ST CAT'S DAIRIES

ST CAT'S DAIRIES

by Some Sort of Dog

Chapter 1:� By Royal Appointment

"Before you say anything," I told Sam Tretowall, "yes, I have seen the notice on the board. And do you intend spending the entire remainder of your academic career staring myopically at the bloody thing, or are you going to get on with some bloody work?"

You can say that sort of thing if you're Head Girl of an exclusive girls' school. Sam Tretowall produced an enormous handkerchief from somewhere, surely not the leg of her knickers? Surely not! She mopped her eyes with it. Something seemed to have upset the damned girl. I easily resisted any temptation to take her in my arms and crush her to my capacious and low-slung bosom and rain burning kisses upon her upturned lips. I may be bisexual � shit, I am extremely bisexual � but there are limits.

But what of the notice on the board? It was immaculately typed and spelled. A bit of a change from the bad old days of Miss Andrea Fanshawe, the dyslexic School Secretary. Must be one of the temps from the secretarial agency. It was headed: SCHOOL UNIFORM in big, bold type. At last, a secretary who had discovered how to produce big, bold type. It was five years before anyone here learned how to produce a pound sign.

SCHOOL UNIFORM

'Following the competition for the design of a new school uniform, the school authorities are pleased to announce details of items of clothing which are now available.

We have negotiated with local outfitters for supplies of school uniform clothing and accessories with regard to the SPECIAL REQUIREMENTS of St Cat's pupils.

Skirts are to be slightly flared, navy in colour and of regulation MID-THIGH length, worn with short white socks and sensible shoes.

White blouses and shirts are now available in all sizes from 26" chest to 100" bust. Larger sizes are available to special order. Blouses are to be worn tucked into the skirt at the waist. This may be difficult for some girls. The Headmistress will look SYMPATHETICALLY upon girls whose breasts descend to below the level of the waist.

Tie in school colours. Girls with Fuller Figures should take especial care in the tying of neckties. Complaints have been received from members of the public that the ties of some girls are failing to reach the extremities of the bust and are thus lying horizontally on top of the breasts instead of hanging freely down the front of the blouse in the approved manner. The school has negotiated the procurement of EXTRA LONG NECKTIES to overcome this problem. Please see the Matron.

Knitwear. The standard lambswool pullover is now available in all sizes as above, with a much lower-cut V-neck to allow the display of REASONABLE amounts of cleavage.

Sportswear will remain unchanged, except that EXTREMELY abbreviated skirts will now be compulsory. The logo on the school T-shirt has been redesigned to improve legibility when stretched almost OBSCENELY tight across burgeoning young breasts.'

All pretty standard stuff, but it needed saying. It needed saying after the Headmistress had allowed the Junior girls to wear slut clothes for their screwing expeditions into town, and after she had allowed the same girls to go topless inside school buildings. In fact, she had made it compulsory. So the Law had to be laid down. The next bit interested Smegs and me.

'Fifth and Sixth Form girls may wear hose and high heels on FRIDAYS only. Hair must be tidy and may be secured by a plain coloured band.

Suitable and ADEQUATE brassieres MUST be worn BY ALL GIRLS unless a special personal dispensation has been obtained from the Headmistress. Brassieres must be black (although black girls may wear white). Red or blue brassieres, and brassieres of non-standard design e.g. half- or quarter-cup, or front-loading, will be permitted on Fridays only at the discretion of the Headmistress.

Reasonably clean knickers or panties must be worn and will NOT be removed in hot weather nor for any other purpose. Internal sanitary protection should be worn at appropriate times, and changed at recommended intervals. Unsightly dangling string and/or visibly excessively exuberant pubic hair are unacceptable. Pubic untidiness will not be tolerated.'

The only confusing part was the last sentence. But at least we had regained our basic human right to wear what we liked on Fridays. With any luck, the guards would be removed from the school gates, the dogs would be rounded up, and we would be allowed to go into the town again at weekends. Not that I needed to go into town for a screw, I could get one any time from Jeremy in the caretaker's shed.

It was necessary only to avoid milking time, when, morning and evening, the shed became crowded with Junior ex-Drama Group girls supplying high-class dairy produce. Smegs had even pulled off a mighty coup by taking samples of our girl-dairy's milk, butter and cheese to Windsor Castle. To our delight, we were now entitled to display the Royal 'By Appointment' Coat of Arms on our packaging. Jeremy had it painted on the side of the milk-float.

Things were looking good on the dairy front. We had thirty-four lactating girls being milked twice daily; plus a sixty-seater bus-load of young women coming in from town at ten o'clock, morning and night, being dealt with in two shifts. A neatly-lettered notice at the school gates invited casual milk-donors to drop in anytime, and discreetly-worded advertisements appearing in the local newspapers offered the opportunity for clean-living females to be placed on our ever-lengthening waiting list.

The only fly in the ointment was Moggie � or as she now preferred to be known, Ms Voluptua Valentine � St Cat's new Chemistry Mistress. Moggie felt entitled to drop by the milking parlour for a session whenever she chose, regardless of Jeremy's tightly co-ordinated schedule. She even pronounced it 'skedule', and she'd only been in the States for three years.

And when Moggie felt like a session, she meant a SESSION. Not content with being milked, she needed Jeremy's full attention as well, or that of the disco lad, or even both of them. It was most upsetting for the rest of the herd to see copulation taking place around them. The common women from the town were familiar with the sex act in most of its forms. They saw a vast-breasted woman being comprehensively fucked while letting down her milk, and they found it disturbing. They wanted and demanded action.

The gently-nurtured girls of the Junior ex-Drama Group had never known any form of sex except the purest lesbian relationship familiar to boarding-school girls. For them to witness a teacher being noisily serviced during their milking-time caused their milk yield to fluctuate alarmingly. We tried asking Moggie to avoid the shed during the ex-Drama girls' sessions, but she seemed to take a perverse delight in blundering in unannounced and saying, "Oh, dear, it's the girls' time! Well, never mind, we'll just have a quickie, now I'm here!" And off they'd go, while our impressionable Juniors gawped at the sight of Jeremy's glistening pork sword. They had no idea what it was, but they quickly learned what it was for. It probably spoiled them for ordinary men in later life.

The upshot of all this was that the women from the town refused to give milk if they couldn't have sex as well. 'No Lactation Without Copulation' was the gist of their ultimatum.

"This is serious," said Smegs, seriously. "Jeremy and whatsisface...?"

"The disco lad?"

"Hasn't he got a name?"

"Does he need one?"

"Probably not. Anyway, Jeremy and him. They can't cope with sixty women twice a day. Not on a daily basis, at least. And the Juniors are going to start gagging for it before long. I found one using a dildo yesterday. She almost seemed to be enjoying it. If they start wanting sex with their milking, we're going to be in trouble."

"Well, yes, they're all well under sixteen."

Smegs looked astonished. "Yes, well, there's that aspect as well, of course. But how old were you when you lost your cherry?"

"Fourteen, of course. You were outside, listening."

"That's what I thought. And I lost mine when I was twelve. We're about average. If the ex-Drama girls were normal, they'd already have discovered shagging by now."

"Or invented it."

"Exactly. But that's not the point. We wouldn't be forcing them to have sex. All we'd be doing would be leaving a few boys around the place for them to use if they needed them. Like magazines in a dentist's waiting room."

"You mean they're not allowed to take them away?"

"Best not to. No, it's the yield I'm worried about, not the cock-eyed moral aspects. If they start screwing, they're going to become emotionally disturbed before they're ready for it, instead of sitting quietly providing milk as nature intended."

It was a chillingly convincing argument. I couldn't fault it, whatever it was.

"So what do you suggest?" I asked her.

"Two things. We need thirty studs for the town women. A single-deck bus should be big enough, save costs a bit. We could pay them peanuts. In fact, they should be paying us!"

"What about the Juniors?"

"We open a brand new shed just for them. To cover the cost, we'll milk them at lunchtime and at midnight as well as morning and evening. So they'll get twice the pleasure and we'll get nearly double the yield. We can keep Moggie out, we'll disguise the shed as a squash-court or something. You know how she gets a nose-bleed at the very thought of sports and games."

"What about sex?"

"Not now, Shan, I'm trying to explain something to you. Concentrate, please!"

Regretfully I took my tongue out of her mouth and pulled up my drenched knickers as she continued.

"We'll bring in some boys for them, but they'll be such limp specimens, they should be put off boys for life, with any luck!"

The wanted ad appeared in the local paper that afternoon.

WANTED

By Respected Girls' Boarding School. BOYS, aged between 14 and 16. Must have interest in all aspects of computing and the Internet. Secondary interest essential, e.g. train-spotting, sports statistics, trivia quizzes, Manchester United Football Club. Applicants should be puny and short-sighted. Transport provided. Reply by e-mail please.

By bedtime, Smegs appeared with a thick wad of paper. "Enough applicants here to run four separate shifts, with a waiting list of two hundred," she announced. "The first batch starts tomorrow morning. And the bus hire company is giving us a 10% discount."

Of course, it worked like a charm. Over the next few days, Smegs installed a number of terminals. The boys arrived on their bus, peered incuriously at the Junior girls as they came in and stripped their clothes off, then got down to some serious surfing until milking had finished and it was time to catch the bus home again. It never occurred to the boys to ask why they were there.

One or two of the more adventurous girls moved their bar-stools closer to the computer terminal area, and tried to engage the boys in conversation while showing off what they instinctively felt were their best features. Some of the boys remembered seeing something similar on an ftp site called filipina, but preferred the real thing, it wasn't as wet and smelly.

After a couple of weeks, the girls asked Smegs if she'd mind getting rid of those nerdy boys, all they did was hog the computers the whole time. So the boys were laid off, the buses were cancelled, and the milk yield shot up to its best figure yet.

Meanwhile, over in the original milking parlour, an additional thirty places had to be provided as applications flooded in. As fast as one batch of drained women and exhausted men dragged themselves on to one of the fleet of shuttle buses, another batch came in and sat down on the still warm, still sticky bar stools.

A waiting room had to be built; even in the best-organised operations, the human factor causes delays occasionally. Jeremy opened a small shop in the waiting room, selling nursing brassieres in attractive designs, sexually explicit reading matter, flimsy silk underwear, exotic oils, fancy dress uniforms, bust-enlarging cream, riding crops and spurs, delay-spray, chocolate and JY Kelly. Rudely-dressed schoolgirls served behind the counter, and anywhere else they could find a square yard of vacant floor space.

Overlooking the whole scene, Smegs sat in her air-conditioned office, working on her studies and occasionally counting the money.

Chapter 2:� A New Batch

"We've got to see the Headmistress," said Smegs. She didn't sound unduly concerned.

"What's it about? Is it trouble?" I asked her.

"Nothing we can't handle. She asked if we could come to her office at ten this morning, but I told her it would be better if she came to my office at two this afternoon, after the Juniors have finished lunchtime milking."

"What did she say to that?" I was aghast.

"Loved it! She said to have the kettle on at two."

I wondered, not for the first time, if Smegs wasn't taking things a little too far. We sat in her office, waiting for the Headmistress to arrive. On the thickly carpeted floor, First Form girls crawled around on hands and knees like low life-forms, fetching and carrying bags of cash and wads of banknotes.

"How are you going to explain about these?" I said.

"What, these?" She seemed to notice the young girls for the first time. "They're on their free study period. Business studies. They count the takings and put it into bags for the security van to collect. Valuable experience for them."

"I suppose so." I didn't feel too sure. "Do they actually need to be naked, Smegs?"

"Saves getting their clothes dirty. Money's filthy stuff, you know. People carry it around in their pockets and purses. Picks up all kinds of shit."

I watched the children crawling around the floor. They seemed contented enough.

"I hope you're not getting ideas about growing tits on these kids," I said.

"Tits? What for?"

"Well, you grew them on all the others, and they're only a year or two older than these."

"These are First Formers, Shan! How could you even dream of growing tits on them. Honestly, I think you're perverted, sometimes."

Conversation flagged a bit after that, and when the Headmistress arrived shortly afterwards, panting and out of breath, she found us in a sixty-nine position on the carpet. The naked girls crawled uncomplainingly around us, avoiding our thrashing bodies.

"Ooops! Shall I come back later?" asked the Headmistress, looking down at us longingly.

Smegs disappointed her. "No, we were just finishing."

Oh, we were, were we, I thought; you speak for yourself, Megan.

She got up, adjusting her dress, and sat down on her office chair, her bare bottom squeaking on the soft leather. I crawled away to the spare chair in the corner, with curious First Form girls sniffing and lapping at my crotch like dogs. It took several minutes to finish myself off, so I missed the start of the conversation.

"How's it going?" the Headmistress was asking.

Smegs rotated in her chair and punched a few keys. A garishly coloured chart filled the screen. "Milk yield," she rapped, pointing to a climbing red line on the screen. The Headmistress nodded.

"Butter, cheese, single cream, double cream, clotted cream, yoghurt." She indicated various other coloured lines, all showing an upward trend.

"What's that brown line?" asked the Headmistress, sharply.

"Herd size. School component. As you can see, it's on its way down. We're getting plenty of takers from outside the school, but the ex-Drama girls are a dwindling asset. It's a worrying trend, I confess."

"Caused by parents taking their girls away from St Cat's," the Headmistress said thoughtfully, fingering her chin. She grasped a tuft of hair on her upper lip and tugged at it as she considered. "How do you propose to overcome the problem?"

"We need to maintain our policy of providing young girl-milk. It's our unique selling proposition. None of the other dairies can do it. They're all being pressured into providing human milk now, but only St Cat's can provide pure young girl-milk. We are, after all, the only source in the whole county of pure young girls!"

"What about the nerds in the IT studies group?" I was startled. The Headmistress called them nerds, too. "Load of swots, can't you get them producing something useful?"

"I wish it were that easy," Smegs shook her head sadly. "We can easily grow their tits, but they might end up big-titted and horny, big-titted and milky, or just plain big-titted. The process is so unpredictable."

"I'm sorry, Megan, I am going to have to step in here and insist. You are going to have to grow the IT studies girls regardless, and see how it turns out. It doesn't matter if you fail, we'll get rid of them and get some more. No! Go for it. I want to see results by next week!"

The Headmistress had spoken. She left the office, the First Form girls gazing up her skirt as she stepped over them on the way to the door. I suspect the Headmistress had not been wearing any knickers. There was a damp patch on the seat of her recently vacated chair. I sniffed it cautiously.

"What do you think you're doing?" Smegs asked.

"Sniffing this chair."

She came round the desk and knelt beside me. "Mmmmm!" she said, appreciatively after a deep sniff. And as we were both already on the floor, we resumed our interrupted love-making for the next hour or so.

I recovered first and sat upright. The First Form girls had all gone, apart from two who lay on the carpet, inexpertly copying what they had seen Smegs and myself doing.

I was appalled.

Quickly, I showed them where they were going wrong and they swiftly achieved climaxes before running off, giggling like schoolgirls.

Smegs watched them fondly as their pert rumps faded from view. "Promising girls," she said, approvingly, before standing up and reaching for her discarded clothing. "We'd better get the bucket out and start mixing. The Headmistress's word is law. Junior IT Studies Group, stand by for action!"

There were thirty-seven girls in the Junior IT Studies Group. Its numbers were not being eroded by parental snatch-backs. We watched them working, hunched over their glowing monitors, tapping with clawlike fingers at their keyboards. We shuddered involuntarily. Was there no other way around this?

"How are we going to administer the boob-juice?" I whispered to Smegs in the cathedral calm of the IT lab. "I mean, they don't take a shower together."

"I wonder if some of them ever undress," she said, "I'm sure I wouldn't if I looked the way they do!"

I could see her point. These girls were a total horror story. "We could lie in wait in their toilets and pick them off one by one when they come in for a piss," I suggested, knowing what the reply would be. It was.

"You can, if you like."

And try as we might, no idea came to us. Inspiration sometimes takes strange forms. Smegs shook me awake that night. "Sshhhh!" she hissed. "Get up and follow me."

She led me out of the dormitory and down the corridor. I stood shivering as she turned to look at me.

"Why didn't you put a dressing gown on, or something? What if someone comes along?"

"You didn't say. You just said to follow you. You know I always sleep naked."

"They're getting lower and lower, Shan!" she jabbed a finger into my breast, somewhere down by my tummy.

"I know, you don't need to remind me," I said with some bitterness. She drags me out of bed to insult my breasts at two in the morning. "We can't all have self-supporting beach-balls!"

Smegs inspected hers with some pride. "No, I suppose we can't!" she said. "Never mind. Look, I just came from the midnight milking, and while I was watching, something came to me."

I let it pass.

"Subliminal advertising!" She stood there, as if expecting an answer.

"What about it?"

"Subliminal advertising! The answer to the Junior IT Studies Group growth problem." I must have looked blank, because she said it again. "They stare at their screens all day. If we can get a message to flash up on to every one of those screens, telling them to take all their clothes off, we can rush in and spray them all in one go!"

Did she honestly believe it could work? She must be going senile in her late teens.

Next day, at about three in the afternoon, she asked me into her office. "Sit down there at that computer. Type a message. Any message."

I said nothing. It's best not to when she's in this mood. I began typing.

'SCHOOL UNIFORM', I began. 'Henceforward, all girls are to wear fire-fighters' uniforms on Fridays. The normal fire-fighter's trousers will be replaced by hose...'

At that point, I stood up and tore at my blouse. It wouldn't come off fast enough. I followed it with my bra, and my breasts plummeted massively down before bouncing part of the way back up again. I looked down at myself in some confusion.

"What did you do that for, Shan?" asked Smegs, wide-eyed.

"I don't know. I just had to do it!"

"You'd better get dressed and carry on," said Smegs.

After the third time, as I stood there topless, she could stand it no longer and collapsed into her chair.

"It works. It works every time!"

"You bastard! You made me get undressed..."

"Only the top half. Not completely! If I made you flash your deliciously fragrant pussy here in the office, I might not have been responsible for my actions..."

She always was a smooth-talking fucker.

Next day, we were stood outside the Junior IT Studies Group lab. "Why do we have to be dressed like this?" I asked Smegs. It did seem a bit excessive. We both wore rubber suits and face masks. On our backs, mounted with shoulder straps like haversacks, were metal canisters with a dangling rubber hose terminating in a spray head like a watering can. We held the hose in one hand, and with the other we tugged on a chain like the flush of an old-fashioned lavatory. We had briefly rehearsed with the apparatus in the dormitory.

"It's a good disguise," she replied in a muffled voice. "We're spraying to get rid of mosquitoes."

"But there aren't any mosquitoes, this is England!"

"That just shows how effective the treatment is, doesn't it!" she said with unassailable logic.

I hoped we hadn't sprayed too much of the concentrated boob-juice in the dormitory. Three of the Lower Sixth girls had come in while we were marching up and down, and they must have received a heavy dose before we noticed them through our face masks.

"Right, you'll hear a high-pitched beep at exactly 2:15. That's the signal. Allow twenty seconds for them to strip off, then we move in. Spray them all, neck to waist. Don't skimp!"

Beep, it went. We didn't skimp.

The Junior IT Studies Group were a terrible, terrible sight with their shirts off. Scaly blueish-white skin was stretched over misshapen skeletons, or overweight dumplings. Some of the girls had breasts already, and they tried to hide them with their hands as we walked up and down the lines of pale bodies, spraying as we went.

The sprays died away, and the pump handles clanked emptily. Smegs and I nodded at each other and left the room. By the time we had dumped the rubber suits and spray apparatus in Jeremy's shed, and made our way back to the Junior IT Studies Group lab, there was uproar inside.

Most of the girls had struggled back into their damp, greyish vests, their regulation bras and their dingy shirts, but one or two were unable to get their clothes back on.

"Christ!" Smegs said. "That batch worked quickly. Look at those two there...!"

'Those two' were attached to one girl. I recognised her as being one of the larger dumpling girls. She was whinnying with fright and staring down at her newly-sprouted chest, which already reached down to well below her waist. As we watched, they seemed to be getting even bigger, but it was just the flesh taking on more of a torpedo shape under its own weight.

Elsewhere in the room, there was evidence of excessive development, unfortunately among those girls who had already dressed. There were ripping sounds and squeals of pain as the girls grew steadily inside their inadequate shirts and brassieres.

"I think we'd better make ourselves scarce for a while," Smegs suggested after a few minutes. "It will be a day or two before we find out if this lot are going to be successful milkers."

We melted away, and made our way back to the dorm. It was as I had feared. Three bewildered Lower Sixth Formers sat on their beds. They wore only a few shreds of white blouse and black bra material. Their breasts rested on the mattresses beside their thighs.

"Oh, bloody hell," muttered Smegs, turning to flee. These three girls were her biggest yet.

"What went wrong this time?" I asked, as we panted away from the scene.

"What do you mean, this time? It's never gone wrong before!"

"It has now. Those three were even bigger then Naomi Greene-Hunter-Wellington. Twice as big!"

"Come to the office. Bring a bucket. We'd better try Moggie's original antidote. Quick, before it goes too far!"

As if it hadn't!

Chapter 3:� Milkmaids

"What are their names, those three?" Smegs perhaps felt that as she had made such an impact on the three girls from the Lower Sixth Form, she ought at least to know who they were.

Viriginia knew. She would, of course. "The tall redhead with freckles is Marcia. The short fat one is Charlotte, and the medium sized fat blonde is Ethylene."

"Ethylene? What sort of name is Ethylene?"

"She's Australian," she said, as if that explained everything. "Her full name is Di-Ethylene Schmeichel. They call her the Ice-Maiden, for some reason."

That's Australians for you, I thought. "Where did they go?" I asked her.

"Where do you think? Where would you go if you started gushing milk? I'd have thought you would have seen them already. Down to your bloody dairy, of course!"

"You mean, they're giving milk?" Smegs said excitedly.

"Not much, only bucketfuls," said Virginia. "But it would be bucketfuls, looking at the size of those girls. I've seen some tits at this place, but nothing to match those!"

But Smegs was halfway out of the door, and I was right behind her.

"Can't see them, they must be at No 2 Parlour, the squash court." Smegs was straining to see above the milling crowds of women from the town. A bus had just dropped sixty of them, and they were jostling for a place on the machine. Several were making a selection from the studs lined up along one wall, their manhood outlined by tight jeans. Many of them used rolled up socks, I knew for a fact.

We hurried across the dewy grass to the squash court, and pushed open the door. Normally, there was none of the disco noise of the original shed: here, each girl had her individual headset playing music of her choice. Some of the more studious girls chose tapes of French translation. You could see their lips moving as they sat at the machine. At this time of night, the court would usually be empty, ready for the arrival of the midnight intake of girls from the Junior ex-Drama Group.

Tonight, there a hubbub of voices and no room to move. Two of Jeremy's new assistants, girls recruited from nearby farms, moved amongst the girls checking the fit of the teats, chalking new names on the blackboard. One of the girls came over to us and stood with hands on hips, accusingly.

"Oi, wot yew mean boi it?" She waved her arm around to indicate the crowd of new arrivals. "This lot. All new gals. They ain't gotta clue."

They hadn't. That much was obvious. The Junior IT Studies Group was here in force, as were the three monster-titted girls from the Lower Sixth. The three must have received an extra-strong dose. Even so, the Junior IT Studies Group weren't all that far behind; there wasn't one of them smaller than Smegs.

Marcia, the tall redheaded Senior girl, was hooked up to a milking machine. She stood next to it with her breasts hanging freely in front of her. Like elongated giant haggises, they reached to her knees. As she was over six feet tall, that made them three feet long. They looked quite pretty, I thought, but perhaps a little large for convenience. Her two companions were regrettably obese, and their breasts were fatter and less stretchy. Theirs only bobbled around at thigh-level. They were still bigger even than Moggie's.

The Junior IT Studies Group couldn't get to grips with the apparatus at all. Suction teats kept falling off, and pools of milk lay all over the floor. Some of the girls were crying piteously. I wished they would shut up. One could hardly hear oneself think.

"Carry on girls, you're doing a fine job, both of you!" cried Smegs to the two assistants. "Always praise your staff when they do well," she preached at me as we went out of the door. We closed it behind us and leaned against it.

"Shit!" I said, and I think I really meant it.

"Oh, it will sort itself out," Smegs said without much sign of hope.

Suddenly, a figure loomed out of the darkness like a demon king coming up through a trapdoor.

"Well, well! What a pleasant surprise! Taking up squash now, girls? A little strenuous with your generous assets, I would have thought!"

Moggie!

"Oh, good evening, Miss ... Aaam ... Valentine," I said. "You're about late this evening."

"Just called in at the milking shed for a fuck, but it's bedlam down there. I'm off to my room to bring myself off in peace and quiet." She had no secrets from us, did Moggie. "But squash? Surely you don't play. Or have you been watching pretty girls playing? At this time of night? Or perhaps you've got boys in there!" Her face had lit up and she moved toward the door. I sidestepped and headed her off.

"Boys? Huh!" That really sounded convincing, Megan! Moggie moved the other way and as Smegs and I both tried to stop her, we collided softly and Moggie was through. She flung the door open and stepped inside. We thought of running away, but found ourselves following her.

She took in the scene at a glance. It was a very long and detailed glance. At last she turned to us and said, "Hmm, I see. Well, if I couldn't get a fuck at the other shed, some of the talent down here has a lot to recommend it. Good evening, Marcia! Charlotte. Di-Ethylene. You three seem to have undergone a late growth spurt! And the Junior IT Studies Group, if I'm not mistaken. Good to see you following in your classmates' footsteps.

We heard the electric milk-float pull up outside. It was too late to shout a warning. Jeremy burst into the squash court.

"Ah, Smegs! What was in those tanks you left with the rubber suits down in the shed?" He spotted Moggie. "Oh. Good evening Miss Valentine."

"Don't let me interrupt, Megan, please go ahead and answer Jeremy's question. He is going to be fully occupied in a few moments. Very fully occupied!"

"Oh, it was nothing, Jeremy. Just some..." she looked at me helplessly.

"...some mosquito killer!" I said in a flash of inspiration.

"There's no mosquitoes round here, Shan," he said.

"Shows how well it works, then, doesn't it," I told him, triumphantly.

"Well, whatever it was, I hope it's not poisonous, 'cos I spilt some all down the front of my trousers."

"Your trousers?" Smegs sounded concerned.

"All down here. It's dried out now, but it soaked right through."

"Well, it will keep the bugs out of your pants," Smegs said, weakly.

"Kiss me, Miss Valentine!" proposed Jeremy suddenly. "No, never mind kissing me. Fuck me absolutely rigid."

"Shit, it's started to work," said Smegs, and made a grab at Jeremy's arm. Too late, he was climbing aboard the Chemistry Mistress, who was, as ever, in no mood to repel boarders. Milking ceased for a while as the three huge-breasted Lower Sixth Form girls, the Junior IT Studies Group, and the two assistants all turned their attention to the sexual intercourse suddenly going on in their midst.

It was time for us to melt away.

"It's a disaster, Smegs. What are we going to say to the Headmistress?"

Smegs put her feet up on her desk and swivelled her chair this way and that. "Look at the yield after two days," was all she said. The screen lit up with its gaudy chart. The red line took a sudden upward swoop. That's the effect of the three big girls and the Junior IT Studies Group. Does it matter that they look more like cows than girls?"

"It will matter to somebody. Somebody loves them!"

"Nobody loves the Junior IT Studies Group, surely?"

"Their mothers do."

"They do? Nah, no chance." She was absolutely convinced. Nobody could possibly love the Junior IT Studies Group. There was a knock on the door.

"Here she is."

The Headmistress came in, stepping over the naked First Formers on the carpet and straddling a back-to-front chair, leaning her chin on the back of it. She rocked the chair on to two legs.

"Don't do that, please, Miss, those chairs cost money."

The Headmistress stopped abusing the furniture. "Sorry," she said in a chastened voice. She started picking her nose, plucking out a bogey and inspecting it, before sticking it to the top of Smegs's desk. Smegs sighed heavily and scraped it off with the end of a pencil. The Headmistress raised one buttock from the chair and farted softly. The naked First Formers sniggered amongst themselves until I looked at them sharply. Smegs opened the window and picked up a large Japanese fan.

"Well?" The Headmistress said, chewing her fingernails, "how did it go?"

"It made their tits bigger," said Smegs, "and they are giving lots of milk. And, Miss, I shouldn't have to tell you about biting your nails, now should I?"

"No, Megan, I suppose you shouldn't." She stopped, and wiped her fingers down her skirt. "Excellent, I said it would work. You see, I was right, wasn't I!"

"That's better. I'll paint some bitter stuff on them, that will stop your disgusting habits, and it is a habit, isn't it, Miss? Well, yes and no! They're a bit ... well ... over-developed, I'm afraid."

The Headmistress laughed. "Ho, ho, ho!" she went. The naked First Formers looked up at her anxiously and edged away towards the door. "I can't imagine you worrying about that, of all people. You have filled the Junior school with enormous titties, and you two aren't exactly small, yourselves."

"They're bigger than us," said Smegs.

"Are they?" The Headmistress raised an eyebrow. "Poor kids. They're going to need intensive counselling, then," she murmured to herself. "Where are they now?"

It was 3:30. "They'll be in the squash court at four," said Smegs.

"Good to see them using our expensive new facilities. But if they're as large as you say, are they not risking injury?"

"That's where they get milked, Miss."

"Milked. Ah, yes, of course. Do you think I might watch?" She licked her lips and her eyes had gone very bright.

"Go right on down, Miss. We'll see you later."

We found her in the squash court. It was five o'clock, and the girls had been milked and gone for their evening meal. The Headmistress was lying on the floor of the squash court, her legs spreadeagled, her skirt up around her neck. Jeremy was on top of her, thrusting rhythmically into her. I noticed that the Headmistress was curiously hirsute. I tried to take a closer look, but Jeremy was in the way most of the time.

"Hang on," I told him, and pulled him out by his collar. He kept on thrusting until he became disengaged, which took quite a while as there is a lot of him.

"What ya doin', Shan?" he complained petulantly.

"I won't be a minute," I told him, as he tried to climb back in again. "Hold still, can't you. Bloody hell, I taught you how to do this, remember?"

He sat down, sulkily.

"I just wanted to take a closer look, you can carry on in a minute."

The Headmistress was still bucking her hips off the ground, as if she hadn't yet noticed that Jeremy was absent. She was indeed hairy, I saw. A forest of fur extended in a thin line almost to her navel, and it spread across her lower stomach far to each side. Down between her thighs it grew, and between the plump cheeks of her arsehole. "Gosh!" I said. "Carry on, Jeremy!" I even guided him into her. What are friends for, after all?

"She's mega hairy," I reported to Smegs in a whisper. "Golly, it's made me all randy!"

She looked at her watch. "Oh, come on, then. We've got half an hour before the next batch are due in," and she peeled off her knickers � despite school rules regarding their removal � as I fell to my knees. God, she was so tasty. It really gave me an appetite for my tea.

Chapter 4:� On The Air

The headmistress never even mentioned it the next day! I mean, the nerve of the woman, the cheek, she just presented herself at Smegs's office without so much as a by-your-leave, came in and sat down. I looked at her skirt, far too short for a woman in her position, especially in her position at that moment, sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up in front of her. Why did she have to sit like that? Did she think she was a teenage girl, or something?

I moved slightly so I could see more clearly up her skirt. The view was much as I remembered. She was so hairy down there. And she was showing it off for everyone to see. I shooed the naked First Formers out of the room. "Come back later," I told them. There are some things it is better for young girls not to see.

"I'm so excited," she was saying. A few weeks ago, the producer of the Money in Action programme on television phoned me, and said they were doing a feature on the technicological revolution as it affected schools..."

Technicological, I thought, there's a word to conjure with. I knew an ex-Prime Minister had once used it, but he had an excuse, he was a raving Socialist. This woman was a teacher. There was a difference, or so I'd been told.

"...and guess what? He's coming over tomorrow to film the Junior IT Studies Group in their new facility!"

"Gosh, Miss!" Smegs leaned forward urgently, but her feet slipped off the desk, and her breasts plummeted down and flopped heavily against her knees. "Oo, shit!" she said, coarsely.

"Are you wearing a bra, Megan?" the Headmistress seemed to remember that she was a figure of authority.

"Course, not, Miss, they'd never have flopped down like that in a bra."

"I didn't think so. Don't you get backache carrying those things around all day?" What sort of cheap porno paperbacks had she been reading?

"Sometimes," Smegs admitted. She'd never admitted as much to me and I'm her bestest friend. "But, Miss? If they come and film the Junior IT Studies Group, what about milking and everything?"

"That's why I came to see you. I wondered if you could bring their morning milking forward an hour, so they could be in the classroom by nine sharp. And their lunchtime milking, could that go back until the television people have finished?"

Smegs considered that, shaking her head. "That would be interfering with Nature, Miss. You can't interfere with Nature!"

Coming from Smegs of all people, that was rich! As if she hadn't been doing exactly that for quite a number of years.

"Well, do try, won't you?"

"I'll try, Miss, but I can't promise anything. We're dealing with vital rhythms here. If you upset the girls' rhythms, the milk might come in while they're being filmed. That would be a disaster, Miss, wouldn't it?"

Sounded like a load of bullshit to me.

"Do what you can, Megan, remember, the school's image has taken a bit of a pounding recently, and this is the ideal chance to put the record straight." She stood up, revealing just about everything. I had to look away, it was so embarrassing. If I was as hairy as that, I'd do something about it. Plaits, or something.

"Do they need to be naked, these girls?" she asked, as I ushered the First Form girls back into the room.

"Need, Miss?"

"Yes, why are they naked, Megan?"

"Why on earth not? They would only get their uniforms dirty, crawling around on the floor."

She thought about the logic of that for a while, and couldn't fault it.

"All right. Carry on, then, girls!" She swept out, her hips swinging. She wasn't wearing a bra, either, I thought. Sexy bitch.

We managed to bring the Junior IT Studies Group milking session forward by an hour. Most of them complained bitterly, and some refused to give any milk at all. There was going to be trouble, I could tell.

Meanwhile, in the IT lab, technicians were setting up lights and cameras. Delicate young men pranced around peering through their fingers, and capable flat-chested girls with clipboards, sneering expressions and fashionably-flattened vowels ordered everyone around in crisp voices. One of them even had the nerve to ask me what I was doing! I was standing behind one of the delicate young men lining up a shot. "You, girl! What do you think you're playing at?" she shouted.

I put her firmly in her place. "I'm the Head Girl, who are you?" I said, and the girl subsided. One day, when I'm in charge at the BBC, I'll get rid of her. I suppose she realised that, because she sneered even more than usual and went and complained to somebody in a suit. Actually, I don't think I want to be in charge at the BBC, unless they change their political bias.

Then the girls started drifting into the room. The headmistress was hovering importantly by the man with the suit. I suppose she wanted to take him off to bed, but even I could tell he wasn't going to be interested in that sort of thing. Not with a woman, anyway. "Just sit down and carry on as normal, girls," she called shrilly. "Ignore the cameras and pretend they're not here!"

Does she live in a dream-world, or what? You could see that the Junior IT Studies Group had no intention of ignoring the cameras, and much less of being ignored by them. Suddenly, girls who had always worn thick-lensed spectacles and studious expressions seemed to realise that what they had in superabundance under their shirts was going to appear on the screens of the entire nation.

There wasn't a pair of thick-lensed spectacles in sight. Girls were blundering about with their chests thrust out, colliding with things and with each other. With difficulty, they found their chairs and sat down. They couldn't see their keyboards, they hadn't seen them since their breasts grew, but now, they couldn't see their screens either. They gazed at the fuzzy images from six inches away, seeing nothing they could recognise.

As the crew moved around the room looking for suitable shots, they realised to their mounting panic that there wasn't a girl in the entire class who didn't have gigantic tits. Was this some sort of joke? If so, it was in extremely poor taste. Smegs came in and stood next to me. The television crew looked at us, senior girls, and realised we had huge tits as well, although not as big as the young dairy herd now seated at their computer terminals.

"We can't use these girls, Julian," hissed one delicate young man. "They're too ... too horrible!"

"Do what you can, Simon, there's a love! There must be one of them who isn't as..." Julian shuddered, "as... big as the others."

There wasn't, of course.

The camera angles had to be changed to make the girls' breasts look smaller. They tried filming from behind, looking over the girls' shoulders at the screens, but their breasts were easily visible from the rear. They looked even more outrageous that way. They tried tight close-ups of the girls' faces, but without their glasses, the girls all wore deeply vacant expressions, in some cases bordering on apparent sheer animal lust.

"Can't we bring in some other girls?" Julian asked the Headmistress. "Haven't you any with smaller ... erm...?"

"Is there something wrong with my girls?" asked the Headmistress, magnificently.

"Not wrong, exactly, it's just that they're a little too ... large for television!"

"But that's the way they are. Is that wrong?"

"Not at all," said Julian, helplessly. "But we can't show a whole class-full of girls built like this. This is a serious programme."

"And these are serious girls. Kindly proceed!"

I had to hand it to the old girl. She could certainly handle the media.

They went ahead and shot it. They gave up trying to hide anything. It became clear that not all of the television crew felt the same way about the girls' appearance. Some of them were perfectly happy with the situation. The rest had headaches and nursed pained expressions at the side of the room, sipping water from plastic cups.

The girls adopted attractive poses, bending forward so their breasts hung heavily in their effective brassieres. Buttons began to come undone. The Junior IT Studies Group began to breathe more deeply. They were experiencing new sensations in their loins, and they were rather enjoying them. Those girls who had been unable to give milk earlier now began to feel rather full.

Natasha Openshaw, an exceptionally full-breasted girl, even by the elevated standards of the Junior IT Studies Group, had attracted the attention of the now-entirely-heterosexual camera crew. As her breasts seemed to expand by half a dozen cup sizes in as many minutes, the camera came closer, and wider, and lower, until her nearer breast seemed to occupy almost the entire frame. As the camera turned, a wet patch appeared across the peak of the swollen globe. In no time, her blouse was drenched with milk.

The other girls saw Natasha's predicament. They heard it, too, as she began to become increasingly aroused by the friction of her swollen nipples against the inside of her too-tight bra. That and the attentions of the noticeably horny crew. Natasha began to moan softly. Then not so softly. The sound recordist clutched at his ears and made hasty adjustments to his mixer. Soon, answering moans sprang up all over the room. Milk began to flow in sympathy. Unable to hold back any longer, Natasha ripped the remaining buttons of her blouse open, delved into the capacious but over-stuffed cups of her bra, and hauled out a pair of almost bursting watermelons.

"Ooooh! Suck on these," she pleaded memorably, as the camera faithfully recorded the scene,

"Cut, loves! Thank you, everyone. That's a wrap!" Julian had seen enough.

He turned to the Headmistress, who had been watching the proceedings with rapt attention.

"If we may, I'd just like to get a few shots around the school, to show that it is, after all, a perfectly normal school in every respect. You know the sort of thing, girls playing hockey, netball, perhaps a Drama Group, if you have one...?"

"Oh, yes," the Headmistress beamed. "We have just what you need!"

"We lost gallons! It's a disgrace. I'm going to complain." Smegs was striding up and down beside her desk, scattering naked First Formers at every step.

"By the time I had them all rounded up and down to the squash court, half the milk had gone, and they were all far too excited. They spent the whole session feeling themselves up. As I say, I shall claim damages from the school, and from the BBC!"

"You can't blame Natasha," I said. "Anyone would have behaved the way she did with those horny camera people climbing all over her."

"But she's one of our top milkers," Smegs wailed. "Or she was. Last night, next to nothing. This morning, just a dribble. They've affected her deeply."

"Anyway," I tried to change the subject. "We won't be seeing that lot back here with their cameras again. They went down to the playing field, and met the hockey team practising. Then she took them to the sports hall to see the netball team. I thought the producer was going to pass out. 'Haven't you anything smaller,' he kept saying, all the time. Then he saw the ex-Drama Group, and you know what they're like! That's when they left."

"When's it on?"

"8:50 tomorrow night. I've phoned Mother, and Baps, and told them to be sure not to miss it."

You couldn't move in the common room at 8:45. Someone had balanced the TV set on top of an extra table so more of us could see it, but even so, it was a crush, with everybody trying to see over the heads of the girls in front. I don't know why they weren't all doing their homework. I was all right, as I had a place right at the front, having been there since half past six. Being nearer the floor had its advantages, too; the air was more pure down there.

The titles rolled and sure enough, St Cat's was mentioned, with a quick shot of some fingers typing and a few numbers scrolling down the screen. Then we had to wait through three more items before our bit finally came up...

"The coming of the Information Superhighway, as we now � it seems � are obliged to call it..." fluted the presenter, speaking very slowly because this was a Highly Technical Subject, and therefore much too difficult for the public to understand, "...and it was at just such a school, St Catherine's High School for Girls, that we saw, at first hand, some of the super high-tech technology which makes it all possible..."

"Look, there's Shan!"

"Makes sure she gets her ugly mug on the telly ..."

"Gerroff!"

And other rude noises, which I ignored. I was prominently featured in the scene, along with the Headmistress, whose skirt was really too short for respectability. I was standing sideways, and making sure my bust wasn't hanging too low.

"Hold 'em up Shan-tail!"

"Old Droopy-knockers!"

I'll kill that Virginia. Then we saw the first of the shots of the girls of the Junior IT Studies Group bending over their keyboards. The editor had chosen the shots which played down the size of the girls' breasts as much as possible, but he didn't have a great deal of choice, I was glad to say. Bulging blouses abounded wherever you looked. Then there was a shot of a monitor screen.

"Jeeesus, they've shown the Juniors' Web page, that ought to have been cut out!"

"Bloody shit, there'll be trouble over that!"

There would, too. There, on the screen, when we played back the recording later, frame by frame, were at least six frames showing a full frontal nude group photograph of the Junior IT Studies Group girls, part of their Web page, which included links to dozens of big breast and lactation items.

"But St Cat's, as the school is affectionately known, is just a normal school, where games and drama play an integral and important part in the daily activities ..."

More shots of bursting shirts and rebounding breasts, then the ex-Drama Group, apparently taken from a home video recording of their production of Pride and Prejudice. Acres of creamy cleavage was on display, but the pictures ceased before any fall-out occurred, and the narrative cut back to the classroom.

"...as demonstrated by Natasha Openshaw, from St Cat's Junior IT Studies Group, whose chief interest is dairy farming. Natasha 'talks', as it were, daily, with dairying experts the world over..."

Shot after shot gave unprecedented coverage to Natasha's bosom as she tapped blindly away the keyboard, fumbled with the mouse somewhere out of sight beneath her jutting mounds, and peered at the monitor with incomprehension. On the screen was a picture of a dairy cow. When the camera cut back to Natasha, you could tell the difference, but only if you looked really closely. The last shot clearly showed the soaked area around Natasha's nipples, although the editor might have thought it was a shadow.

"... so, that's ... Natasha ... Openshaw ... and the girls ... of St ... Cat's ... there," said the presenter, poco rallentando, with the air of finality that presenters use when they're about to go home and count their money.

"Shit!" said one girl.

"The size of those things," said another, from the under-endowed Lower Sixth.

"We'll have every boy from miles around trying to get in here by tomorrow!"

"Ooooh, yes, please!"

"After you, Claudine!"

"Before you, Melissa!"

Then they all started shrieking. Honestly, there are times when I am almost ashamed to be female. But there aren't too many alternatives.

Chapter 5:� Intensive Counselling

Apparently, the Junior IT Studies Group girls received a lot of fan-e-mail after the programme went out. You'd never think such a show would be watched by so many breast-obsessive perverts, women as well as men. Some of the suggestions they made really were quite dreadful. Some of them were anatomically impossible. I mean, not impossible for me, as I do dangle quite a long way down; but most girls that I know certainly couldn't.

In fact, seeing myself standing sideways like that, on television, made me realise just how dangly I'm getting. I hate to admit it, but my classmates were right. 'Droopy-knockers' is a fair description. I crept away into the bogs to study my reflection in the full-length mirror. God, what boy in his right mind would be interested in these things, I thought, after peeling off my blouse and struggling out of my bra.

Smegs came in for a piss, and sniggered rudely as she went past. "You carry on the way you're going, Shan-tail, and you'll need to borrow the hockey goal-minder's pads to keep those things from bruising your knees," she remarked, not very supportively. Not that supportive remarks were going to help me much, it was a new bra I needed more than anything. My old ones were all getting a bit stretched, and the shoulder straps wouldn't take much more of this treatment.

"She'll no' stand much more of this, Captain!" was the thought that crept unbidden into my head, for some reason. I made a mental note to phone Mother before the weekend, to arrange the financial side of things, then I could try the ladies foundation garment shops in town on Saturday. Carefully, I loaded the whole lot back into the cups again and buttoned my blouse. The only way to do it now was to bend forward from the waist and fasten the buttons while looking in the mirror. It was like slinging a hammock full of fighting puppies. I'm sure you've all tried that at some time.

Needing to bolster my self-esteem, I hoisted up my straining shoulder-straps and made my way down to the caretaker's shed. With any luck, Jeremy might have half an hour free to give me a right good seeing-to.

"Sorry, Shan, sweetheart, I've got a bit of a headache at the moment," he whined. "Perhaps Darren could help you?"

Darren was his brand new assistant, a beautiful flaxen-haired boy with lips like un-barbecued chipolatas and a plump, choirboy's bottom. He looked up from sharpening a mower blade, saw my admittedly quite wondrous face, and blushed deeply. Then he seemed to catch sight of my drooping titties and went back to his grinding wheel.

I wandered away, feeling more than ever in need of a hearty screwing. Surely I didn't look as bad as all that, I thought. Pulling out the mobile phone, I called Mother.

"Oh, darling, it's terribly inconvenient, I've got the vicar here. Is it anything I can deal with quickly?"

"I need a new bra, Mother. Several, in fact."

"Sweetheart, we're not made of money, you know. Daddy's really struggling to justify my second car. Last night he practically issued an ultimatum; we're going to have to rationalise our four-by-fours. Either my Discovery goes or he will have to put off his new Range Rover for another whole month. And you know how he is when he has to drive around in his bloody Nexus. If he can't see over the hedges and look down on the peasants, he feels so deprived! And when you go to Uni, you'll be needing your own Suzuki as well as your bloody GTI. Can't you make your brassieres last another six months? Things will be better then."

Such language, with the Reverend Boyes-Wrecktham present. She droned on for several more minutes about her transport crisis. I pressed 'End' and ended her.

Matters came to a head that very afternoon, when I bent over to pick up a pile of books. I felt a shoulder strap go, followed immediately by the other one. It was all right until I had to put the books down, on a table in the library. When I straightened up, there was a brief tugging sensation somewhere down below, and a chilly draught seemed to blow across my nipples.

I looked down, and screamed. Instantly, every face turned in my direction. And they saw Chauntaille Gruntworthy, Head Girl of St Catherine's High School for Girls, with her great naked tits hanging out of the bottom of her blouse. Big brown areolae. Make that 'huge' brown areolae. Erect nipples. Dozens of horny schoolgirls' eyes were boggling, taking in every little detail. Make that every 'huge' detail.

I grabbed at the bloody things with both hands, and fled from the room. They flopped and bounced in all directions. It took several tries to get them to accompany me through the doorway. And, of course, on the second attempt, I collided with the Headmistress.

"My Goodness, Shan, what in the wide, wide world has happened to your blouse?"

As if it wasn't perfectly bloody obvious.

"It's my brassiere, Miss. It seems to have fallen apart under the strain."

"So it has. You obviously need some intensive counselling, my dear."

"A needle and some stout thread would be more of a help, Miss."

"I have just the thing in my study. Now then, just tuck your ... tuck yourself away and come with me."

Oh shit. Head Girl Seduced by Headmistress. There was no escape. I managed to get one breast tucked into my blouse, but when I tried to get the second one in, the first one fell out again. Then the same thing happened again in reverse order. The Headmistress looked on with interest, licking her lips. At last, apparently unable to keep her hands to herself, she took a couple of handfuls of breast and shovelled the whole wobbling thing into my blouse.

"Quick! Button it up before they fall out again!" she said. I managed to get three buttons done up while she nodded her approval. "Splendid. Now come with me!"

And off we went. As I glanced back, there were at least half a dozen astonished faces peering round the edge of the library door.

"Take your blouse off, dear," she said kindly as she shut the door. "And your bra. What's left of it. Golly, that's really buggered, isn't it!"

It was, as the Headmistress put it, absolutely buggered. Both shoulder straps had come away from the top of the cups.

"Is this the only one you've got?" She held it in her hands, tugging the straps experimentally.

"No, Miss. I have one more in my wardrobe. But that's pretty well buggered as well. I asked Mother for some money for some new ones, but she said Daddy needs to buy some new cars this week."

The Headmistress nodded understandingly. "That's men for you, dear." Gently, she took hold of my left breast in two soft hands. "Mmmm, these are lovely, Chauntaille. I never really noticed them before. You shouldn't disguise them so much."

Oh, bloody hell. If only my nipples would stop behaving like chapel hatpegs. If only I wasn't feeling so horny. If I'd had a good fuck with Jeremy that morning, perhaps I would feel a bit less like it now. And I certainly did feel like it.

"Now, then, my dear. Normally, when I'm counselling, I let the patient lie down and I get on top, but your titties are such lovely danglers, I'm going to lie down here ... on the carpet ... and you shall get on top, swaying massively above my face!" She ended up lying on her back, propped up on her elbows. "Undress me before you start, please!" she added as an afterthought. "Take your own skirt and things off, first."

I didn't get to be Head Girl without learning to obey teachers' orders without question. I dropped my skirt and stepped out of it, then slid my knickers down, trying to avoid showing the big wet patch.

"Gosh, they're juicy, dear. I think you're ready for some really intensive counselling!" Standing there in nothing but my shoes and socks, I thought so, too. The Headmistress closed her eyes, and I hesitated for a moment. Had she gone to sleep?

No, she hadn't.

I tussled briefly with her buttons and helped her off with her blouse. She was wearing a half-cup bra with the nipples sticking over the tops. My fingers brushed them and they felt cold, like icicles. The bra fastened at the front. Her skirt fastened at the side, and she rolled on to one hip to let me get at the fastener. Then there were just her transparent panties between me and her phenomenally hairy pussy.

"Pull them off with your teeth, darling!" she breathed. So I did. And as the Headmistress twitched her hips and squirmed like a puppy, I dangled my titties so they brushed her belly, then dived into that great black bush. It went all dark. I could hear birds singing. Somewhere behind me, I heard a low moan, and lots and lots of fingers were exploring my most private regions. Fingers, and tongues. My insides turned to a bucket of worms.

Eventually, and it must have been half an hour after we started, a muffled voice came to me.

"Part of the intensive counselling is that you have to lick this lot off my face! You're the wettest girl I ever sucked, Chauntaille. Please, finish what you're doing down there, then come up here and see me."

So I did.

She tasted very interesting. Her tongue and her lips. We both ended up pulling stray pubic hairs from our mouths.

As headmistresses go, the Headmistress was quite a practical person. She found a needle and some very stout thread, and made a workmanlike job of my tattered shoulder straps.

"That should last you until the weekend," she said. "Go to Mrs Boothroyd's in Well Lane, tell her I sent you, and ask if she would kindly put your new bra on my account. She does made-to-measure, but since our Juniors, and everybody else in the county, started growing so much, she likes to keep a few extra special ready made bras in her stock room.

I'd never seen Mrs Boothroyd's shop before. In fact, I walked right past it without noticing. There was nothing in the window to show what she sold, just a simple signwritten board hanging out over the footpath, saying, Mrs Boothroyd's Brassieres. Well, accurate, I supposed, and pushed the door open. It smelled of old shops inside.

There was a glass-topped counter, and a few headless busts of women dotted around the place. Nothing unusual, except for the size of the busts' busts, if you understand me. Some of them made even me feel inadequate. A bell had tinkled when I had come in, but there was no response. I was thinking of opening the door again, either to ring the bell once more or to sneak away down Well Lane and forget about Mrs Boothroyd altogether. But there were voices coming from out the back of the shop, somewhere, getting closer. I stood there, and waited.

Two women appeared, pushing aside a curtain. The little bleached blonde one must be Mrs Boothroyd herself. She was dressed in an apron as if she had been surprised while doing the housework. The apron was well-filled. Even more well-filled, though, was the sweater of the other woman, who was obviously a customer. She turned carefully in the direction of the door, trying to see which way her feet were pointing.

"You'll soon get used to it, Mrs Cross, just hold those shoulders back. Try not to run for a bus for a few days, until you get your balance. All right, then? Byeeeee!"

Mrs Cross tottered through the door, and the bell tinkled again as Mrs Boothroyd looked me up and down. "You St Cat's?" she grinned, and I nodded.

"The Headmistress told me to have my new bra put on her account."

"Oh, you're one of her special girls, are you? Been quite a few of those lately. Randy old bitch!" she said half under her breath, so I wasn't altogether sure she'd said it. "Come on, then, let's have a look at you. Not here!" she yelled, as I started taking my shirt off. "Out the back."

The back room was equipped with a table and a couple of chairs. A professional-looking sewing machine stood in the corner, and there were rolls of shiny satin-like material and reels of elastic hanging on the walls. I took my shirt off, catching a glimpse of the repaired bra in the full-length mirror, with quite an embarrassing amount of flesh hanging out of the cups in various directions.

Mrs Boothroyd looked at me critically. "That doesn't fit very well, does it?" she barked, sternly. "Is that the best fit you could get?"

"It used to fit. In fact, it seems to have become too small this last month."

"Another one of you growing girls? What's your excuse, then? Been bitten by something, or drinking magic milk?"

I could feel my cheeks getting red. "I've been big for years, since I was fourteen, but now it seems to be happening again. I don't know why."

"Take your bra off, then. Let's have a proper look at them." I reached behind my back and unfastened several hooks, then let the shoulder straps down my arms. My boobs seemed to go on and on as I let them down to their full length.

"Fuckin' Hell, you're a droopy one, aren't you!" Mrs Boothroyd walked round me, looking at them. "But I suppose they all tell you that, don't they." She had a tape measure hanging round her neck, and she unwound it, stepping forward with a determined expression. "Arms up!" she ordered, like a drill sergeant. "That's no use, with those danglers, lift your tits up, will you!"

I tried, but couldn't control both of them at the same time. Surely, they were nothing like this size a week ago?

"All right, try it another way, lean forward. I only want to get the tape underneath them. There!" she looped the tape around my chest, and consulted it. "Hmmm," she murmured. Then she measured everything, from all directions. Up, down, and round each titty; their length, width, even the size of the dark circles at the ends, although I didn't know why.

She disappeared. She seemed to be gone for ages. Has she forgotten me, I thought. When she came back she came from a different direction, somehow. "Try this," she said, through a mouthful of pins. "I've nothing ready-made, not for those things, but try this one, and if it's near enough, I'll alter it for you."

Which is what she did. The bra had big black cups which she hung below my titties like a pair of horses' nosebags, then hauled them upwards and slung a pair of straps over my shoulders. The shoulder straps must have been three inches wide. Was this all for me?

Round behind me, I felt her tugging and pulling, then she said, "right, stand up straight and look at yourself in the mirror. There," she said, "how's that feel?"

It felt amazing. I was supported as never before. Daring to look in the mirror, I saw a girl with enormous breasts. I looked at Mrs Boothroyd and gasped.

For the first time, she was smiling. "See what I mean, girl? You've been growing fast, and you're a whole lot bigger than you used to be. You're about three or four cup sizes bigger than that old bra, whatever it was. She picked the old one up from the table and inspected the faded label. "Can't read it," she said, "but that one you're wearing is an L cup. You certainly seem to fill it well enough."

I ran my shaking fingers across the bulging cups. They were soft, shiny satin, and they felt almost rubbery, like inflated balloons as I pressed gently inwards.

"You'll be needing two of those. Unfortunately, there's only the one in black, and you're not allowed to wear pink, are you?"

"Oh, that doesn't apply to me. I'm Head Girl!"

"Head Girl? Well, in that case..." she tugged her apron string loose and shrugged out of it, her big breasts bouncing mightily. With a heavy sigh, she unfastened her skirt and dropped it to her ankles. "In that case, let's see about negotiating a ten per cent discount, shall we?"

Was I completely surrounded by sex-crazed perverts?

An hour later, I strutted out of the shop feeling bigger than I had ever felt in my life. All the way back to St Cat's on the bus, I kept finding curly hairs in my mouth. I studied one. Yes, Mrs Boothroyd was a natural blonde, after all.

Chapter 6:� The Boothroyd Boomer

"Just what do you think you look like?" enquired Smegs as soon as she saw me. I slumped on my bed, exhausted. Mrs Boothroyd had taken it out of me; she was an enthusiastic lover. My ears were still ringing.

"What do you mean?"

"You look like a complete tart. Are you stuffing your bra for some reason?"

"This is all me, I will have you know!" I was in no mood for this sort of thing from my so-called friends. Running my hands down the sheer slopes of the sides of my bosom, I felt a surge of pride. "You jealous or something?"

"Huh!" Smegs sounded unconvincing. She changed the subject. "We've got a visitor coming. After tea. It's all quite unofficial. What cup size is that thing, anyway?"

A visitor. On a Saturday evening? The cheek of these people, intruding on our sacred weekends. "Who is it, what's it about?" Again, I gazed proudly on my newly-upholstered breasts. "What, this bra? Oh, just an L!"

"An L! Where'd you get it? It's about the dairy. There's a couple of females coming over from the school in the town. They want to sell milk."

"Milk? You mean our girls' milk? They can't make their own, not with ordinary girls. Where did I buy this bra? Her name's Mrs Boothroyd. She's got a little shop down Well Lane."

"Let's have a proper look at it. Get your gear off. And why can't they? They're just girls, same as ours."

I struggled out of my shirt, and took a deep breath, stretching the black satin to the limit. It was gratifying to see Smegs's eyes becoming wider and wider as she walked round my bed, staring.

"There!" I said, breathing out at last. "And they may be just girls, but they are not, by any stretch of the imagination, the same as ours."

"God, you're the most stuck-up cow I ever met. And if your tits get any bigger, you'll be giving milk yourself. Bloody L cup, indeed!"

Jealous. She was JEALOUS. Of my tits! O, deep joy! They had suddenly grown, though. Had I caught something from the Juniors? If I was going to start giving milk, it would be really a bit of a let-down. I was meant for better things than being a humble dairy animal.

I began unpacking my bags. The big pink bra lay on my bed, with a new, larger blouse and one of the extra long school ties. Smegs picked them up one at a time, running her fingers across the smooth material of the bra.

"I thought your Mother said you couldn't have a new one this month until Daddy had finished buying new cars," she sniffed.

"The Headmistress said I could put it on her account."

"Ooooh, excuse ME! Who's the Head's Special Head Girl, then?" I never knew anyone could be so jealous. I put my shirt on again, and fastened the buttons. Or most of them.

"We'd better have our tea. I'm starving." I seemed to be eating loads more than ever, lately. We linked arms and set off in the direction of the school restaurant.

The two females from the town school were teachers. I think they were surprised to find that we weren't. We met them as arranged, by the caretaker's shed. The milk-float was parked outside, its shiny chocolate paint setting off the smart Royal crest on the front. They were admiring it as we came up and said hello.

"Oh, are you Miss Frontworthy?" one of them asked Smegs.

"No, that's her. And it's Grunt."

"Grunt?"

"Not Front, Gruntworthy."

"We thought you were going to be teachers. You mean you are in charge of the dairy here?"

"Of course," said Smegs. She gets impatient with people who aren't very bright, which includes most schoolteachers, of course.

"Where do you keep the animals?" said the taller of the two women, a tweedy-looking cow with a hint of moustache.

"They've just had their tea," I explained. "Some of them will be coming down to the squash court during the evening, but mostly they're in their dorms, right now."

The other woman's eyes became larger. "Do you winter them indoors?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

What a strange woman.

"Summer, Winter, it all comes the same to our girls," said Smegs, happily. "They get milked four times a day, regular as clockwork, so they can fit it in with the rest of their duties."

"They have other duties? How original. You mean you use them as beasts of burden?" She nudged her companion. "Make a note of that, Miss Grusom. Multi-tasking!"

The tall woman scrawled something in a notebook before sticking her pencil behind her ear. "Could we see the milking parlour, even if the animals aren't here?"

"This is our original shed right here. It might be a bit of a mess, but come in and have a look." Smegs flung open the door. "Here you are. Music laid on," she pointed out the speakers on the walls, now strangely and blessedly silent.

"It's very clean. The floor and everything." The shorter woman scuffled her shoe on the tiled floor. "I'd expect to see straw about the place, so you can sweep up the waste products and everything."

"Oh, no problem, they're all fully house-trained before they even come to St Cat's," I said. "But I suppose your lot will be used to doing it wherever they happen to be at the time."

The two of them were poking around, looking at the bar-stools and the milking apparatus. "If your staff sit on these stools, aren't they rather high off the ground?"

Smegs looked at the women curiously. "Staff? Well, we only have the one staff member who comes in here, and she finds it just the right height, whatever she's doing."

I thought about Moggie sitting herself on her bar stool getting thoroughly serviced by Jeremy. Exactly the right height, I thought.

Miss Grusom flipped over to a new page in her notebook. "Grazing!" she announced. "What do you do about it?"

"We try to stop them," I said. "They get three square meals a day, and most of them have biscuits and a glass of milk for supper. Grazing is strictly discouraged!" Miss Grusom had been scribbling busily in her book, but she slowed down and stopped during my last sentence.

"You can't stop them grazing! It's unnatural. What sort of nutrients are they receiving?"

"Same as the rest of us," said Smegs. "There is no elite here!"

"We're all elite," I added with pride.

"We were rather hoping," the shorter teacher said, "that we would be able to arrange to send some of ours over to you during the daytime. Your sports field is much larger than ours."

"I don't think that comes within our sphere of influence," I said, with all the dignity I could muster. "You should see the Headmistress on such matters."

"Of course. Your task is simply the servicing of the herd?"

"We've taken care of the servicing side, if they really want it. Not that the younger ones are very interested in boys, just yet."

"Boys? Oh, yersss. Jolly good! That was a joke, Grusom!" and the shorter woman jabbed her colleague in the ribs. You could practically see her ribs through her tweed costume. They were making their way in the direction of the door.

"I'm sorry you weren't able to see the shed in action," said Smegs. "Would you like to see the squash court before you go?"

They looked at each other, perhaps wondering if 'seeing the squash court' was some kind of twee private girls' school euphemism for going to the lavatory.

"No, I think we're all right, thank you. We went before we came out. We'll be in touch, later. Perhaps if we could see them being milked one day ...?"

"Of course, spend a whole day down here." Smegs was ushering them through the door when they stopped suddenly, staring at something outside.

"Excuse me, Miss," said a girl's voice, "I need to come in quite urgently!"

The two teachers stepped back, still staring at the girl in full St Cat's uniform, looking quite magnificent in the optional 90-inch blouse and extended tie. She edged through the doorway, sideways, tearing at her buttons. Wet milky patches showed at the ends of her teats as she made straight for the nearest stool and sat down. The women gaped at her, aghast, as she picked up the nozzle of the milking apparatus and applied it to an already dribbling nipple. The machine pulsed into life and the girl let out a sigh of deepest relief.

Miss Grusom pointed, her mouth opening and closing more or less in time with the throbbing of the milking machine.

"Y-You allow this?" she stammered, at last.

Smegs consulted her watch. "She's a bit late, but they are allowed to stagger their times at weekends. Made it just in time, Clare," she shouted to the girl, who had pulled on a pair of headphones, her head rolling from side to side, her eyes closed, like a lactating Stevie Wonder. Clare made no reply, she just nodded her head and shuddered in ecstasy. Now I looked closer, I could see that she had one hand, and most of one arm, beneath her school skirt.

"You won't get much sense out of her for the next half hour," I told them, and we closed the door after us. Other girls were making their way in the direction of the shed. We could see their swollen bosoms gleaming in the gathering dusk.

"Isn't that just the way. Just like buses, nothing for an hour, then half a dozen come along together. Well, anything else you need to know, just give us a call!"

They never did call us again. I suppose they must have analysed the cost of building and equipping a shed like ours, and had second thoughts. The odd thing was that they never even raised the question of how they were going to persuade their girls to give milk.

Myself, I had other things to worry about. Two other things.

"Are you pregnant?" Smegs asked suddenly, one morning, as I puffed and panted and grunted my way into my bra.

Chance would be a fine thing, I thought. For some time, what I had been missing most of all was a good, stiff, thrusting, throbbing willie pumping what seemed like gallons of creamy cum into my passion-drenched and aching love-passage. I didn't actually think that in those exact words, but you'll get the general picture, I'm sure.

"Well, if you're not pregnant, there must be something wrong with you, then. Look at the size of those things now. They're getting ridiculous!"

They were, too. I had to admit that. In only a couple of weeks since Mrs Boothroyd had fitted me up with a new bra, I had definitely grown, so much so that there was now quite a handful of breast overflowing the top of each of the big black cups. And as if that wasn't bad enough, there was another handful overflowing at each side, beneath my arms. And there was yet another handful trying to crawl out underneath. This, I decided, was too much of a good thing.

I had a free study period until lunchtime. I caught the bus and went to see Mrs Boothroyd again.

"Bloody Hell, girl! What's happened to you? You're not pregnant, are you?"

"Of course not! The very idea!" I would have to get a card printed with those words, so I could hand it out. "No, I just grew again. In fact, I'm still growing."

Mrs Boothroyd walked round me, taking a professional look. "Take it off then," she said, professionally.

I took it off, as quickly as I was able, my fingers scrabbling at the buttons and tearing at the multiple hooks of the bra. Mrs Boothroyd helped me, as professionally as she could. Twenty minutes later, we sat up, panting, and she went and put the kettle on. My ears were buzzing again. I had forgotten in two weeks just how loud a lover she was. I plucked a curly blonde hair from between my teeth. Was she moulting, or something?

She came over to me. Even stark naked, she still wore a tape measure round her neck. That's the sign of a true professional, I thought.

"Right, then, girl. Let's have a proper look at these things!" She handled them very thoroughly, which, considering what we'd been doing to one another for the previous twenty minutes, was perhaps a little unnecessary. Finally, she went out into her stock-room, her voice fading away as she said, "yes, you'll do nicely, girl!"

"What for?"

"This!" She came back in, rummaging in a cardboard box, and came up with a tangle of brassieres. She shook them vigorously, but they remained enmeshed with each other. "It's this shitting velcro ... there, pull that end ..."

I pulled where she told me, grabbing a stout black body band with more hooks than I'd ever seen on a bra, at least, since I saw one of Baps's newest ones. Mrs Boothroyd pulled the rest of the tangle away from it, leaving me holding the thing.

"There you go," she said, "try that on."

Well, I did my usual bend over to lower myself into the cups, or buckets. There was plenty of room in there for me and a few friends as well. "It's too big," I told her.

"Not for long," she cried in triumph, and started fiddling with the underside of the cups. Gradually, after much ripping of velcro, it seemed to tighten up until it fitted like a glove, for want of a better expression.

"There! You are the first to benefit from my new invention. Meet the Boothroyd Boomer, The Bra That Grows With You!"

Chapter 7:� Baby Boomers

That Boothroyd Boomer was a whole new experience.

By the time I was safely zipped up inside it, I stuck out in front so far I really needed my extra length St Cat's necktie.

"I didn't design it especially for you, my dear," Mrs Boothroyd confided, as we lay together on her deeply-upholstered couch, kissing loudly and wetly. "But I thought it wouldn't be long before one of you Cat's girls came along who needed the Boomer."

I had taken it off again so that I could use my nipples to stimulate Mrs Boothroyd's moist snatch, as she called it. It was the first time I'd heard it called that, and I found it quite exciting. I repeated the word a few times, and Mrs Boothroyd seemed to find it quite exhilarating, too. "What do you call yours, then?" she asked, curious.

"My pussy, I suppose. I don't really talk about it all that often."

"Here, pussy, pussy, pussy!" she said.

"Snatch, snatch, snatch!" I countered.

That got us going again. By the time I crept out of the shop, stinking like a fishmonger's back yard, and waddled away up Well Lane to the bus station, followed by about a dozen panting dogs, I had missed lunch and the whole of the afternoon.

"Bloody hell," Smegs greeted me, "Miss Herring Fisheries of the Year. Where have you been, and who with?"

"Mrs Boothroyd," I said, "buying another new bra."

"Shit, what size this time?"

"It's a Boothroyd Boomer, The Bra That Grows With You," I told her, with not a little pride. "It doesn't have a size as such, not per se, it starts off as a P cup and goes on from there." Quickly, I stripped my blouse off and demonstrated the myriad velcro straps which adjusted the Boomer to fit. "She says it should last me another six months, at least!"

"Gosh! As long as that? Did you buy two?"

I pulled the second one out of the bag, still in its original tissue paper wrapping, and tossed it over to her, and she eagerly opened it out and held it against her monster chest. "May I try it on?" she asked with unusual politeness. "While you're having a shower."

Was that a broad hint? "Feel free, be my guest." I took out my wash bag and towel, and stark naked, headed for the bathrooms, my breasts dangling down well below my navel. Other girls stood respectfully to one side as I passed them in the corridor, holding their noses politely and not gagging until their Head Girl had gone safely on her way.

The trouble with having a shower is that it makes you uncontrollably horny. Well, it always does that to me. By the time I had finished, and crawled back to the dorm, Smegs was pacing up and down looking at her watch. "Are you coming to tea, or what? You're bloody insatiable, that's your trouble. Honestly, Shan, I don't know what we're going to do with you, wanking yourself silly in the showers. Do you realise, you were in there three-quarters of an hour?"

"Sorry, I started thinking, and got carried away."

I dressed quickly, noticing that Smegs was wearing my other Boomer under her blouse. Either that or it was a couple of those inflatable space-hopper things. "What do you think of it," she said, trying a cautious twirl which slammed Virginia's wardrobe door shut with a sound of tinkling glass. "Fits great, doesn't it!"

It did, too. Which was quite pleasing. It meant that even when I reached Smegs's enormous size, my Boomer would still fit me. Good old Mrs Boothroyd, I thought. I hurried after Smegs's retreating bottom before I got carried away again.

I claimed my spare Boomer back after tea, and locked it away in my wardrobe. She needn't think she can get away with commandeering my undergarments just because they happen to fit her. What was quite worrying was that the bra did fit her around the chest, which meant that either I wasn't a size 32 any more, or Smegs wasn't a size 36. I feared the worst.

One might have expected the other girls in the dorm to notice my sudden spurt of growth, but strangely, they seemed preoccupied. They were all very quiet all of a sudden, and even when Smegs suggested a nice game of Strip Pogs, they politely declined. Virginia, the twins, all of them, sat on their beds toying in a jaded way with their calculators and diaries. The large year-planner on the wall had a group of girls in front of it, marking little P's on it at intervals, then walking away with worried frowns on their pretty faces.

Within a couple of weeks, the news was all over the school. The Upper Sixth Form was pregnant. Well, not all of it. Not me. Everyone else was, including Smegs.

"But how did it happen?" I asked her, as she caught the bus with all the others to the clinic in the town.

"Oh, the usual way. Fucking."

I wandered around the empty common room, touching little things with my fingers, objects which brought back memories of my friends, now struck down with pregnancy in the full bloom of their youth. Drifting down to the caretaker's shed, I bumped into Jeremy.

"Come in and have a screw, Shan," he invited me, cordially. I declined with dignity.

"I have a headache, Jeremy," I informed him with a certain chilliness.

"You're the only one left," he said, "come on!"

"Not for all the tea in China. Not if you got down on your knees and begged me. Wild horses wouldn't persuade me to shag you, Jeremy. I am now exclusively lesbian."

"Suit yourself," he shrugged and turned away to go back into his shed. I followed, tugging at my tie and blouse buttons.

"We'll have to be quick," I said, "I've got a class in three hours."

I almost made it.

Being the only one in the class made it all the more noticeable that I was an hour late, dishevelled, bandy-legged and noticeably unwashed. Even I could smell it as I sat down at my desk. I made an embarrassing squelching noise, and felt as if I had sat in a puddle of single cream.

"Are you the only one, Chauntaille?"

"Yes, Miss Valentine. The others have all gone to the clinic, Miss. Pregnant, Miss."

"Ah, yes, I heard something about that. What caused it?"

"The usual thing, apparently, Miss. Fucking."

"And that's what you've been doing, if my nose doesn't deceive me. Is that right?"

"Yes, Miss." I blushed deeply and shifted my bottom in my seat with a sound like lake water lapping on the shore. A fresh wave of fragrance escaped into the atmosphere.

"With Jeremy?"

"Yes, Miss. And the disco lad and the dairy assistant."

"Mmmm. I had those the other day. Enthusiastic, but rough, I found them."

"Yes, Miss. I had them all at the same time. It was a little bit crowded, Miss, but I managed to fit them all in somehow."

"Well done, Chauntaille!"

"Thank you, Miss! I could perhaps have managed another boy between my breasts, if there had been one available. Or even two!"

Later, I met the Headmistress, walking across the quadrangle.

"Is that a Boothroyd Boomer under that blouse, Chauntaille?" she asked, peering closely and cupping my breasts gently in both hands.

"Well spotted, Miss!"

"I helped design it, you know. She wouldn't have told you that, of course. Walk along with me, dear girl, we have things to discuss..."

She wanted to know all about the mass pregnancy of the Upper Sixth. I told her everything I knew about the likely cause and its effect.

"June. The babies are all due in June. It's a disaster for the school, of course. A disaster!"

"It will certainly bring shame, Miss," I agreed.

"Never mind the bloody shame. What about our exam results? They're all due to take their exams in June. How can they do that if they're all dropping kids all over the place? You'll be the only girl in the school taking A-levels. And you know what that means?"

"I'll be top of the results, Miss?"

"The school will be bottom of this Government's league tables for exam results, that's what! It will be a mortal blow. Mortal! We will lose thousands in school fees. And all because our Upper Sixth girls couldn't keep their knees together. I despair, Chauntaille, I really do!"

And she turned without another word and strode off in the direction of the caretaker's shed.

"At least mine was a false alarm," said Smegs. "Sympathetic pregnancy, the doctor called it. The others are real enough. They're all due on the same day, in theory."

"And the twins," I said, "did you know, their mother was one of twins, as well. So they could both have twins on the same day. How exciting!"

"That would make thirty-five babies altogether. St Cat's will be famous! We'll be on telly again. On the other hand, though...!" She glowered at me. "There won't be a drop of milk from any of them. They'll be feeding their kids with it. All that top quality milk going to waste."

"But that's what it's for!"

"It's selfish, keeping it for babies, when it could be earning us good money and feeding the starving poor. Typical of this country ever since 1981. Self, self, self!"

There's no dealing with her when she gets in one of her Socialist moods. I sat on my bed and took my bra off. It was getting a bit tight in the cups again.

Meanwhile, an electrical buzzing started up from Smegs's bed. Shit, she's at it again, I thought. After a few minutes, a thought occurred to me. I had to know the answer.

"Smegs!"

Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

"Smegs!" I shouted this time. The buzzing stopped.

"I keep telling you not to interrupt me when I'm shaving my inner thighs," she complained.

"This is important. You know how all the other girls are pregnant?"

"Yes."

"And you know how you thought you were as well, but it was a false alarm?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you had sex with Jeremy as well?"

"Of course! How else would I get in the club? But not just Jeremy. The disco lad, too. And young Darren, you know, the beautiful one with the ..."

"I know who young Darren is, thank you! When, that's what I want to know. When did you do this? When did you fuck these three boys?"

"Every day, of course," Smegs said, genuinely surprised. "Two or three times, some days." She caught sight of my flabbergasted expression. "You mean you don't? Ah! Obviously, you don't. Well, Gosh!"

That did it. The entire Upper Sixth Form, including my very bestest friend, were shagging the only three males on the school premises, several times a day, and had been for God alone knows how long.

"How long?" I asked her, in a shaky voice.

She held her hands about a foot apart. "Jeremy's, you've seen. The disco lad's is a little smaller, and Darren's is..."

"Stop it!" I screamed, and she stopped. Her hands were still a long way apart. "Whose is that one?" I asked her.

"What?" She looked down at her hands. "Oh, this one." A dreamy smile came over her face and she adjusted the position of her hands. Even further apart. "This is young Darren. You mean, you haven't seen his...? Ah! Obviously not. Golly!"

Well, no, I hadn't seen young Darren's. He had been behind me. Which, in a way, only made it even more remarkable. But where could I turn for sympathy?

A few minutes later, I was knocking on the door of the Headmistress's office.

"Miss Gruntworthy to see you, Headmistress," called the secretary into her little loudspeaker.

"Oooh, goody, show her in."

The Headmistress was leaning back in her impressive-looking leather chair with her feet on her desk. A bowl of warm water stood on the blotter, and a jar of what looked like shaving cream. As I came closer to the desk, she raised one leg slightly and began to shave her innermost thighs with a razor. Not one of those little ones, this was a cut-throat razor, the great big things that fold up. I'd never seen anyone using one before, and especially not for this.

"Won't be a minute, got to keep the old bikini line tidy. If I don't do this every day, there'd be hairs hanging down to my knees! There!" She rinsed the razor in the bowl, patted herself intimately with a small towel and plonked her feet back on the floor. A mass of black curls floated in the foam like a dead black and white cat on top of the water in the bowl. The door opened, the secretary came in silently and with averted gaze, picked up the shaving gear, then departed respectfully.

"Now, how can I help you? Is it counselling you need? Intensive counselling?"

I started to explain, tears beginning to flood my eyes, no matter how hard I tried to stop them.

"Excuse me, Shan," she interrupted, and looked at her watch. "Ooops, sorry to break it up, but I've got a heavy date. Some other time, okay?" And she jumped up, smoothing her dress down almost to upper-thigh length. She gave a little twirl, revealing most of her plump and furry lower stomach. "Not too short, this one, is it?"

"No, Miss," I told her, dutifully, as the door slammed behind her. No knickers, I observed. The door opened again.

"Forgot me pants!" she said, bending over to pick up a couple of pairs of briefs from the floor beside the desk. She sniffed experimentally at them in turn, discarding the pink polka-dotted ones and selecting the purple silk pair, before climbing into them. "That's better!" she grunted as she hauled them up deep into the cleft between her plump buttocks. The door slammed again. This time she didn't come back.

Chapter 8:� Something Nasty In The Milking Shed

The bus was just leaving as I panted up the drive to the bus stop. Fortunately, the driver saw me and stopped. He stared appreciatively at my chest as he gave me my change. I took a deep breath, hearing the velcro creak as the Boomer self-adjusted itself upwards a cup size or two, and had the satisfaction of feeling a blouse button give way under the strain. He gave me another fifty pence. I sat down where I could see the driver's eyes in the mirror, and felt the bus mount the curb first on one side of the road, then the other. Mercifully, the road was empty.

So was the town. Shit, I had forgotten it was Wednesday, when the old-established businesses closed down for the afternoon. Well Lane was deserted. I pushed at Mrs Boothroyd's door, but it was locked. My eyes filled up again as I wondered what time the next bus went back to St Cat's, where I could kill myself in peace. Poison, perhaps? I could have a word with the restaurant chef.

Or I might slash my veins. A bit messy; better strip off and do it in the bog where it wouldn't go all over my uniform. I had more or less decided on a nice, clean hanging when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"You'd better come in, love," said Mrs Boothroyd, softly.

A whole pot of tea later, she asked me, "and you're upset because all the others are pregnant and you're not? Have you ever done it with a boy, dear?"

"Oh, yes. Loads of times. I taught Jeremy how to do it, in the back of a Jaguar, doggy-fashion."

"A Jaguar, eh? Connolly leather seats?" Mrs Boothroyd asked with interest. "I love the smell of warm leather!"

"But the other girls have been shagging all three of the boys, every day, several times a day, for months, and nobody told me!"

"No, they're total bastards, young girls. Maybe they were jealous of you. They thought that if you were shagging Jeremy and the other two boys several times every day, they wouldn't get a look in." Her warm hands were on each side of my buttocks pulling me closer to her along the couch.

Perhaps I should have mentioned, we were both already naked. "Come here!" she whispered.

If I had come any closer, I'd have been sitting behind her. I came closer.

She even adjusted the Boomer for me before I went. "You're still growing a cup size every week, dear," she said. "I'll start work on the Mark II version right away. This one will be designed specially for you!

The bus driver noticed as well. A huge-titted girl catches his bus to town. Four hours later, the same girl catches his bus back to St Cat's, and she's at least a couple of inches bigger. Remarkable! As he careered slowly along the road, his eyes glued to the interior mirror; colliding at intervals with road signs and careless cyclists, he made a mental note to ask for a permanent transfer to the St Cat's run.

I marched straight down to the milking shed. Music throbbed (Mahler, it was, according to the CD box), disco lights flashed, shrieking voices yelled at each other at point blank range. The Junior ex-Drama Group was being milked. They looked up, gasping, as their Head Girl stormed in, slamming the door almost off its hinges. The disco lad looked up with a yelp of alarm, and his Girl Of The Week slid off his lap in a welter of huge puffy nipples and squirting milk. She crawled helplessly about the floor, her nipples leaving snail-trails of milk on the tiles, searching for her glasses.

Darren, the assistant, was busy with a leak in the apparatus. He looked up at me and dropped his spanner. It fell with a clang. Jeremy, who had been loading crates of milk for the night delivery, came in, and his jaw dropped open.

Perhaps I should have explained. Before I had marched into the shed, I had removed every stitch of my school uniform. I was dressed in nothing apart from my Boothroyd Boomer, now adjusted to something in the region of a Z cup, and a bust measurement of more than 60 inches. A generous bulge of flesh overflowed each of the giant cups.

No, I wasn't even wearing my knickers, which I think must have been hidden by Mrs Boothroyd for her private use later.

That was why everybody looked up as I burst into the milking shed. Someone had the presence of mind to turn off the music.

"Jeremy! Come here!" I ordered. "Lie down on the floor!" He did, lying at my feet. I imagine he was looking up in abject adoration, although I couldn't see him, of course.

"Disco Lad, come here!" I bellowed, and he got out of his seat, still tumescent from the efforts of the lactating ex-Drama kid.

"Darren, here! Now! And SIT!"

"Wait a minute, Shan," said a female voice, and an ex-Drama girl detached herself from the milking machine, darted across to a cupboard against the wall, and boobs squirting and rebounding, came over to me with a pair of shoes with eight-inch heels. "Here, put these on. They seem to be your size." She wiped the splashes of her milk off the shiny leather with the corner of her skirt, and I put the shoes on. It felt better, especially when I jabbed Jeremy with my heel.

Another girl brought a top hat and a whip. I supposed the ex-Drama Group needed props like these for their productions.

The whip cracked satisfyingly, and the three boys immediately became naked. I was most pleasantly surprised to see that Smegs had not been exaggerating about Darren. On the contrary, in fact. Wobbling slightly on my totteringly-high heels, I placed one leg up on a vacant bar-stool. The ex-Drama girls gasped in unison, presumably at the almost unimaginable dimensions of their Head Girl's pussy. I will describe it more fully for you one day, but everything about it is, I should warn you, extremely large. Most of the girls, I supposed, were seeing it for the first time. I silenced them with a stern glance and they ducked in unison as the whip cracked above their heads.

The boys seemed to know what to do. I felt Jeremy engage, I recognised him by feel. It must have been the disco lad who stood behind me. "Ouch!" I said, before recovering my composure, and the ex-Drama girls nodded their approval of my performance. Darren, meanwhile, had clambered on to a stool in front of my face. I would never get that lot in my mouth, would I? Surely not.

The riotous applause of the audience told me that yes, I could.

Bodily fluids must have been flowing under the door. They seemed to be coming out of my ears, not to mention quite a few other orifices. The boys were taking a rest. Either that, or they had died in service. The ex-Drama girls had taken them away and stacked them neatly by the wall to recover.

Meanwhile, six of the girls were attending to my immediate needs with stubby little fingers and long rough tongues. In fact, they were attending to needs I never suspected I had. Six more waited their turn, perched lewdly on stools with several fingers inserted into themselves and each other.

The other eighteen or so were keeping occupied to the best of their considerable ability. They were quite creative, these ex-Drama girls. Everywhere, abandoned clothing littered the floor. How would they ever find their own clothes again? Pools of milk shimmered in the multi-coloured disco lighting. Someone had restarted the music. Something more suitable for an orgy. Sneaking a glance at the CD box, I instantly recognised Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.

The door opened. At that moment, I was feeding from a rather large-boned girl � plump, even � with colossal, milk-laden gourds. Pushing them apart, I saw who had come in.

Smegs was taking in the situation. The music, the lights, the panting, ejaculating, squirting ex-Drama girls, the overturned furniture, the spilled milk, the pile of used boys.

"I will say this for you, Shan. You never do things by halves, do you?" she said, with a touch of genuine admiration.

She had to stay, of course. Smegs had never walked away from an orgy in her life. After a brief attempt to reactivate the three boys, she took on the next six available Junior ex-Drama girls. Some of the others went into a huddle and decided that Smegs was improperly dressed for her role, and they covered up her nakedness with black stockings, toweringly high heels and a policeman's helmet, which took her overall height up to an imposing seven feet.

They even managed to dress her without interrupting her action, which shows Smegs's powers of concentration when she gets stuck in to something or, to be more precise, when something gets stuck into her.

The slut-fest reached the greatest of its many climaxes during the final movement of Beethoven Nine, with the ex-Drama girls joining in the chorus in impeccable German. When the last strains died away, the only sound was the lapping of thirty-two tongues, the slurping of three-hundred and twenty fingers, several sets of toes and every available hole that anyone could find.

The stench was utterly indescribable.

A bus pulled up and disgorged sixty lactating women from the town, but when they cautiously opened the door of the milking parlour, they were so appalled at the scene; and at the same time, so turned on that they immediately set up their own rival orgy on the bus, which later had to be completely steam-cleaned and re-upholstered at hideous cost.

Smegs it was who suddenly sat up, her helmet falling off, and screamed.

"Shit! The milk!" She grabbed me by the hand, and made me connect as many of the Junior ex-Drama sluts to the milking machine as I could, but I was hampered by having two of them taking turns at sucking on each of my nipples and five more licking and pawing away at my nether regions. I hated to disappoint them, so I let them get on with it.

It was no use. The day's milk yield was down by eighty per cent, and we had to abandon cheese and butter production for a whole week. There were also complaints from a number of customers that the milk smelt 'funny'.

"What's funny about the smell of pussy?" Smegs snarled, days later, as we examined the sales figures. "Another orgy like that, and we'll find ourselves going down."

I wish she wouldn't say things like that when I'm trying to concentrate. I immediately found myself going down on Smegs. A shameful and disgusting display in front of the naked First Formers, who should be protected from such sights, for their own welfare.

It's no good, I thought. I am in danger of becoming depraved, obsessed by sex. Where is it all going to end?

Chapter 9:� St Cat's Enterprises

"What's going on here?" I asked Smegs. There was every good reason for the question. I had come into her dairy office and discovered strange goings-on.

"What's up?" she asked, innocently.

"This lot, what are they doing?"

"Sorting, what does it look like?"

She was being deliberately obstructive. Here, in her office, a long table had been set up in the middle of the room. Smegs's desk and computer had been moved to the far end. Around the table hovered a dozen First Formers, busily rummaging through a pile of garments, picking them up, inspecting them and dropping them into boxes on the floor.

Only a closer look showed me that these were female undergarments. There was a damp, musty smell in the room.

"We're going to move the whole operation out as soon as Jeremy has cleared out his mower shed," she said, noticing me sniffing the air.

"But why, what are they doing it for?"

"It all came to me when we had that first orgy, the night the milk went off. There was that great pile of clothes on the floor, remember?" I did, only too clearly. "Well, they all got dressed afterwards, but there seemed to be a dozen or so pairs of panties left over, unclaimed. I brought them over here, advertised them, and sold the lot in two days! Sixty quid, straight off!"

"You...? But...?"

"This lot is a week's supply from the entire school." She walked along the line of busy sorters, picking up a few pairs from the piles on the table. "Look," she said, "there are three basic types of soiling. Here's a good example." She thrust a quite disgraceful pair of panties altogether too close to my nose. "This, we call 'type A'." She found another pair. "This is 'type B'. And this," she said triumphantly, "is 'type C'!"

I waved it away in disgust, and she tossed it on the table where it was immediately seized and sniffed by an eager First Former, who then dropped it into a cardboard box.

"The sorters work by appearance and smell. Mostly, they can sort out the 'type C' jobbies without sniffing, but there can be a problem with the A's and B's. Oh, and there's this lot here."

"What are they?" I asked faintly.

"'Type D', you won't like those at all!"

"Oh, my God, Smegs, you've really done it this time!" I went and sat down, feeling weak at the knees.

She continued her spiel. "Some of them are combinations of types. The best ones are A, B and C all together. Anything 'type D' goes into a special box. Ah, the Changing of the Guard."

The sniffers and sorters marched out, being instantly replaced by a fresh batch.

"The girls can only sniff effectively for five minutes, so they work in shifts, and go outside in the fresh air for ten minutes. Three shifts, you see," she explained.

"And you sell them? People buy them? Who ...?"

"They go all over the world. A fiver a pair. More for combinations of types. VERY big in Japan right now. The D's are popular in India." She showed me a pile of plastic bags, printed in five languages. There was a prominent illustration of a pony-tailed schoolgirl's face on the bags, with a shame-faced expression and a finger in her mouth. It was a face I recognised, one of the ex-Drama Group. 'OOPS!' said the bold red lettering.

"Just got these in," she said, proudly. "They hold the moisture in for days. The customer opens the sealed bag, and wowee!"

I bet they did, too. 'Wowee' wasn't the word for it. A girl came over and took the bundle of bags away. I could see girls taking panties out of boxes and slipping them singly into bags. Another girl was heat-sealing the bags in a small machine. Occasionally, one of the bag packers picked up a plastic spray bottle with a trigger, and squirted a little liquid on to the crotch of the panties before packing them.

"Some of them have dried out. The ideal is to ship them while they're still fresh and moist."

"What's in the bottle?" I asked, regretting the question immediately. Smegs just looked at me with pity on her face.

"What do you think? It's all right, it's fresh. The girls refill their bottles every ten minutes."

"It's disgusting, Smegs. Even for you, this is a terrible idea. Collecting used knickers from the whole school...!"

"Oh, no, we don't do that!"

"What do you mean?"

"The school couldn't provide enough knickers, not even if they changed them every half hour! And some of those Juniors don't even change them every day. No, these are all custom-soiled!" She dragged a big box out and dipped into it. "There, look, brand new!" She held out a handful of plain cotton knickers.

"So how do they get in that awful state?"

"Ah, that's the job of the other girls, the ones you don't see. They're down in the bogs. I call them the pantie-soilers. They work shifts too. They all swop jobs, depending on the way they feel at any time. But a good pantie-soiler is worth her weight in..."

I had seen enough.

"Shan? Where are you going? Wait! You haven't seen our latest line...!"

Once a week, a van came into the school and took away dozens of cardboard cartons for shipping all over the world. Each box, Smegs told me, contained 1,000 pairs of soiled panties, or 3,750 pounds clear profit, taking into account the cost of materials, shipping and the generous emoluments paid to the First Form girl assistants.

"What if it gets hi-jacked?" I asked her as we watched the van drive away. "That load must be worth half a million pounds!"

"Who is going to steal fifty thousand pairs of dirty knickers?" she said, with a certain amount of logic. "Anyway, excuse me, I have to get to the bank before it closes."

The door of Smegs's Mercedes closed with a solid thunk. A group of First Formers pounced and rubbed away her fingerprints from the door handle with yellow dusters.

"Hang on, Smegs. Can you give me a lift into town?"

The car had surged forward. It stopped, and a window glided down.

"Where to?"

"Mrs Boothroyd's."

"What, again? Hop in."

I slid into the passenger seat and arranged the seat belt between my now-mammoth breasts as the car whispered away up the drive.

"You ought to move in with your Mrs B," said Smegs. "You spend enough time there!"

"I need to see her every week just to get my bra adjusted. I can't get it right doing it myself. It is only a prototype. The Boomer Mark II." I tugged at it. "It's bloody tight now, I must be growing even faster!"

"I'll get a move on, then," said Smegs, putting her foot down, "in case they explode all over my smart upholstery!"

There was a good reason to see Mrs Boothroyd, apart from the usual. I mean, both the usuals. With the Upper Sixth girls indulging in mass pregnancy, their breasts were growing at a splendid rate, and already some of them had outgrown the biggest cast-offs Smegs or I could find for them.

The twins were particularly impressive, topping the fifty-inch mark in no time, and Virginia was already approaching five feet. They were ideal customers for Boomers. Even the girls who hadn't been extra large-breasted before they became pregnant were entering into the spirit of the thing. At the moment, they were borrowing bras from the Juniors, which was obviously a most undesirable state of affairs.

Mrs Boothroyd let me in and dragged me away into her back room. For ten minutes or more neither of us said a word as we explored each other's mouths with our tongues.

"You came a day early!" the bra lady panted, tearing off her clothes.

"Yes, Smegs gave me a lift into town."

"Will you still come tomorrow?"

"If you want me!"

We collapsed on to the couch.

"Now then, what did you want, apart from that," asked Mrs Boothroyd, an hour and a half later.

"Shan's littoo bwa's too tight again," I complained in my best whining schoolgirl voice. I stood with my hands behind my back with my toes turned inwards.

"You naughty little girl, you're growing much too fast. Here, try it on and let's make it fit you properly." I fought my way into it again. "God, girl, you're immense! That's two inches since last week! And two inches the week before that! Take it off again."

I did, and my floppers went 'doinngggg' and stretched themselves down to the top of my pubic rug. "Anuvva couple of weeks and dey'll be covering up Shan's gweat big wet furry pussy!" I said, pouting girlishly.

"That's all right, I'll still be able to find my way there using my other senses."

When she says things like that, it makes my insides melt.

She stretched the tape measure around me from every possible direction.

"Do you mind showing a few inches of areola above the top of your bra cups, Shan, darling? Yours are seven inches across, now."

"Oh, all right then, go on!"

"I can understand if you're not altogether happy about showing them, but I personally think a touch of areola looks so sexy in a low-cut top. And since yours are so vast, it's a pity not to make the most of them."

It was two hours later when I left, carrying ten brand new Boothroyd Boomers � the Mark III version with Kevlar-reinforced shoulder-straps and titanium underwires � charged to the account of St Cat's Enterprises.

"Seems funny, doesn't it," said Smegs, puffing on an expensive cigar and swirling her brandy round in her glass.

"What does?" I stretched my legs luxuriously, kicking off my shoes. A log fire crackled in the grate.

"Well, the Headmistress leaving us in charge of her house while she goes on a cruise with her boyfriends. Paid for out of the dairy profits..."

"And a month's sales of soiled panties..."

"More brandy, Shan?"

"Yes, please. Very smooth, n'est-ce pas?"

"Oui!" she hiccupped and we both giggled, then she did it again.

"Hey, don't go getting drunk, or you'll fall asleep on the job later!"

"Ooooh, yes. Must stay awake for Darren and Jeremy."

"And the disco lad!"

"And the disco lad. Hic!"

I undressed completely and scratched beneath my tits. Luxury! She watched me appreciatively.

"Now that you're even bigger than me, do you still like carrying those things around all day?" Smegs sounded upset that I was now four inches bigger than her round the bust, and getting further ahead with each passing second. I had now set my sights on the three Lower Sixth girls who had suffered such a nasty accident with the anti-mosquito spray. I reckoned on another month to overtake them.

"I love them," I told her. "In fact, I hope they grow to be a hundredweight each!"

"It's easy for you to say that. You just wait until they do, and you're pushing them around in a wheelbarrow like Baps."

"Wonder how she's getting on. With her dairy and all. She must be busy, she's hardly phoned since we saw her last time."

"She'll be worth a few quid now, even delivering it all herself in her barrow."

"Maybe she'll come up and see us in her Mercedes."

"Not! She'll never get a Merc selling milk. It was the soiled panties that did the trick for us. A top quality product, at the right time, at the right price."

Smegs was doing Business Studies.

The tycoon drained her glass and tapped the ash off her cigar. The effect was slightly spoiled when she began coughing, tears pouring down her cheeks. "Water!" she croaked, as I slapped her on her bare back, the impact making her boobs jiggle in a quite fascinating manner.

I poured her a large brandy and slapped her back again, watching the effect. I could watch this for hours: they sort of rippled as the shock waves travelled from her rib-cage right out to the nipples and back. I tried again, this time gently holding one nipple while I gave her a smack. That was fascinating, too. I pointed it out to Smegs, who had stopped coughing some time ago.

"When you've quite finished...!" she said.

"See if mine do that," I told her, and leaned forward from the waist, so my tits dangled straight down. They swung in circles, in opposite directions, I noticed. Could they be used for water divining? How much longer before they reached the floor, I wondered, as Smegs whopped me resoundingly on the back. It nearly blew my eardrums out. "Bloody hell, whatcha doing?" I yelled as she did it again. Whopp! And again.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything..." It was a familiar voice.

"Miss Anderson!" cried Smegs, inaccurately.

"Miss Valentine!" I gasped.

"The same. No, do carry on, girls. Always a pleasure to watch a little gratuitous violence. My word, Chauntaille, you've really grown, haven't you?" She squatted down and inspected one of my nipples at close range, using both hands. "Been playing with forbidden substances again, have we?"

"No, Miss. They just got like this on their own."

"Of course they did, "she said soothingly. "It happens all the time at St Cat's, doesn't it! But I didn't come here to watch you grow. I knew I'd find you here, and I wanted a word ... about panties!"

She outlined her plan over another large brandy.

I thought it stank. Smegs said she saw possibilities in it, and Moggie smirked proudly at this accolade from St Cat's top-ranking entrepreneur.

"But it was my idea," Moggie insisted. "We use your distribution chain, but all the profits are mine."

"And all the losses?" said Smegs slyly, through a veil of cigar smoke. A red-hot spark settled on her right breast, but she failed to notice. I reached across and placed a wet finger on it before it could do any serious damage. My finger was already wet, by the way. I thought you'd want to know that.

Moggie laughed at the idea of losses, and we both joined in.

She stood up, sinking the dregs of her drink. "Mustn't detain you. We'll draw up an agreement, and we'll go into production next week, okay?"

She made her way to the door, and we weaved after her, standing naked on the front step until she disappeared into the darkness. Then we clutched each other intimately and went back into the sitting room.

Smegs poured the last of the brandy into our glasses. It came just over the top, but we got down on hands and knees in front of the table and took a few sips without spilling any.

"Ouch!"

"Whash'matter?"

"I knelt on my nipple," I said.

"Serves you fuckin' right, okay?"

The next thing I remember was waking up the next morning. My brain hurt.

Chapter 10:� Still More Enterprises

"It's not the best plan in the world," said Smegs. "Not like schoolgirls' panties. It's not sustainable."

"What do you mean?" My brain still hurt, despite three mugs of black coffee.

"Men's shorts, or briefs. A fiver a pair, say. She might get them for a couple of pounds. Then she wants them stiff with solidified cum. Say 20 millilitres a pair. Can you see the problem yet?"

I was beginning to. Whereas we had almost limitless supplies of girl-juices and other disgraceful substances, male cum was at a premium, especially in a high-class girls' private school. And even if a supply could be laid on, several hundred hyper-sexed teenage girls were always going to find a way of gobbling it up long before it got anywhere near Moggie's production line.

And male cum was a finite resource. If you found a donor and obtained a contribution, it would be some time before he gave you any more. And each time, you waited longer and he gave you less. That's men for you.

I told Smegs all this, and she nodded as I made my points.

"Jizz-o-Pants are a complete no-no, businesswise!" she summed up.

"So what are you going to do?"

"That's Moggie's problem. I advise her to carry on."

Moggie's supplies arrived a week or so later. Ten thousand pairs of men's briefs and boxers. She'd bought expensive ones; pure silk in some cases. "Only the best is good enough for my clients," she insisted.

She took half a dozen pairs down to the milking shed for a trial run. "Just come into those," she instructed Jeremy, Darren and the disco lad.

They couldn't. Jeremy had just finished servicing the Lower Sixth, Darren had found time hanging heavy on his hands and had indulged in a wank, the disco lad couldn't do it with anyone watching. They did the best they could, but it was little more than a single squeezed-out drip each from Jeremy and Darren and nothing at all from the disco lad.

"This won't do," Moggie complained, "we need these shorts absolutely encrusted! It'll take weeks at this rate."

She left them a pair each to collect later. Jeremy forgot what he was supposed to be doing and wore his, ending up with only a few 'type C' stains which failed to impress Moggie at all. The disco lad got his soaked in girl-milk from a quite simply gorgeous little animal from the Junior ex-Drama Group. Darren wanked into his pair, but sadly missed the target and spilled his seed upon the ground. Well, he was by no means the first to do that.

A week later, Moggie had five acceptably encrusted pairs. "I'm thousands out of pocket," she wailed in Smegs's office. "I'm going to have to take serious action."

After another week, she had only twenty more encrusted pairs, even after doling out a whole box-full to the patrons of the local cinema which was showing a rude movie.

That was when Moggie decided to invent artificial cum.

She brought us a sample to try.

"It tastes right," said Smegs, "and the smell is perfect!"

I tested my sample more scientifically. "It feels okay. It floats on water. It causes fabric to become stiff when it dries out. And when you spill it on your belly, it freezes instantly. What's it made of?"

"That would be telling," she said, "but it contains absolutely no sperm. It's perfectly safe to use."

"You mean, we could drink it?" Smegs took a beaker of the stuff and glugged it back. It went down in one lump and she gagged slightly, then belched.

"Better than the real thing!" she concluded, reaching for the 5-litre plastic container to get a refill.

Meanwhile, I had rubbed a handful into my cleavage. We normally wore no clothes in Smegs's office these days, to save wear and tear on our bras. A faint smell of warm bleach wafted upwards from between my enormous glistening tits. Did I tell you how big they were? Not recently? Remind me to tell you some time. I'll give you a clue: the alphabet isn't long enough, okay?

"It's perfect, Miss Valentine. I suggest you go ahead and start producing. How much of this stuff did you make?"

"Two hundred gallons, until I see how effective it is, then we'll go into real quantities."

"Just a thought, Miss," said Smegs. "For the finishing touch, you might say; you could add a little extra something."

"Oh, what do you suggest?"

Smegs told her. An expression of distaste came over her face, but she nodded in agreement.

Later that afternoon, Moggie brought us her first pre-production sample of artificial smegma.

St Cat's had now become a huge production facility.

In a brand new building set in lush woodland, twin parallel production lines turned out, on the one hand, eleven grades of soiled girl-panties; on the other, men's underwear encrusted with artificial semen plus.

The First Formers employed to soil the panties had been supplemented by older girls who were encouraged to add exciting ingredients of their own, depending on their masturbatory habits and diet.

Production line workers were allowed to drink as much of the artificial cum as they liked. This is a policy pursued by food manufacturers. The thinking behind the idea is that if the workers are allowed to eat their fill of the product, after a week they will never want to touch the stuff again.

The St Cat's cum-drinkers, however, quickly became dependent upon it. Within a week, the girls' eyes became glazed and staring, they developed a twitch. Once away from the production-line, they had an unquenchable thirst for semen: ideally the artificial sort, but failing that, the real thing would do. This led to ravaging packs of half-crazed off-duty semen-workers catching the bus to town in search of a fix.

By the second week, masses of coarse and curly hair developed on the girls' bodies and legs. Shaving was no remedy as their armpits and crotches began to resemble those of wild animals, or, for that matter, their very own headmistress.

Elsewhere on the site, milk and dairy produce was being churned out in vast quantities. A herd of cows had been brought in to boost output � they grazed on the sports field � although it led to inevitable complaints from customers and environmental pressure groups.

Speciality dairy products were selling well, including the much-admired St Cat's KnobCheese, with its very own secret ingredient, known only to three living persons.

Most exciting of all, the pregnant girls of the Upper Sixth had been joined by a second wave of pregnancies in the Lower Sixth, and four more batches at monthly intervals. Eighty per cent of the girls in the school were now expecting children within the next nine months, and the remainder were expecting children some time after that.

To maintain the pregnancy level, an impregnation unit was set up; a dedicated group of pasty-faced, slack-lipped, drooling young males recruited by Jeremy and interviewed personally by Moggie. The interviews lasted several days for each applicant, and less than one boy in every two thousand interviewed by Miss Valentine made it on to the short list.

To reduce the pressure on the hard-pressed impregnation unit, the Board of Governors of St Cat's introduced a scheme allocating a proportion of places to girls who were already pregnant before starting at the school. The Board felt that this would improve the breed by introducing fresh genes.

However, the Board arguably made an error of judgement when they advertised nationally in high-class glossy magazines.

WANTED

Schoolgirls � are you pregnant, or expecting to become pregnant within the six weeks of the Summer Holidays? St Catherine's High School for Girls offers you an unrivalled opportunity. Study, play and get fucked regularly in a warm, loving atmosphere. Active lesbians and bi-sexuals always welcome. Sexually-explicit dress code. Breast enlargement TO ANY SIZE freely available. Fees now ONLY 7,500 pounds per year, inclusive of accommodation and all the sex you can handle.

Somehow, the advertisement came into the wrong hands, and questions were asked in the House of Commons.

Waving an expensively-printed brochure, an MP stood up and asked the Prime Minister if he was aware that a hitherto respected private girls' school was apparently the nerve-centre of a commercial enterprise which embodied all that was worst of the unacceptable face of the market economy. Amidst uproar, the member brandished the brochure in a clenched fist, braying in a most unladylike manner.

"I have here," she screeched, in her best ex-actor's voice, "an illustrated prospectus for the school. It shows photographs of the girls at work in the laboratory, on the school playing fields, in the school dairy, and even in what appears to be a small factory producing undergarments FOR SALE to the PUBLIC!"

"Shame ... disgrace...!"

"Order, Order," cried the Speaker. "I will not have this House turned into a zoo!"

Too late for that. Members from both sides of the House had torn the brochure from the woman member's damp hand and were fighting to get a closer look.

"Piss off, I saw it first!"

"There, look, that's my daughter! The one with the biggest tits, of course!"

"Jeezus, will you just look at the size of them things...!"

"Gerrof, yer lezzie cow!"

"How much is it a year?"

"I thought that cheese tasted a bit strange!"

"So that's where those soiled panties came from ..."

"Order! Order!"

In the midst of all this activity, some of us were still trying to study for our exams. I had to remind Smegs, quite sharply, that was why we were here.

"Speak for yourself!" she retorted, unpleasantly.

"It's all very well for you, you'll be able to use St Cat's Erogenous Enterprises for your Business Studies paper. I'm going to have to make do with writing a piece on the field-testing of an artificial sperm substitute."

"I thought you were still field-testing the real thing," she sneered. "Anyway, what about your illustrated paper on the development trials of a Maximum-Control Adjustable Brassiere for Growing Girls?"

"The photographs keep disappearing. Every time Mrs Boothroyd shoots a new batch and takes the film in to the photo booth, the little man there tells her they didn't turn out. That's six rolls now."

"I'd be starting to get suspicious if I were you."

"I can't think why anyone would want to steal pictures of the Boothroyd Boomer Mark Va", I said.

"You can't?"

"I was modelling it, you know!"

"No, in that case, nobody would want to steal them."

"Anyway, it's going to be just us and us alone carrying the banner of St Cat's in the exams. The rest of the class will be confined by then. Either that, or waiting to give birth. Or feeding babies. They can hardly come in and sit exams in their condition."

"I don't see why not," said Smegs. "If there are enough of them, it would be worthwhile setting up a mobile maternity unit right here at St Cat's. In fact, with more than eighty per cent of the girls pregnant, there's no need for it to be mobile. We could convert the gymnasium into a maternity ward and delivery room. The maternity staff from the local hospital could move down here. There are more pregnant women here than in the rest of the county anyway."

She turned to the keyboard and entered a string of figures. Her eyebrows rose as she hit the Enter key and a complex chart built itself on the screen. "As much as that?" she said to herself.

Like all of Smegs's schemes, it had an unassailable logic. Within a week, staff from the local hospital were moving their equipment into the gymnasium, a building which was now of strictly limited appeal to several hundred girls with burgeoning bellies. Mothers who had difficulty supplying milk for their infants were able to call upon the services of St Cat's Lactation Supplies. The babies flourished, and as an interesting side effect, the mothers went home ready � and apparently in a tremendous hurry � to start making more babies.

"I've got to hand it to you, Smegs. That idea of turning the gym into a maternity unit was a real whizz!"

"It's exceeded our wildest hopes," she beamed, "the local hospital board were just on the phone saying that's the first time they've made a profit on maternity since records began!"

"That's marvellous!"

"And the other schools have heard of our plans to have young mothers sit their exams right up to and beyond their ninth month, and we've had twelve firm bookings already."

"Other schools? Is that altogether a good idea?"

"It's �207 for each girl, plus 3 per cent per day up to and including the 264th day of pregnancy from the projected start of the first missed period, increasing pro rata to 8 per cent per day by the 284th day."

"That's..."

"A lot of money, Shan. What's more..."

"There's more?"

"There's more! The exam passes will count as St Cat's passes for the league table. The Headmistress was insistent upon that. We checked with the Department of Education and there's nothing in the regulations about it. The other schools complained, but they could hardly refuse. It was either that, as we told them, or convert their own gymnasia."

"Gymnasia?"

"It's optional. I prefer gymnasia to gymnasiums, although both are equally acceptable."

I suspected her of looking it up, but said nothing.

"Kiss me, Smegs!" I said, with real feeling.

She looked at her watch. "I've got a twenty minute window," she said, and we shed our clothes in an abandoned pile on the carpet, from where they were picked up, pressed and placed on hangers by the naked First Formers.

Chapter 11:� The Final Frontier

"I have a dream," announced Moggie, pacing up and down in Smegs's office. "The Chemical Liberation of Womankind. The Final Frontier."

"I always thought that was something else," I interrupted, and Smegs scowled at me. Moggie never even noticed.

"I have tried before. The process was not ready. The World was not ready. Women were not ready ..."

Get on with it, for Chrissakes! Ready for what?

"It is now time for women the world over to have breasts!"

"They've already got them," I told her. She ignored me.

"Breasts of a size of which they had never even dreamed possible."

"We've got those!"

"And now, we can offer it to them. It will be the single greatest forward step in the history of cosmetic chemistry. Dr Valentine's Uddagro!"

"Doctor?"

"It's my middle name. I took the precaution of adding it when I changed my name the last time."

"So what's the difference between Uddagro and the original boob juice?"

"Uddagro will come in a whole range of strengths. It will be supplied in non-enviro-hostile spray cans containing exactly the right dose. Choose your colour of can for the size you want your breasts to be. So simple even a man could use it!"

"Why would he want to?" I asked.

"You know what I mean, Chauntaille," she scolded. "It's simple human nature. The punters, ever cautious, will first buy a can which will give them a modest increase in size. It will work, of course, but they will be so pleased with their new-grown breasts they will want more. The greater strengths will, naturally, bear an enhanced cost-effectiveness shortfall."

"Naturally."

"She means they'll cost more," said Smegs, sotto voce.

"I know that," I said with some acerbity, fortissimo e cantabile.

"Valentine's Uddagro will be but the precursor of a burgeoning range of women's personal products. Valentine's Hirsumax FBH will grow your pubic hair to any thickness literally overnight. Valentine's Snatchettes will come in a hundred fragrances to make your crotch irresistible to your lovers. Valentine's Moisturiser will keep you wetter, longer. Valentine's Willigro speaks for itself, and will come in all sizes up to bloody ridiculous. Some women are never satisfied, apparently. We will be going into immediate volume production for the Mother's Day and Hallowe'en market. After that, we will set our sights on Christmas."

She stopped pacing for long enough to pick up her briefcase and take out a wad of colourful brochures. "It's all in there," she said. I leafed through them.

"Jeez, who posed for these pictures?" I asked.

"The Junior ex-Drama Group. That's why we had to change their faces, to protect the innocent. We used the latest computer techniques."

"I can see that. Do you think furry animal heads give quite the right impression?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. Nobody will ever notice with those tits."

The builders came in two days later to modify the chemistry lab for production of the Dr Valentine's range of female sexual enhancement products. A fleet of blue and scarlet Mercedes vans was delivered, discreetly sign-written with the words Dr Valentine's � SEX IN A CAN, and the logo of a naked huge-breasted woman astride a silhouetted lover. The woman, bizarrely, had a cat's head.

"It's a play on words, St Cat's, get it?" said Moggie.

"I see," I said doubtfully.

Within a week, the vans were backing up to the huge double doors of the despatch bay, night and day; as day and night, they sped to all points of the compass.

"We're doing own-brand products for the supermarket chains as well," Moggie whispered to me confidentially. "Look out for Tesco Value Bust Enlarger in the red, white and blue striped can. It's the identical product with a different perfume. And Tesco Scentacunt comes in twenty fragrances, including diesel fuel and white spirit, good, honest, working class man-smells. They weren't interested in the Willigro, for some reason. Apparently, men who shop in Tesco have no need of enhancement. Personally, I think they're wrong and they would sell thousands as Christmas presents, but that's their problem."

She proudly showed me round the new lab. It was a room filled with memories for me. In this very room, I had received my first accidental dose of the mysterious breast-enhancing chemical which landed me in hospital, the day I rescued Moggie and Smegs after the dreadful accident in the fume cupboard.

The rat cages were still in the same place, but the rats were being pensioned off, Moggie told me, their job done. The female rats, I noticed, all had large breasts. The males were extremely well-endowed and wore expressions of utter weariness on their faces.

Where there had once been work benches with bunsen burners and chemical balances, there were now highly-polished machines from Belgium which filled spray cans and sealed blue and scarlet packages, all with the characteristic logo.

"It's highly automated," Moggie said in cathedral-hushed tones, "so there aren't many staff. The few staff we do have are naturally exposed to the effects of the chemicals. It's unavoidable, I'm afraid."

That was obvious, unfortunately. Three young women, not from the school, I noticed, sat in specially adapted chairs, supervising the filling of the Uddagro cans. Well, it certainly worked, I thought.

Another woman, dressed in a tank-top and shorts, was quite obviously packing Hirsumax FBH.

A young man was in charge of the Willigro filling machine. He wore what appeared, at first sight, to be a medieval codpiece, but only at first sight.

Meanwhile, two girls looked after the packing of the Snatchettes and the Moisturiser. They were unable to leave each other alone. Even as I watched, they abandoned themselves to raving lust, right there on the floor, and had to be dragged back to their work-stations by a supervisor.

"Most impressive, Miss," I told her.

"I like to think so," said Moggie.

"I may have asked you already, Smegs," I said formally, "but my parents would like to extend a cordial invitation to you to spend Christmas with us this year."

"Why, thank you, Shan, I would be pleased graciously to accept."

"You will not be fucking with them this holiday."

She appeared shocked by the very thought. "How could you even countenance such a suggestion?"

"I am sure you remember the last occasion. My parents have fully recovered from their drug-induced libidinousness. They are now the best of friends once more."

"I am pleased to hear it."

So it was settled. I phoned the doting parents and arranged it. Mother was overjoyed. "Tell Smegs we are looking forward to seeing her again. We so enjoyed last time."

That didn't sound too promising, to tell the truth. Apart from Mother calling Smegs Smegs, instead of Megan, I thought it was a little tactless to mention last time. We would just have to trust to luck that my parents were fully recovered.

"Is everything in hand here for the Holidays?" I asked Smegs. "What about the dairy and everything?"

"The girls are being given a kit to take home with them. They will be hand-milking themselves. Each of them has three weeks' supply of insulated postal milk-bags with first-class postage prepaid. They will be collected daily from the sorting office by Jeremy and his staff. Those girls who live locally enough to come in will be milked on the premises, of course."

"Oh, of course."

"Pantie production will switch to outwork only. Volunteers will take a supply of panties home with them and store them, once fully soiled, in plastic bags in the airing cupboard. The girls are being encouraged to provide a full range of stains."

"I am sure they will need little encouragement."

Moggie is laying off all her Dr Valentine's Sex-in-a-Can staff over the Christmas period. All stocks will be shipped out by then. The factory will be empty. The entire school is to be redecorated during the holiday, according to the Headmistress. The only facility to be providing a normal service will be the Maternity Unit. Apparently, babies will continue to be born."

"And, lo! There shall be a star in the East," I said, regrettably.

Smegs just stared at me. Since becoming an entrepreneur, much of the soul has gone out of her.

I think it must be a sign that you are getting older. A bit like the policemen all looking younger. Christmas, when you are a child, seems to take for ever to arrive. Now that I was fast approaching my twenties, Christmas was rushing closer like a...

Like something rushing towards you. I could remember that Christmas when I had been sent home by the hospital to recover from the accident in the lab. The Christmas my tits grew. I forfeited my virginity. If it hadn't gone then, I suppose it would have gone by now anyway, but that isn't the point. The first time you lose your virginity is always the one you remember.

These thoughts, and others like them, were flashing through my mind as I was being heartily shafted by Darren. I was trying out a new position which, to be perfectly frank, would be a non-starter with some men, but not with Darren. I consider myself fortunate in being able to accommodate larger men without discomfort, while still finding more average men acceptable. Oddly, I have yet to meet a man who considers himself below average.

It's a bit like Scotsmen, I thought. The average height of Scotsmen, I once read, is only half an inch less than the average height of Englishmen. Yet everyone knows that all Scotsmen are five feet two in their boots. Somewhere, I reasoned, is one Scotsman who is ten thousand feet tall.

As you can tell, Darren is an enthusiastic lover, but not an inspiring one. My thoughts tend to wander when he is inside me. Right at that moment, he was further inside me than anyone ever before. I found myself yawning, and apologised. It is important for a girl to make her lover feel as if he is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Some of them, in fact, ought to be.

He finished at last, and I lowered myself to the floor, removing the rope slings from my ankles. Darren removed his frogmen's flippers and gold brocade catsuit and hunted round for his jeans.

"How was it for you?" he asked.

"Magical!" I said.

"Oh, good."

That's Darren, always considerate of a girl's feelings.

And yet, I found myself wondering. Is this advancing the plot at all?

No, I decided. Christmas can't come a moment too soon.

Little did I know, then, that before Christmas came, I would have every cause to wish that I had known what was to come before Christmas finally came. I always find, when reading a book, that nothing is more annoying than when the author says something along the lines of 'if I had only known what was about to happen'. As if the author already knows something that his character doesn't. It's really offputting.

The only thing worse is when the author introduces a completely new character like a Japanese business man, just so that he can have him walking into a New York optician's for an examination. And the optician says, 'I guess you've got a cataract', and the Japanese business man says, 'Ah, no, I have a Rincon Conninenaru.'

That is even more infuriating.

Have I told you recently how huge my breasts have become now?

No?

Oh, shit, it's not 2,000 words, but it's near enough.

[Editor's Note: Chauntaille was clearly not herself at the moment she wrote this chapter. A Head Girl's life is highly stressful, especially when she is one of the woefully small proportion of St Cat's girls who still have periods. We have spoken most sharply to her, and she has promised, in return for a good spanking, to pull herself together in time for the final chapter. And her tits are now fuckin' enormous, we think you ought to know.]

Chapter 12:� Phoenix From The Ashes

How many times had we made this poignant journey, Smegs and I? We both knew, as the little train rattled along through cuttings and along embankments, through fields now stark and clogged with the mists of winter, that we would not pass this way again as students of St Cat's. We could be excused if we shed a tear or two.

That we didn't was due entirely to the fact that we had the carriage almost to ourselves and had taken the opportunity to have a little snog. Unfortunately, things got rather out of hand, and we scrambled out on to the platform of Fillamore Deepleigh Road Station in a tangled pile of baggage and discarded school uniforms.

"Nearly miss yer stop, ladies?" enquired the ticket collector,as he helped us gather our belongings. He even offered us the use of his office to get dressed, peering through the window at intervals to check that we had finished. "I took the liberty of phoning yer old man, Miss Gruntworthy, he'll be down presently. If I could offer you a cup of tea?"

"Why, thank you, my man," said Smegs graciously, adjusting one of her shoulder straps. I was too busy, as I seemed to have inserted both legs into one half of my panties. Dressing hastily has never been my forte.

He took out the best bone china tea service for us, and poured three cups. "Way you're hoppin' around, Miss Gruntworthy, I'd reckon as 'ow you got both your legs up one hole of yer knickers, beggin' yer pardon, Miss." I forgave him his impertinence.

"Thank you, Mr Scroat, that may indeed be the problem," I said, and he turned respectfully away while I sorted things out down below. Smegs lent a hand, or at least, four fingers. "All done, now, Mr Scroat," I panted some minutes later, as Smegs dried her hands on the tablecloth and Mr Scroat's yellow labrador ran into the office and mounted me with commendable enthusiasm.

"Gerrof, yer bastard! Sorry about that!" said Mr Scroat, or it might have been me that said it.

Could it really have been five years since our tits first grew so dramatically? It seemed no time at all, yet now, Smegs's chest stuck out so far she had to go through doors sideways, and mine dangled down so low people thought I was expecting quins. Yet we were the only two girls in the Upper Sixth who were not expecting babies of some kind or other. Although it certainly wasn't for want of effort on our part.

In no time, it was Christmas Eve. We sat in the front room, my parents, Smegs and I, watching television. It was dreadful, but no-one was really watching anyway. Mother and Daddy were snogging on the couch, and Smegs and I were wondering if we could decently do the same.

At last, Mother, realising she was neglecting her duties as hostess, sat up, rearranged her monster brassiere, and said, "Oh, sorry you two, go ahead and make love if you want to, the carpet's all yours!"

"Yes, we'll watch," said Daddy, delightedly sitting forward and pouring himself another drink.

And so engrossed did we become that we never even noticed that the vicar had even been, until I came up for air and noticed his empty sherry glass on the occasional table.

"Oh, Mother, how rude of us, you should have said something, we'd have stopped for the Reverend Boyes-Wrecktham!"

"No, he expressly asked for you not to be interrupted. He even stayed for an extra glass of sherry. But now you're up, as it were, perhaps you'd like to wash your hands before supper?"

We washed our hands, and our faces as well, then made our way back in to join my parents. We found only a scribbled note, saying: 'we've gone to bed, help yourselves to sandwiches'.

"I suppose it's not surprising they went to bed, we were in the toilet washing our hands for an hour and a half," said Smegs, looking at her watch. Time certainly flies when you're enjoying yourself.

So we piled a tray with salmon and cucumber sandwiches and went up to the bedroom.

It was two in the morning when my mobile phone rang.

"'Lo, who's zat?"

"It's the Headmistress. Terrible news!" She sounded distraught. "It's a fire. At St Cat's. Can you come down here somehow? You and Megan? I've got Jeremy and Darren and the disco lad to take everything worth salvaging out of the milking sheds, by the way."

"Oh, my God, Miss. Where did ... when did it start?"

"Well, it hasn't actually started yet, but I know you have a long way to come, so ... ah there it goes now!" And in the distance, I could hear the crackle of flames and the distant clangour of fire alarms.

"We'll come right over," I said, and shook Smegs awake. She grasped me by the neck and drew me down to her moist lips. I shouted up in the general direction of her face. "Smegs, not now, darling, we have to go. The school's on fire!"

"So am I, lover!" she moaned, pressing my face deeper into her sopping groin. I fought my way clear, although during my escape, my phone slipped into Smegs's aching love-tunnel. She moaned in ecstasy.

Then something happened which was so bizarre, you would not believe it if you had not been there to see with your own eyes. Due possibly to the curved shape of the mobile phone, Smegs's g-spot � whatever that is � became stimulated, and the phone shot out of her orifice on a positive jet of love-juice, and balanced for several seconds like a table tennis ball at a carnival shooting range.

You don't believe it, do you? I retrieved the phone and wiped it on a towel as she dressed herself.

"Will jeans be all right?" she asked, holding a pair against her and cocking her head critically in the mirror. "What do you wear to a school fire?"

"Casual, I would assume. It won't be too cold, will it. I'm wearing cords and my Barbour, sensible shoes and one of Daddy's flat caps. I thought perhaps my new crushed velvet low-necked top, in case I need to take my jacket off in public." All my tops are new, needless to say, for obvious reasons. Perhaps when I get a minute free, I will describe just how gigantic my breasts are now. I'll give you a clue: two alphabets aren't long enough, okay? Megan was gazing at them in awestruck admiration.

"Gosh, you'll look stunning, I'll never compete!" She chose a huge baggy sweater, struggling to pull it over her mountainous breasts. I gave her some help, pushing her breasts inwards one at a time with my foot while she heaved downwards at the hem. Eventually, they slipped inside. "I think it must have shrunk in the wash," she complained, "it was a size eighty-four."

"You could have borrowed one of mine, but you'd have got lost in it," I said, a little cruelly. I tied my hair in a pony-tail and practised flicking it from side to side. Daddy's cap looked curiously appealing perched on top. I felt quite horny just admiring my image in the mirror. Megan appeared over my shoulder, adjusting her baseball cap with the Dr Valentine's Sex-in-a-Can logo. "Ready, then?"

"As I'll ever be," she said, and I went and asked Daddy if it would be all right to borrow one of the four-by-fours.

You could see the glow in the sky for miles around. It was like the big scene from that film, you know the one. Smegs couldn't remember the title either, but it's always on at Christmas.

We stopped at the school gates. There was a bit of a traffic jam there, as three fire engines had gone off the road, almost blocking the entrance. The drivers were arguing with the police. It had come to blows. Meanwhile, St Cat's blazed like a torch. I eased the four-by-four through the narrow gap and we rocketed away up the drive, pursued by angry shouts from the constabulary.

The Headmistress was interviewing the press. She had her best tweed suit on, and her hair was freshly coiffed. "Ah, gentlemen," she said, may I introduce my Head Girl, Chauntaille, and her Deputy, Megan." Cameras flashed and I hastily opened the front of my waxed jacket to display a couple of feet of cleavage. More cameras flashed.

"How did it start, Miss?" I asked, when I got a chance. I leaned forward, thrust out my chest and opened my jacket a little wider as the photographers got down low with their wide-angles. Glancing down into the neckline of my sweater, I was pleased to see just the shadow of an areola peeking over the top of my bra cup. Only another four or five inches and the nipple would appear!

"Oh, excellently, once we got it going, it went up like a torch. Especially all that stuff in the lab. Miss Valentine's still in there, unfortunately. You can still see her from time to time, silhouetted against the flames."

"Gosh, yes, there she is now! See her, Smegs?"

Moggie, her profile instantly recognisable, was waving from a window of an upstairs room. She seemed to be shouting something, but the flames and the bells were too loud to hear what she was saying.

"Does she want to come out, do you think?" I asked as we all waved encouragingly back to her.

"Probably, but I don't see what we can do," said the Headmistress. "The fire engines are all crashed at the gate?"

"Yes, three of them."

"Hmmm. Good." She addressed the press again. "Well, gentlemen, if that will be all, I think you may go. Coffee, then! Shan, Megan? I put some jacket potatoes in the fire earlier, but it's still a bit hot to get them out."

"I'll be right with you, Miss, I just have to sign something for the photographers."

By daybreak, the fire engines had found a way through, but all they could do by then was to damp down the embers. Of the magnificently historic St Catherine's High School buildings, dating back dozens of years, nothing remained but a pile of smoking rubble.

Gone the Junior IT Studies Group laboratory; the soaring vaulted library, with its priceless collection of smut; the high-ceilinged classrooms; the dormitories with their haunting odours of girls; the dairy, still producing milk to the last; the squash court and the Headmistress's office. Gone, too, the Dr Valentine Complex. And, so it seemed, Dr Valentine herself.

The only building left standing was the Maternity Unit, where business was pretty much as usual.

And it was in that same Maternity Unit where St Cat's greatest triumph was enacted. Thirty-seven pregnant girls of the Upper Sixth form sat their exams, some still writing whilst actually giving birth.

The whole thing was filmed for television by the BBC. Immense care was taken over the production, some girls even being asked to repeat certain parts of the process five or six times. The stress of having the same baby six times while trying to do a difficult examination can scarcely be imagined.

The finished papers were gathered in by the invigilators, and sent away for marking, still splashed with blood, mucus, tears and milk.

All the girls, their IQ's surpassed only by their bust measurements, received A's and B's.

Cheating was suspected, but they'll never be able to prove a thing.

Business as Usual. It ought really to have been the motto on the crest of the revived St Catherine's High School for Girls.

Instead, the committee chose a rather attractive design produced by a Junior Art (Life Classes � Upper Torso: Female) student. The design was, in my opinion, a little cluttered, but on the ten foot high version in the new Dr Valentine Memorial Entrance Hall the details can be more clearly seen.

A shield bears the device of a cat (sable, passant regardant) with extremely large human breasts, carrying a spray can, a milking machine and a pair of quite disgracefully soiled panties bearing type A, B, C and D stains.

Beneath, the motto, Floreat Nubilia, or roughly translated, Let Young Horny Girls Flourish.

They probably will.

The End