group was the formation of the social pecking order. Like one would find in a school playground or after-school club, the bigger girls tended to be more assertive and have more deference given to them. However, there were always those that challenged the status quo.
    It was the second day after Willard enlarged ten of the new hires to their BH ratios of five. A normal pillow woman would dominate any room; super-sized women simply overwhelm them. Naturally, washing and toweling took a bit longer for those ten women. After a particularly intensive exercise session, the pillow women waited for their turn in the unique shower and the attentive toweling-off that came afterwards. Sally, one of the regular-sized pillow women, decided that she had waited for her personal toweling long enough. With a ceiling-mounted tractor beam holding her mighty mass off the floor, Sally waddled up to one of the super-sized women. She rammed the woman from behind with her set of beanbag breasts.
    "Hey!" yelled Betty, the woman rammed by Sally's norks. "Whose rude nips are trying to bore holes in by bum?"
    "Those nips are mine, you towel hog! You and your sofa friends are hogging all the attendants. I and the others are shivering in the cold as we wait for our final toweling and dressing."
    Betty turned her head as much as she could, glimpsing Sally out of the corner of her eye. "You're just jealous that you weren't chosen to be bigger. Worried about the cold? Just keep venting your spleen, Sally. That'll heat the air right quick!"
    Indignant, Sally snatched a handful of towels from the attendant by her side. Like a skirmisher from ancient Greece, Sally swung a towel over her head and released it toward Betty. The towel covered Betty's head like a net over an animal. Understandably upset, Betty removed that towel. With a ceiling-mounted tractor handling her sofa-sized norks, Betty turned around. With volume, mass, and inertia on her side, Betty pushed aside Sally's norks like they were huge balloons. Sally backed off and centered herself on Betty. She didn't look happy, but Betty certainly did. "How did you like that, Sally? I can crumple your bumps like old-fashion soda cans any day of the week. Now wait your turn like any good little girl should."
    "Rot in Hell, Betty! I didn't like you since day one! Those fat bags of yours will only make your holier-than-thou attitude much worse! Lemme poke some holes in them so your inflated ego can escape!" More so than ever, Sally's nips became rude and proud, though they still looked tiny when compared to her beanbag-sized breasts. Fending off the attendant with a swinging towel, Sally waddled back up to Betty and rammed her full in the bust. The resulting sound of collision was similar to that of fleshly slap against a buttcheek, only a good bit louder.
    The belligerent attitude was infectious. The other forty-nine 'normal' sized pillow women turned on the nine remaining sofa-sized women. With so many women determined to move at once, the limited number of ceiling-mounted tractors beams couldn't keep up with the demand. Priority for those beams went to the sofa women, who tried to make a retreat for the doors. This didn't deter the women who had no tractor beam support; they simply pushed their norks across the smooth locker room floor. Like vicious biker gangs of old, groups of bean-bag belles surrounded their much larger consorts. They gave out and received rams, slaps, and occasional tight pinches. The locker room attendants tried to break up the fights. But those attendants had far, far less mass than the women they serviced just a few minutes earlier. It was like gnats trying to stop a herd of wildebeasts. Some attendants had the wind knocked out of them as pairs of giant breasts batted them out of the way. Given the noise, energy, and mass playing about in the locker room, one wondered what kept the station from tumbling out of orbit that very moment.
    One sofa woman in particular received more than her fair share of attention. Standing 147 centimeters in height, Gayle was the shortest pillow woman in the group. Even with a BH ratio of three, Gayle would always have been the 'smallest' pillow woman, though a 441cm bust was still a considerable amount of bosom. Willard decided to fix Gayle's inherent smallness by giving her another mix of Bubbles and nanites, endowing the beautiful woman with a worship-inspiring 735cm bustline. The other women felt that they would've been better served with extra breast mass on their fronts instead. It didn't help matters for Gayle when she proudly paraded her enlarged moneymakers in front of her co-workers. Now the focus of five jealous pillowers, Gayle was rammed, poked, and rubbed by five sets of beanbag breasts. No woman, especially a sofa woman, could withstand all that physical contact without experiencing something deep inside herself.
    The shower room was filled with a mix of sounds, ranging from fleshy slaps, epithets, to grunting. Among this tumult of noise was a mounting cry of pleasure. Gayle enabled all of the nerve endings in her breasts, and turned up her nerve sensitivity. Each ram, each impact of flesh against flesh was a cascade of pleasure for Gayle. For her, it was like being lovingly fondled by the fingers of a giant, each touch an explosion of joy from within her soul. The inevitable happened as an engorged nipple of one of the jealous pillow women collided with one of Gayle's ultra-sensitive teats. With a pleasurable scream flying from her throat, Gayle gushed in climax. Wetness trickled down her legs and collected on the floor. Her eyes hazy with bliss, Gayle failed to see the shocked and disagreeable looks on the faces of the women around her. Nor would she get the chance.
    "What in blue blazes is going on here?!" yelled Klerman as he entered the shower room. The pillow women made as much space as possible for their boss, which was not much due to their prodigious norks. Making a complete circuit of the tiny area offered to him, Klerman's glowering visage silenced everyone into submission. "I don't care who or how this fight got started," he said in a normal voice, but everyone who heard him would swear later that he shouted each word from the pit of his belly. "There will be no more fights. I can't afford to have my most prominent employees engage in petty squabbles that would deny me of my money. For disciplinary action, I will fine all of you one month's worth of salary. You'll still pull down some major bills due to your tip money. However," he glowered at the women again, "the next fight will the last one for those involved, for they will be fired. Is that understood?"
    The women made their acknowledgments that Klerman's warning was quite clear. Turning to leave, Klerman spied the mass of Gayle's breasts from all the rest. He stopped, focusing his attention in Gayle's general direction. "Gayle, I couldn't help but notice your conduct during the fight. I suggest you develop better control of your nerve endings soon. Gushing in the shower is your own business, but don't ever do it while there's a paying customer in your cleavage."
    It was just after Klerman left that Gayle realized that everyone in the room was looking at her. Her blush of embarrassment was so profound that even the tops of her superbreasts were rosy-red in color. Sally made her way toward Gayle, smiling like a mother that caught a child with a hand in the cookie jar. "Well, it seems we have ourselves a gusher in our midst. Since she's made a mess of herself, she'll have to go through the shower again. Who'll help me see to it that 'Gushing' Gayle gets a fair washing?"
    The response was enthusiastic. Gayle became the focus of the pushing efforts of six pillow women. Right then, she wished she could hide between her sofa-breasts for the rest of the day. Being immortalized in Cloud 9 history with the nickname Gushing was something she wasn't looking forward to.
    Walking toward his office, Klerman accessed his minicomp. "Note to self," he said into the little machine's tiny microphone, "hire eight more people for the shower room staff. They will wash and dry the sofa-women exclusively." He though for a moment. "Second note to self. I must make sure I wear extra-silky pajamas for tonight's pillowing with Gayle. She really likes the cool feeling of Jadestone silk on her skin."
 

10

"The numbers are in," beamed Klerman as he handed a file pad to Willard. "I've more than made up for the lost revenue caused by my disagreeable former employees."
    "They still have four days before their contracts officially run out," replied Willard, his finger running down the pad's display screen. "Technically they're entitled to part of this revenue you've earned. But I don't see them coming back in your good graces anytime soon."
    Klerman made a dismissive gesture. "Phooey! They'll never see a red cent coming from me ever again. If they wanted their money then they could've stayed and worked."
    "Exactly." Willard handed the file pad back to Klerman. "How are the new women turning out?"
    "As far as pillowing is concerned, they're excellent. It's the zero-g performance routines that need their attention. My instructors are working overtime to impart a sense of spatial location to the women, but it appears only practice will make perfect."
    "I agree, but those practice sessions can make for great tri-dee copy. Ever considered filming your women as they work out and practice? Better yet, how about when they shower and towel off? There are men who would love to see such a film, especially if it features women as big as 'Bodacious' Barbara and 'Gushing' Gayle."
    Klerman gave Willard a friendly slap on the back. "We certainly can. If lingerie models and female sports teams can have behind-the-scenes features made about them, then so can we. Let's talk about it at dinner tonight." He snapped his fingers. "Let me guess, you already have a film producer here on the station."
    "You're becoming quite perceptive, Jasper. A few years from now you'll hardly believe that you were in debt."
    Klerman nodded, though his eyes lost a bit of sparkle when Willard made reference to his debt. "Yes, yes. Together, money and time can do anything. Nine p.m. in the Hall of Heaven okay for you?"
    "Yes. See you then."

Laila was standing in an open area near the island's tennis ball court. Six cabana boys stood around her, armed with hand towels and tubes filled with liquid soap. Turning, Laila saw Patty approaching with her own cabana boy entourage. "Hurry up," said Laila as she stood naked under a sky that threatened to rain at any moment. "The approaching shower will be intense but brief. The cabana boys need to get started when it rains."
    "We're hurrying already." Patty, her bust carried upon a net that was in turned being handled by six cabana boys, waddled up to Laila. Patty's anti-grav pallet hadn't been recharged, so she resorted to a method described in the Cloud 9 pillow women handbook. It was only on rare occasions when a team of men and a net were needed to help a pillow woman carry her bust. One would be tempted to imagine that the boys were carrying a set of beasts from the day's hunt instead of breasts. Task done, the cabana boys planted Patty alongside her friend. "Pillow women take their anti-grav pallets for granted. I'm surprized than none of my valiant volunteers have died of exertion."
    Laila giggled. "Oh, they may have their chance, Patty. You have more surface area than me, plus there is the risk of one of them falling in your cle . . . "
    "Old joke, Laila, old joke. I'm out here in the open, naked, and in full view of any observer from orbit. One reason why I'm doing this is because there's a huge line for the showers this morning. Another," Patty batted her eyes at her volunteers, one of whom was her boyfriend George, "is that I'll always try something once. Getting a lather and rinse in a rain shower is something worth doing once."
    The approaching rain shower finally reached the island. Heavy drops of rain started to impact on the women's breasts. Cabana boys applied handfuls of liquid soap to those breasts with abandon. Then, like any tropical downpour, the water came down in sheets. Pillow women and boys alike lathered and rubbed breast flesh. Laila felt like a rock at the bottom of a waterfall; the downpour was that intense. Patty though she was under a faucet set at full discharge. Oblivious to the rain, the cabana boys worked every bit of skin with cleansing soap and a wipe of a handtowel. Risking pneumonia was worth the experience of washing a pillow woman in a rainstorm.
    Also, like any tropical downpour, it was over quickly. Thirty seconds later the shower had past and gone out to sea. Opening waterproof bags, the boys applied soft, dry towels to the succulently clean breasts before them. As she waited, Patty had George help her put on a pair of short-shorts. She kissed him for his kind effort.
    "So," said George as he went to help Laila into her own pair of shorts, "what's the word on our lawyer?"
    "He'll be coming here today." Instead of a kiss, Laila gave George a pat on the shoulder. "He's arranged a meeting between us and the Lagoon Federal Court. Let's see Klerman's reaction to the lawsuit we lined up for him."
    Patty grinned as her helpers placed her wonderful ladybumps back onto the carrying net. "We all would, Laila, we all would."

Klerman could honestly say that the replacements were making progress. Oh, the zero-g routine in the Hall of Heaven this particular night started with promise, but ended in the same manner as all the other routines have ended so far - chaotic. This night the pillowers were performing their rendition of a solar system. The sofa-sized pillow women served as the imaginary system's sun and large planets, while the 'normal' sized women acted as the smaller planets, asteroid belts, and comets. It was at the height of the routine that a far-orbiting gas giant 'planet' lost its position in the cosmos. From there, the pillow woman pretending to be a giant planet began her path of destruction and chaos, bumping into other performers and sending them on their own paths of havoc. The force field surrounding the zero-g stage added to the mayhem, making the flying women bounce back into the routine, which had now lost all cohesion. Giving the girls credit, they made the mess look like it was part of the act. It finally came to an end when the women formed a respectable sphere in zero-g. The curtain came down as the lights went back to full. Pity. The audience would liked to have seen the women get on their feet as gravity returned to normal.
    Willard and his film producer friend were pleased with what they saw. They knew the reasons why the routines were not up to par, but they enjoyed the spirit and eagerness of the women involved. That was something the producer was looking for in his film project. Named Holbridge, the man held a camera eyepiece up to his left eye, looking around the room to take in the scenery. "I see the potential, Klerman. Oh, I see the potential for a hit!"
    "Please, call me Jasper," said the smug man as he took a hit from his favorite brand of cigar.
    "Okay, Jasper-baby. Once you clear this idea with your higher-ups, I can commence filming. Just be sure that I get the access that I need."
    "Access won't be a problem, Holbridge. It's in the fine print of the women's contracts. Why, you can thank Willard here for thinking up that little addition to the standard contract."
    "Oh, like the provision that you can make the woman bigger or smaller as to suit your heart's desire?"
    "Indeed. No fixed sizes from now on. They'll be running the field from BH ratios of two to five, though you can expect the average size to be 3.5. I like them that big."
    Holbridge grinned. "So do I, Jasper. Let's say we have a toast to our good fortune and future prosperity."
    "Excellent idea." Klerman turned to his friend that was his second-hand-man in all but name. "Willard, do the honors and order us some wine."
    "Sure," said the sly man, "I'll buy it and you'll pay for it."
    "You and your poor jokes, Willard." Klerman winced inside when Willard made that oblique reference to his debt. He'll keep doing that until the debt was paid off.
    Willard raised his hand and motioned for a waitress. The one that answered Willard's call was Klerman's favorite. Named Marsha, the capable woman approached the table, her appearance and carriage suitable for any high-powered clothing model. Like all Cloud 9 waitresses, Marsha had a short skirt and blouse. Along with the ample display of leg, the blouse revealed a cleavage worthy of a pillow woman. However, the attending breasts were the size of basketballs instead of beanbags, or sofas for that matter. Willard ordered three glasses of New Brunswick cherry wine. All three men admired Marsha as she turned to fulfill the order, revealing the snugness of the skirt over her shapely backside.
    "Now that's the body I like to see pillow women have," said Holbridge. "Most men assume pillow women are just composed of a head and two huge breasts."
    Klerman chuckled. "Then I hope you'll pay special attention in your film to the shapely legs and backsides that grace all pillow women. They exercise every day, though few people see the results of their labors."
    "Don't forget those slim waists," Willard added. "That waitress had a quite hug-able one."
    "Thanks for reminding me, Willard. The women in my employ exercise every part of their bodies."
    Scarcely a minute later the waitress returned with the wine-filled glasses. After handing out the glasses the waitress gave Willard a small tray containing a plaspaper printout of the bill. Willard read the writing and frowned. It wasn't what he expected. "Is this some kind of joke?" He waved the bill at her. "Marsha, who put you up to give me this false warrant?" Before he could react, Willard found his outstretched arm now sporting a handcuff.
    The waitress had a righteous smile of a mother catching a child with a hand in the cookie jar. Her free hand dipped into her cleavage, and came out brandishing a bright, shiny badge. "Let me spell it out for you, Mr Willard Viner. I'm Marsha Jarvis, Commonwealth Marshals. That paper in your hand is an arrest warrant. You've been charged with racketeering, purchasing stolen goods, interfering with a labor dispute, and criminal misconduct and endangerment."
    Klerman was suitably flabbergasted. His facial muscles were as mobile as Willard's were frozen. "Marshal," Klerman bleated, "what do you mean by criminal endangerment?"
    After handcuffing Willard, Marsha turned her blazing blue eyes on the worried Klerman, chilling him with cold contempt. "Last night Mr Viner pillowed with Barbara Hertzog, one of your oversized pillow women employees. He ignored club rules and engaged in love play with Miss Hertzog. You know what happens to a woman's bust when she gets aroused, Mr Klerman?" The man had no color left in his face. Jarvis obliged him with the answer. "An aroused woman could expect her bust to swell a bit. As much as 25% size increase for a normal bust structure. However, we're talking about a nanite built and maintained bust. A woman so equipped could expect arousal-induced swelling as much as 50%. Miss Hertzog went from a 10 meter to a 14-meter bust measurement, and she stayed like that for the better part of five hours. Five hours, Mr Klerman, in which she couldn't enter an emergency lifeboat simply because her bust was too big."
    "I knew that, Marshal!" Klerman gained a sudden measure of courage, eyeing Willard with a new found sense of contempt. "Why, I was about place Mr Viner here on the prohibited list and . . . "
    "Save it for the court, Mister! You can't play the victim now." Jarvis' hand dipped into her cleavage again. She produced another warrant. This one was for Klerman. "Your little bit of duplicity will cost you everything. You've been charged with aiding and abetting a known felon, attempting to conceal the commission of a crime, and for denying the strikers reasonable access to facilities suited for their special needs."
    An audible clunk was heard, followed by a gasp of surprise from Holbridge. In the brief moment Marsha took to dress down Klerman, Willard had detached his artificial right hand. Using his now-free left hand, Willard grabbed Holbridge by the hair. The small barrel of a built-in gun rested up against the back Holbridge's head. "I'm not going to prison, Marshal. Not by your hand or anyone else's!"
    "Just where will you go then, Willard?" Marsha said cooly, her hand creeping slowly toward her blouse.
    "Keep your hands where I can see them! You're big enough to hold a gun down there." Willard was referring to Marsha's cleavage. He had no way of knowing if he was right, but didn't want to take chance of being wrong. "Want me to splatter this guy's head all over the room?"
    Marsha held her arms over her head, as did Klerman and everyone else in the Hall. "Willard, really now, where can you expect to go? Don't tell me you've concocted an elaborate escape plan, just like the plan you had Klerman follow in your quest to take over the club?"
    Klerman's eyes bulged involuntarily. "What?"
    "That's right, Mr Klerman. You know how the Mob operates. After a few years of being your 'partner', Willard would've convinced you to take an early retirement from the business. Had you refused," Marsha rolled her eyes, "well, they've never found Hoffa's body nor those of other people that failed to play along."
    "Shut your blathering!" Willard increased the pressure to the back of Holbridge's head. "You, Marshal, will contact the shuttle bay and have a ship prepped for me. You better do as I say, or this man and several other people in this room will go down with me."
    Marsha was suitably unimpressed with Willard's artificial bravado. "I've read your file, Willard, and have observed you for many months. I know why you like pillow women so much." Standing akimbo, the Marshal pushed out her quite desirable bust, the blouse stressed like a second skin. "It's an issue of control. You find women of my dimensions too willful and intimidating."
    The desperate man took a step back, his hold on Holbridge's neck becoming a bit tighter. "You're certainly acting that like now! You're pushy and arrogant!"
    "Ha! That may be, but you find pillow women perfectly suitable for you needs. You want women who are dependent on others to maintain their lifestyle. You need women who can comfort men unconditionally. Finally, you want women who have no way of resisting should you decided to do more than just pillow."
    "You're annoying me, Marshal. When people annoy me . . . "
    "Wait one moment, Willard," Marsha interrupted quickly. "Would you change your opinion about me if my bosom was as big as a pillow woman's?"
    "Stop stalling, Marshal, or . . . " Willard's order went uncompleted as he, and everyone else within eyesight, watched as Marsha ripped open her blouse. Her wonderful, succulent, oh-so-glommable breasts wobbled for a brief moment that felt like an eternity. The texture and color of her breast skin absolutely shouted fertility and firmness. Willard's body betrayed him. His hold on Holbridge relaxed, and he felt that his underwear was three sizes too small. In his lecherous heart-of-hearts, he could readily imagine the exposed woman as a pillower. Now, if only that damn Marshal would stop breathing like that, her basketball bosom quivering like an expectant lover, and . . .
    Four station security guards, unnoticed by Willard, appeared from behind and dropped him to the floor. His built-in gun was neutralized by an application of quick-setting glue injected down the barrel. Another guard had appeared, handing Marsha her marshal's jacket. To the sound of well-deserved applause, the blushing woman covered her chest from further view. She pinned her badge to the front of the jacket. It complemented her natural charm and curves quite well.
    After their rights were read, Willard and Klerman were hearded out of the hall to the accompaniment of booing and jeering. Holbridge the film producer was left dumbfounded, wondering by what twist of fate he was left alone. About to eat the remaining portions left on his companions' dinner plates, he saw Jarvis coming back for him. The snug jacket over her bosom stretched and relaxed with her breathing. Holbridge appreciated the sight, wishing that she could be in his films. "Mr Alex Holbridge, I almost forgot about you." She undid a jacket a little, and for a third time a hand dipped into her succulent cleavage. Out came yet another warrant. "You're under arrest for mis-reporting the amount you owe for income taxes for the last seven years."
    Holbridge was sad for being arrested, but was compensated somewhat by the fact that the arresting officer was a well-endowed sheila instead of a crotchety old man on the verge of retirement.

There was rapid change at the Cloud 9 Club. With Klerman and Willard arrested, the president of the Cloud 9 franchise acted according to club policy and sent a replacement, a man named Mr Ansyl. The first thing Ansyl did was negotiate a new contract with the striking pillow women. It was the same contract the women had before Klerman came up with his ill-advised grab for the tip money. Satisfied, Laila and the others signed the new contract.
    Then there was the matter of the replacements. Ansyl wasn't the kind of man that would let promising talent go to waste. After holding a series of meetings with the replacements, Ansyl was able to place the majority of the women at other Cloud 9 clubs. The remainder was able to find private employers. In fact, Gayle was hired by a rich tri-dee screenwriter. Gayle gained quite a bit of helpful advice during her five years of pillowing. Eventually she became a best-selling author, and her most noted work was a story series centering on pillow women that used wetware and VR skills to solve crimes. Barbara served as a pillow woman for a wealthy shipping magnate from Novaya Zemlya. In her contract, Barbara stipulated that she must have love play at least once a month. Her night of sexual ecstasy with Willard had left its mark, and her employer was more than willing to satisfy her. After twenty years of private pillowing Barbara married one of the Magnate's sons and raised a family. She kept her sofa-sized breasts for twenty more years, which made for some interesting family gatherings and photo shoots.
    Before leaving, Marshal Jarvis had lunch with some of the pillow women in the Hall of Heaven. The gathering of buxom belles was eager to hear what Jarvis had to say, including her own short-term experience of being an inadvertant pillow woman when she was a teenager. Patty, wearing a pair of shorts and sandals, smiled mischievously as she thought up a question for the Marshal. "Whatever possessed you to expose your top at Willard? I would think that after seeing so many naked bosoms that one more wouldn't make a difference for him."
    Jarvis nodded. "I had to stall Willard for a few moments so the security guards could grab him. My mother was a member of the New Darwin Police on Outback. She and her partner are rather well-equipped in the breast department. In some instances, it was the quick exposure of their natural chest charms that made the badguys lose the will to fight." Jarvis patted the side of one her covered mammaries. "The women in my family have always been blessed with shapely feminine fronts. If exposing one's chest to stop a badguy worked for my mom, then it would certainly work for me."
    Laila, dressed in typical pillow women attire (thong, nipple pasties, and ankle, wrist, and neckbands), had another question. "Marshal, just how long were you on the station?"
    "Please, call me Marsha," said the bemused woman. "Only badguys running out of options call me Marshal. Most of the time it's something much worse." The women gathered around Marsha shared her giggle. "I've worked undercover in the club for almost a year."
    "A year? Back when the ten additional pillow women were hired with some of the support staff?"
    "Yes, Laila. The Cloud 9 Board of Directors received word of Klerman's gambling debts and tried to help him. When the Board realized that Klerman was keeping company with mobsters, the Marshals Office was called." Marsha indicated to her basketball bosom. "I had all the 'qualifications' to get easily hired as a waitress. My job was to keep tabs on Klerman and his mobster contacts here in the club. Your strike really forced the issue for him, and made my job much easier. You know how bosses tend to forget in the middle of rants that there are employees nearby listening."
    "We know. For us pillow women, however, it's the case of the client talking in his sleep. They say the most interesting things while they slumber between our breasts."
    "I bet they do. Of course you keep what they say as they sleep in confidence. Pillower-Client Privilege, right?"
    Laila had to smile. "Oh so right. Speaking of privilege, can you tell us just where Willard Viner found that bottle of Bubbles? Those things must be rare."
    "Quite rare, Laila. About 300 bottles of Bubbles remain unaccounted for, and fifty known bottles are in the hands of private collectors and medical researchers. Willard had the pull to arrange a robbery of a private collector's house. He didn't tell Klerman about it, but it will cost the both of them just the same."
    "Klerman got greedy, pure and simple. He really should've done something about his gambling problem when the higher-ups prompted him to get help."
    Marsha grinned bashfully as she produced a flat sheet photo from her briefcase. "Speaking of greedy, can I get some autographs? I give my husband a memento from each case I've been assigned to. Unlike a thong, there's room on this photo for proper signatures."
    Laila looked regal as she stretched her arms, her movement making her exquisite bust jiggle. "I'd be honored to sign that photo, Marsha. Most of the thongs and panties we autograph end up on the bottoms of drooling fanboys."
    "Now that's a scene I didn't want to imagine."
 
 

[Epilogue]

Laila adjusted her recliner controls, bringing her into a sitting position relative to the floor. With a 'ware command, she had the decorative shutter over the huge clearsteel viewport open. She now had a nighttime view of Lagoon below, the cities and pleasure liners forming their own constellations of light. Sharing this view was the sweet Mr Johannes. His generosity and support during the strike was much appreciated by the pillow women. Laila wanted to thank him for all he did, but Johannes declared that no reward or expression of appreciation was needed.
    Of course, Laila did find a way to thank Johannes. The pillowers, in addition to being paid a bit more, were given injections of the just recently-available eighth-generation nanites. Specifically tailored to work directly with wetware, these nanites were also prodigious builders of breasts. In little over twelve days of giving the wetware command, Laila added another 174 cm to her bust measurement, giving herself a BH ratio of four. Some of the other pillowers enlarged themselves as well. Patty added an extra meter of measure, saying that the number seven was her lucky number. The clients found this to be fair compensation, for the price of pillowing was increased to 1,400 credits per night. At least it was a round number.
    Johannes, bedecked in green silk pajamas, slipped himself into Laila's rose-scented cleavage. Underneath him was the soft sleeping mat, and to either side were Laila's enlarged glories. With his head titled back, Johannes could see that Laila was looking down at him, smiling like a proud mother. "There you go," said the pillow woman. "That wasn't so bad, was it? My added mass has enhanced your pillowing pleasure. See, your feet can now be covered without you going into a fetal position."
    "But I liked it when I could tickle the front of your ladybumps with my decrepit little feet," replied the over-aged schoolboy. "Now I'm even more held in awe of your lovely mass."
    "Thank you. Since I'm going to be here for two more years, I might as well make the most of it. When I marry my future husband, he'll find me with an Angelican front, but with a much bigger bank account."
    "You just want to feel like a queen for two more years." Johannes chuckling made the very queen he praised to reach down her cleavage to deliver a playful slap on his head. "When you and your hubby build your home and raise an army of kids, you'll come to see your adventures here at the club as the good old times."
    "That goes without saying, you rascal." Laila wobbled her bust, the undulation of her mass was that of thick jello. "Now get to sleep unless you want some advice."
    "Just give me a minute, I'll think of something." With that Johannes closed his eyes in thought. After ten minutes Laila used her wetware to determine that the old man had indeed gone to sleep. Smiling, the pillow woman gazed through the viewport for a few more minutes before closing it. Moments later she had joined her client in a restful slumber that lasted the whole night.
 
 

END	39
Thanks goes to Sheber for his editorial eye, inventing the term Headrest Mistress, and for his Cloud 9 graphic. A tip of the hat goes to Adrian Burns as well for providing the kernal of this story - ultra-busty women on strike. :-)