Even though I had helped Fanny Fanshawe to write it, I was shocked when I read the notice. It was a slap in the face for the Upper Sixth, the only girls in the whole school whose breasts were big enough to flop around our navels. This was discrimination.

The taxi driver looked in his interior mirror again. She was still there. He closed his eyes, deliberately screwing them up tight like a little boy saying his prayers. When he opened them again, twenty seconds and four hundred yards later, she hadn't gone away.

The next morning, Smegs was back to her old self. She put her bra on and behaved perfectly normally. She went to see the Headmistress and apologised, and the old sow let her off the rest of her suspension. So Smegs was with us in classes for the rest of the day, although she did disappear towards the end of the afternoon, mumbling something about her Chemistry project. But she was back after tea, and we all enjoyed an excellent game of Strip Trivial Pursuit, in which I ended up still wearing my entire school uniform while the twins were totally naked within twenty minutes.

She certainly seemed to be applying herself in the next few days. She was forever slipping away to the Chemistry lab, telling us she was just finishing off her project work. On the Friday, I saw her coming out of the lab with a relieved expression on her face.

It was all around the school by lunchtime. And in the school restaurant, instead of the usual dribs and drabs of girls picking at sandwiches, you could hardly move for the crowds who had gathered to catch a glimpse of the Junior hockey team. A splendid bunch of girls, they never strayed far from one another, and were always to be found at the head of the queue for lunch.

The girls of the Fourth, Fifth and Lower Sixth Forms were by now frothing at the mouth in frustration. The Upper Sixth included half a dozen girls with some of the biggest tits you ever saw in your life. They could live with that, just. But now, the entire Junior hockey team had spouted thirteen sets of absolute whoppers, literally overnight. They were sick as pigs. And being English and having a grievance, they had a meeting about it.

I looked all over the place for Smegs, but didn't find her, and she must have come in to the dorm very late, and gone out very early the next day. There was a damp fishy patch in her bed, but Smegs was nowhere to be seen.

They were doing the Drama Mistress's own adaptation of 'Pride and Prejudice'. Well, it contains more than its fair share of female characters, and a Junior Drama Group can always come up with enough flat-chested girls with short hair and baritone voices to play the parts of the men who � it is a truth universally acknowledged � must be in search of a wife.

Almost the entire Second and Third Forms at St Cat's were now hugely developed. The Junior Drama Group were biggest of all. Smegs had obviouly overdone it a bit with them, as she would perhaps have been the first to admit. There were some of them with tits hanging almost down to their pussies by the end of that hysterical first night, and the Headmistress took the unprecedented step of sending for a team of emergency corsetieres: plump, disbelieving ladies who took one look and refused to have anything more to do with this spooky place.

"I made too much," Smegs admitted tearfully on the train. "It doesn't keep, so I had to use it up. The Drama Group was the last chance, so I had to give them all that was left. It was a bit of an overdose. I'm sorry, Shan!"

That night, in bed, I broached the question.

"Did we really need as much as this?" I stirred the bucket with a stick, trying to get the white powder to dissolve.

We hadn't really discussed how we were going to administer a dose to Baps. "We'll play it by ear. On the hoof," Smegs said, pouring a generous draught into a garden spray bottle. "There, that ought to do it. We can just squirt it accidentally on her tits sometime during the course of the evening..."

My mobile phone rang at about seven next morning. It hurt to get up and answer it, but it hurt even more listening to it ring. It was Baps's Mum.

It was just after ten when we found her. She was sitting up on top of Fillamore Down, holding her head in both hands. We approached her from the rear, and I called her name.

We got the antidote cream rubbed into about a third of one tit, then did the same area on the other. "Better try to keep them balanced," said Smegs in horror, "then if it does work, they'll be the same size as each other." We ended up covering about a quarter of each one, starting at the nipples and working upwards. Then we sat and waited in the sunshine.

"But Daddy, we have to go out, it's imperative!"

Matron was around when we reached school, and she even managed to rustle up some supper for us, as the cooking staff were all away. It all worked out quite well, as Jeremy was working over the half-term, and once he found he had company, he slipped into the dorm through the back entrance and we had a bit of a threesome! Wow!

We didn't quite manage the full twenty-eight hours of shagging. The phone kept ringing and interruping us. I suppose that's what the Ancient Romans meant by coitus interruptus. It must have happened to them as well. I will ask the Classics Mistress.

Of course, by the time all the others started drifting back to school after the half term holiday, we had finished screwing Jeremy and half-dragged, half-carried him back to his caretaker's shed. Bow-legged but reasonably satisfied, we made our way back to the dorm, and were lying there on our beds when the other girls started drifting in.

"Did you help her with this one, Shan?" Sam Tretowall was peering short-sightedly at the notice board again. I was beginning to wonder if she ever did anything else. I drifted over somewhat loftily.

"Golly!" said Sam. "What on earth does she mean?"

"I don't remember as much female bonding as this when we used to play." Smegs and I were watching the Junior hockey team playing against Lady Corleone's Roman Catholic Girls. We were trailing by seven goals to nil after the first ten minutes, but the visitors were beginning to tire.

Say what you like about Smegs's bucket chemistry, her latest batch of boob-juice was certainly fast-acting. Mother had bought a Tombola ticket from the Boy Scouts and her prize was a small bottle of soothing bath oil. The following morning she rang me on my mobile phone.

As if that wasn't enough news to be going on with, a panic-stricken call from Baps revealed that Smegs's boob-juice worked just as well at second-hand.

Meanwhile, all over the area served by the local dairy, women and girls were waking up, getting out of bed and falling over. Local doctors' waiting rooms were crowded with females all sizing up each other's chests and realising they weren't the only ones. And as if the buying spree of the St Cat's Juniors hadn't already exhausted the local shops' stocks of the more outrageous sizes of brassieres, along came just about every female from a radius of fifteen miles, looking for an E cup or bigger.

After the hockey debacle, the head groundsman inspected the remains of the sports field, shook his head and doubted that the grass would ever grow again. "S'that bloody love-juice," he complained. "That kills grass stone-dead, it do."

In a way, I was glad that the swimming tournament against the other local schools clashed with the netball match, as it saved Smegs and me from getting involved with all those girls who looked so much like Naomi Greene-Hunter-Wellington before she had the enhancements. It would have been altogether too, too painful.

At least, when we found out about the epidemic of big boobs and the Health authorities decided it was something in the milk, it didn't affect St Cat's. Our supplies came from a different dairy, free of contamination by Junior girl-milk and God-knows what all else. So all the rest of the school didn't grow huge tits.

"Oh, we do it all the time, now. Ever since these things grew, I've been randy as a bitch on heat, and Daddy can't leave it alone. Can you, dear?" She stood up from the table and placed her tongue in his ear. I looked, but it didn't appear out of the other side. At least she had taken those ridiculous spurs off and dressed herself half decently. She was wearing loose-legged chamois leather shorts, cut immodestly close round the crotch. Above the waist she wore a man's extra-large undervest, which allowed her nipples to poke out wherever they happened to be at any given moment. For a grown woman and a mother, it was a disgusting display.

Smegs came up to bed much later. I heard her undressing in the darkness, then her bed creaked. It creaked again a little later as she got up, and went out of the room, I assumed to go to the toilet. When I woke up, it was morning, and she still hadn't come back. I shouldn't really have gone looking for her, but I was still a bit drowsy and not thinking too clearly. When I heard the sounds of energetic humping coming from my parents' room, I knew where she had spent the night.

Baps took me into the kitchen and sat me down. "What's the matter, kid? You look as if you need a good screwing!"

Orson wasn't quite what I'd hoped for, but if you ignored the brick-red face and huge hands, he was quite presentable. Taller than Jeremy, his sun-bleached hair was short, but not aggressively short. No scars or distinguishing features. And a lovely bottom, I had to admit. Watching him walk away towards the bar made me feel all liquid for some reason. Not like me at all.

If I'd known Orson had been a virgin I'd have been more gentle with him. But he got the hang of it after a while, and he made a much better stab at it than Jeremy had on his first attempt. And by his third or fourth, he was quite the expert.

"You'll never believe what his name was," said Smegs, the rest of the dormitory hanging on her every word. She'd already described the pre-breakfast fuck scene in altogether too much detail.

"Golly, Shan, look at this!" Sam Tretowall was again peering short-sightedly at the notice board.

I hurried to see the Shoal Secretor.

The sight of topless Juniors bouncing and parading around the school was curiously disturbing. Most of the girls took toplessness very seriously. Skirts were altered so that they were little more than microscopic strips of material sufficient to cover only their regulation knickers. Endlessly long legs stretched from white ankle socks to creamy thigh, white cotton crotch and the underside of rounded buttock.

This clipping was pinned up on the notice board in the Junior Common Room, alongside the leader-board on which the girls published their scores from visits to town. The ex-Drama Group was well out in front, with the top five names on the list, each averaging at least half a dozen more boys per trip than their nearest competitors.

Somebody told the TV News Company.

"Golly, Shan, look at this!" Sam Tretowall was peering short-sightedly at the notice board. One of the advantages of modern computer operating systems is 'drag-and-drop', which saves me typing the same words every time Sam Fuckin' Tretowall peers short-sightedly at the sodding notice board. Unfortunately, it didn't help in real life. I strolled over.

That was it. No meeting to discuss it with the Junior girls, just this bald statement that the Headmistress had changed her mind. For some reason, she no longer thought it was a good idea to allow young girls with breasts far too big for their age to dangle them freely all around the school, and to dress like whores in the streets of the town. It might make sense, but it was poor person-management. The Headmistress surely had a place waiting for her in British industry.

"What do you reckon, Shan? Is it time to call off the hostilities?" Smegs was striding briskly across the school playing field. It was a perfect Spring day. In the distance, the Head Groundsman was shaking his head sadly as he inspected the cricket square, which would never be the same again after two hundred years of English Winters. I trotted a few paces and caught her up.

Miss Clitterbox was eating a sandwich. Pre-packed cheese slices and cucumber. "Oh, hi!" she said, making it sound like 'Oh, high!'

It's not easy to get the proportions right when you mix small quantities. That's why Smegs prefers to use a bucket. But a whole bucket-full of boob-juice was the last thing we wanted around St Cat's at that time, so she had mixed a special batch just for Petronella Clutterbuck, Nella for short.

There were no calls on the mobile for the rest of Friday, so we figured everything had gone off all right. Which just shows how wrong you can be. "Did you switch this thing off?" I asked Smegs. It was Saturday morning.

So the Clutterbuck Experiment hadn't been a roaring success, although Trevor might have disagreed. But we did hear from Nella late on Sunday evening saying she thought her love-bags were big enough now and she thought she'd try bottle 'B'.

So we mixed a much larger quantity, in a bucket this time, and put more water with it, and 50% more potassium bromide. Later that evening, with a hockey match due the next day against Sister Cornelia of the Rampant Goat's School for Catholic Gentlewomen, Smegs stood on a chair and I held her legs while she poured the mixture into the water tank above the showers in the dressing room.

The hockey game went off very well, despite our team's top-heaviness and the loss of a number of key players due to parental action. By midway through the second half, most of the players were deeply and passionately in love with their opposite numbers. The atmosphere of lust had enveloped the referee, who at one point was forced to come over to the touchline to break up a nine-woman circular sixty-nine involving the coaching staff of both sides. She stayed to make the numbers up to ten, and the game ended in a welter of nudity and dove-fucking.

We had the same success with the netball team, who were routed on the court by a visiting team of girls from some flea-bitten State school. By now, the affectionate welcome afforded by St Cat's teams was becoming legendary. Throughout the first quarter of the game, the spotty and foul-mouthed visitors had been receiving encouraging signals of love-making delights to come, and several lengthy kisses had already been exchanged.

The swimming team were a bit of a different problem from the other two sports teams. They had developed the same huge tits as the others, but the horniness symptoms seemed to be absent. In the swimming tournament, as a result of which St Cat's had been banned from further competition, a terrible fight had broken out in the pool. There was certainly no sign of excessive affection for their fellow-competitors.

By the Easter Holiday, Fillamore Deepleigh had been under the influence of the boob-juice and its side effects for almost two months. A number of young women had cause to start checking their calendars and a number of young men were looking distinctly worried.

It wasn't Orson, actually, as I discovered after we had been screwing devotedly for an hour or two on the kitchen table.

We had paused for a breather. The church clock struck eight. It was dark, so it must have still been evening. Daddy put the kettle on, Smegs was scratching beneath her left tit with intense concentration. I hoped she hadn't caught anything, or we'd all have it by now.

The boys went home around eleven, and we all stretched and made signs of going up to bed.

Next day, we strolled down into the village. "We need to talk", I said.

We sat on the floor outside the bathroom, Smegs and I. Mother and Daddy had been inside for ten minutes, and we could hear them still screwing on the floor. We had persuaded them to go into the bathroom by a clever plan.

After that success, we decided not to bother too much about the rest of the population of Fillamore Deepleigh.

So, here we were, back at St Cat's. The twins were full of tales about the time they'd had. They seemed to have spent most of the time in bed. If we could believe what they both said separately and put it together, they spent three weeks in bed in two weeks. Their claims added up to twenty-seven boys. It made my two look a bit sad. Even Virginia was claiming five. It's just as well they're all liars, or I'd be really worried.

Jeremy helped us by getting hold of the milking machine. I don't know where he got it from, but we got a call to go to his shed and there it all was. All we had to do was to persuade the girls to go to Jeremy's shed at milking time. It cost us fifty pence each girl per day for two milkings. If Baps got to hear about it, she'd get very heavy with us for cutting the rate for the job.

"Have you seen the team sheet for the Junior hockey? It's on the notice board." I pointed it out to Smegs.