by

As the European Lawn Tennis season thunders on, Wimbledon fortnight comes round yet again. This year, however, there appears to be something strange and mysterious happening. Is it Something In The Water? As usual in an Axolotl story, some of the female characters tend to have very large breasts indeed, innocent girls use shamefully earthy language and there are copious quantities of bodily fluids sloshing around. Grow up and get a life before you read it.

© 1999 Axolotl

"Dr Wallace? A pleasure. Fay Lewis." The woman in a well-filled white lab coat held out her hand. Dr Wallace's eyes opened wide.
      "My pleasure entirely. The professor has briefed me. A rum do, what?"
      "Certainly is. There's nothing wrong with big whoppers, in their place. But the Centre Court isn't really the place. I've had a bit of a word with the old Tournament pasha chappies. It appears two of our women have disappeared."
      "Disappeared?" Dr Wallace looked concerned. "Where to? Which ones?"
      "They've flown off home to mummy. The pressure must be pretty darned heavy. For some reason, the boys from the gutter press don't seem to have caught on yet, which seems to be a remarkable oversight on their part. You'd think one look at the pictures ought to have been enough. You've seen them, of course?"
      "Prof Merridew showed me some. So which players are still here? We need to examine them."
      "I've got a little list." She flourished a single sheet of paper. "The complete tournament entry for the little Ladies' competition. Lots of names there. When the information first sort of leaked out to the Wimbledon medical orificer, she bashed out a list of about fifteen girls with bigger gazongas than the others. It quickly narrowed itself down to nine, then six..."
      "Nine?"
      "The first three were all-stacked, all-natural. Big for tennis players. But by the time the list had come down to six, there was absolutely no doubt about it. Those six were more than just big. A lot more."
      Dr Wallace licked his lips and produced his handkerchief. "And this was yesterday?"
      "Yesterday morning. By yesterday evening, things had ... developed ... even further. Of course, none of the girlies in question had been seen on court since their bodily changes had taken place."
      "So we're down to four."
      "Five, actually. There's a ball-girl, too. She looks like a very interesting case, if you're into voluptuous schoolgirls."
      "So the professor told me." Wallace mopped his brow.
      "We'll come to her," said Dr Lewis with a little private smile. "Meanwhile, here's the short list of four players we have left. They are all standing by for an examination this afternoon. Probably all stripped off and waiting in the locker rooms."
      There were four names highlighted in yellow.

"None from America?"
      "There were two. They are the ones who flew home this morning. Probably to appear on a chat show. Wymyn Tennis Players Who Develop Hee-yuge Breasts Overnite."
      "Is there such a show in the States? How very interesting."
      Dr Lewis looked at him curiously. "These are happy-snaps of the four of them, before and after. As you can see, the changes have been remarkable. These were taken yesterday. I should warn you..."
      Wallace was ahead of her. "They're bigger than this now?"
      "Erm, yes." British understatement. "The ball-girlie is here at Wimbledon. You'll be seeing her, too. Later. Strangely, she seems keen to take her place on the jolly old court afterwards. Not, I should have thought, the most sensible decision, but she was saying something about having to uphold the honour of her school. Must be a bit of a rarity, a girls' school with some honour left to uphold."
      "We'll get to examine her after the others? Then she'll be free to bounce right out there with the rest of them." Dr Wallace rubbed his hands. "Well, I'm ready. Show the girls in."
      "Wait a mo. Don't we need a plan of campaign? Some rules of engagement? A modus operandi of some sort? Before we start the Spanish Inquisition on these babes, we need a list of standard questions. Something's got to be causing this strange growth, and the chances are it's the same damn thing that's affected all of them."
      "You mean something in the water?"
      "Not exactly, old bean. If it had been in the water, it would have tended to affect the whole entry, in some way. Even the blokes!"
      "The men? Men don't grow tits."
      "Some of them might. Or they might grow other things. Perhaps we need to examine all the guys. It would have to be all of them; they won't have symptoms as obvious as a pair of instant giant boobies."
      Dr Wallace looked less than keen. Dr Lewis hid a smirk and sighed.
      "Perhaps you're right. It's probably just a woman thing. Let's find a common link between � or more correctly � among these four..."
      "Five."
      "These five." Dr Lewis stretched her arms above her head, the movement thrusting out her more than generous bosom. Dr Wallace concentrated hard. "Actually, the ball-girl might be the key to it. It could have been caused by something they players had all eaten or drunk somewhere in London. But it doesn't seem likely that this bunch of globe-trotting sportswomen would have gone out on a conducted tour of the night spots of south London in the tender care of a student at a respected educational establishment. An attractive theory, but improbable. So if it's not that, it has to be something else. Okay, it's likely to be food, or drink, something like that. But whatever it is, it's something that this group of four players and the ball-girl have been exposed to. That must narrow it down." Dr Lewis had taken over completely. Dr Wallace was still trying not to stare too openly at her bust.
      She began pacing around the room, then stopped and wheeled round. "I must confess, I'm strongly tempted by male semen."
      Dr Wallace's eyes almost popped out. "I beg your pardon?"
      "If all of these women had been seeing the same man..."
      "Doesn't seem very likely, Doctor. Four female tennis players indulging in casual sex in the middle of a Grand Slam tournament? Aren't they all lesbians, anyway? And what about the ball-girl?"
      "Ball-girls have urges, too! They need it just as much as the rest of us. The fact that they're not officially old enough is inconvenient, but it's certainly never been known to stop British teenage girls from having sex. They're not necessarily particularly good at it, but if there's one thing they don't lack, it's enthusiasm."
      "It's unlikely, though..."
      "What did Sherlock Holmes say? Once we've eliminated everything else, if all we're left with is male ejaculate, male ejaculate becomes the prime suspect."
      "It just seems unlikely if they're all dykes."
      "They won't all be dykes, doctor. The ball-girl certainly won't!"
      Dr Wallace wondered how she knew that.
      Dr Lewis was not inclined to explain. "When we bring them in, I'll ask them all certain questions while I'm physically examining them. You can observe."
      "Observe?"
      "You just watch. It's what you do best."
      "Look at their breasts, you mean?"
      "Naturally. But try to watch their faces as well. Their reaction to my questions. You might see something significant that I will miss because I'm too preoccupied elsewhere."
      It was elsewhere that Dr Wallace wished he could be. But at least he had a role. Watching the formidable Dr Lewis manhandling a bunch of sportswomen's tits.

"Ah, Miss Nakashita. Please take a seat. I'm Dr Lewis and this is Dr Wallace. We're going to carry out a quick examination to try and find out the cause of this unfortunate thing that's happened to you. Wow! It certainly has happened to you, as well!" This wasn't in the script. Clearly, the diminutive Japanese player had made an deep impression on Dr Lewis.
      Dr Wallace had expected the patients to be dressed recognisably as tennis players. Miss Nakashita shattered that expectation at a stroke. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with the logo of a sports equipment manufacturer. If anyone had asked Dr Wallace the name of the manufacturer, he would have been unable to tell them, even five seconds later.
      It was an extra large T-shirt. Most T-shirts are, after all. But this one was...
      Start again, he thought. In his role as observer, he had to observe. He started at the top, forcing himself to make mental notes. Funny how all Japanese women look about twelve years old. The notes in front of him insisted she was twenty-four. Yet her silky black hair was tied up with two schoolgirlish yellow bows. A couple of strands of hair escaped from these, and she had to keep brushing them away from her eyes. It must have been most off-putting when waiting to receive a service at 115 miles per hour.
      Dr Wallace's mind wandered off on its own, forming an image of Miss Nakashita in rear view; powerful parted thighs and calves, little feet bouncing on the grass, a trimly sexless rump...
      All these features were now mercifully hidden beneath her jeans as she seated herself on the edge of the cloth-covered examination table which had been set up in the small office allotted to the special examination team. Her legs swung backwards and forwards, her tiny feet some way short of the floor.
      Dr Wallace congratulated himself on his achievement to date. He had observed Miss Nakashita's face and hair. He had observed her lower regions from her tiny waist right down to the ground. He felt he had now earned the right to observe what lay between.
      "Fuck me," he muttered, his hand automatically going to the top pocket of his white jacket where he always carried a tape measure.
      He shook his head. Both women were staring at him: Dr Lewis with ill-disguised amusement, Miss Nakashita with almost inscrutable contempt. Had he spoken out loud?
      "Did you say something, Doctor Wallace?"
      He cleared his throat noisily two or three times, unhappily experiencing a need to spit somewhere private. He swallowed instead, screwing up his face with distaste.
      "No, nothing!"
      "I will now ask Miss Nakashita to remove her shirt and bra," Dr Lewis announced with relish.
      "No bra!" The tennis player's accent was mostly American, perhaps with a hint of Australian thrown in. "My bra don't fit me no more."
      "Your T-shirt, then."
      Dr Wallace supposed that sports personalities were always dressing and undressing; if not exactly in public, at least in the presence of others. And he was a doctor, and therefore neutral. That would explain why Miss Nakashita stripped off her T-shirt without hesitation or embarrassment. 'Jeezus H Christ!' he thought blasphemously, as she tossed the T-shirt on to the back of a chair and sat there slightly round-shouldered on the examination table.
      "Hmmm," Dr Lewis raised her eyebrows and stood up, her thumbs in her jacket pockets. This had the effect of stretching her jacket down across her own rack. She seemed to be carrying out a comparison. "Just lie on your back, please."
      Dr Wallace remembered his role as observer. He sat and observed. It was as well he was sitting. Miss Nakashita projected upwards, he observed critically, by an amount almost twice the depth of her rib-cage. He forced himself to think in units of measurement. Her chest must be about twenty centimetres ... oh, sod it ... eight inches deep...
      "Are you staying locally, Miss Nakashita?" Dr Lewis was asking, as she prowled round the table.
      The dark eyes followed her like radar. "In a small place not too far. On the Common. It was recommended. Just me and my friend. We stay there every year for three, four weeks. For the Stella, then for Wimbledon."
      And her total height above the table, including her breasts, would have to be ... get out of the damned way, Lewis ... about fifteen inches. Maybe sixteen...
      "Your friend?"
      "Girlfriend. Sally Doubleday." Miss Nakashita had obviously chosen her lover for the reason that her name ought to have been almost impossible for a Japanese person to say.
      "You are gay, Miss Nakashita?" Dr Lewis's voice and manner were neutral, clinical. Her hands were cold, too. The Japanese woman gave an involuntary squeal as the doctor's fingers touched the side of her left breast.
      "I'm bisexual," she replied as soon as she landed back on the table again.
      "Cold hands, warm heart, old thing," Dr Lewis chirped. Miss Nakashita looked mystified. "So you eat out a lot, you and your friend?"
      Miss Nakashita raised a worldly eyebrow. "Whenever we feel like it, I guess. But if it's food you're talking about, Ms Doubleday makes a mean chili."
      Dr Wallace revised his estimate upwards to seventeen inches. A pair of remarkable nipples had just extended skywards. He was working on mind-bending calculations involving pi and the circumference of complex ovoids. How much easier it would be simply to wrap the tape round Miss Nakashita's chest.
      "Have you been out socially with any of the other players this week at all? For a meal? A casual drink, perhaps?"
      "A drink? With those lezzie bitches? You cannot be serious."
      From her choice of expression, Dr Wallace wondered if she ever mingled socially with any male tennis players. God, she was enormous, though. Those things just stood straight up like twin lighthouses. On a petite girl of five feet one or so, they were immense! If only he could wrap his tape around them, just once. Life would have little more to offer after that...
      "Thank you, you may sit up, please, Miss Nakashita. Everything seems perfectly normal."
      "Normal? These you call normal?"
      "There's nothing wrong with them. Perfectly healthy breast tissue. There's just an awful lot of it, that's all. If you'd like to stand up and get dressed..." Moving with some difficulty, Miss Nakashita returned to the vertical, tottering slightly. No doubt she'd get used to it in time. "Ah, before you put your T-shirt back on, Dr Wallace will just take a few measurements. It's all right, his hands are probably warmer than mine!"
      "I ... meeee ... measure...?"
      "Your tape's in your top pocket, Doctor," Dr Lewis chided him. "You can stand up, can't you? Not lost the use of your legs or anything?" She peered at his anguished face. "Ah, perhaps you have, after all. Give me the tape, then! You just write the numbers down..."
      With five thumbs on each hand, Dr Wallace fished the tape measure out of his pocket and tossed it to his colleague. The tennis player stood placidly, patient as a cow and probably almost as well-endowed. Her face was blank. Perhaps in Japan, women found themselves being measured all the time.
      "Thirty-one inches. That's her hips, Doctor. Is that your normal measurement, Miss Nakashita?"
      "Yeah."
      "And waist, twenty-two."
      "Normal," the player sighed.
      "Chest, below the breasts..."
      "Hey, you measuring me for a bra, or something?"
      "No, this is just for the records."
      "Pity. I'm gonna need some bras, pretty quick. Even exotic dancers need bras."
      "Twenty-eight. Exotic dancers?"
      "My new career. I had an offer last night."
      "That was quick."
      "Sally's got contacts. How big's my bust, anyways?"
      "Forty-five."
      "Wow, that ain't normal. I told them forty-two. Three inches bigger since last night! You finished looking at them now, Doc?" She reached for her T-shirt and climbed inside. It was a tight squeeze. It might have helped if she could have left her nipples outside. She looked down and patted herself on the sides of her bosom. Everything wobbled noticeably. "This has sure saved me a shitload of dough, you know? Do you have any idea of the cost of implants?"
      Both doctors shuddered at the word. Dr Lewis found her voice.
      "When are you leaving England, Miss Nakashita?"
      "We're trying for a flight tomorrow. Pity about the tournament appearance money, but I could be on the stage in San Francisco by Saturday night. Old Japanese saying: 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth'."
      "That's Japanese?"
      "It loses a little in the translation. See you guys!"

"What do you think, old bean?"
      Dr Wallace consulted his notes. "The Japanese one, 45-22-31, and only five feet one tall? She'll do well in her chosen profession. Then the big Russian one. An awesome pair..." He stopped. Dr Lewis was staring at him.
      "That wasn't quite what I meant, Doctor. What conclusions do you have about the cause of this growth? We've examined all four of the players. For your benefit, and no one else's, we've even measured them. We've questioned them about their lifestyle, where they are staying, their eating and drinking habits."
      "No common thread at all. The Japanese shacks up with her lover. The Russki is staying in a five star hotel. The Brit lives with her mum and dad in Dorking and the Frog flies back home to her little hubby three nights a week."
      "Check. And they haven't been out anywhere socially together. So what do they have in common apart from that?"
      "Fucking great tits..."
      "Forget those for a moment..."
      "Forget them? Forget four of the finest sets you ever laid hands on? Each pair utterly different � the French one even had hairs around her nipples..."
      "It would have been a bit strange if she'd had bald tits, Matey, she was like a gorilla everywhere else."
      Dr Wallace turned pale. "Yet all of them were so magnificently huge..."
      "Doctor! We'll come to that later when we sum them up. Meanwhile, have they been eating here at the club? If so, what?"
      "Don't they all eat bananas?"
      "Mostly, although tennis players don't subsist entirely on bananas. They're not monkeys. They just eat them on court for instant energy. And in bed, too, I shouldn't wonder..."
      "They're all keen on indoor sports, I must say. We don't know much about any nocturnal visitors the Russian has, but Miss Joan Hunter-Dunne has that regularly-well-fucked look about her as if she's getting it ten times a week."
      "A typical English virgin, you mean?"
      "More or less. And the Frog has only been married a month. They're not all pregnant, do you think?"
      "Not according to my tests. And the Brit isn't getting it ten times a week.. Not this week, anyway."
      Dr Wallace looked ill at ease. "Oh, really?"
      "You're supposed to be a doctor, Doctor. You don't faint at a few little spots of blood."
      "That depends."
      "So, anyway. We'll check out the catering. Drink?"
      "No thanks, it's a little early for me."
      "No, I mean, how about the stuff they drink. Anything common there?"
      "It's not Robinson's Barley Water any more."
      "It's not Coke, either."
      "Just water."
      "Or energy drinks. We need to find out if they all use the same brand of isotonic energy replacement fluid. If so, who supplies them. Batch numbers, stuff like that. You can do most of the leg-work on the phone."
      "I can?"
      "A male voice carries so much more conviction, old chap. Still, all that's for tomorrow. Let's wheel in the ball-girl..."

"Hello! My name's Dr Fay Lewis and this dear old gentleman is Dr Wallace."
      The girl cast an apprehensive glance at the older gentleman. Her parents had warned her about men like him, but until now she had never been fortunate enough to find one.
      "Hi," she said in a husky little voice, like furry treacle. "I'm Melanie Cranston."
      "Hello, Melanie."
      "Hello, Doctor."
      "Hello, Melanie."
      "Hello, Doctor."
      "Now, you know why you're here, don't you, Melanie?"
      "Yes, Doctor. I'm a ball-girl. I was here last year as well, cleaning the players' toilets. That was good fun, too."
      "I'm sure it was, Melanie. But we do know why you're at Wimbledon. What I meant was do you know why we've called you in here to see you."
      "Not really. I haven't done anything wrong. Not really."
      "No," explained Dr Lewis patiently. "You've done nothing wrong. It's just something that's happened to you since you've been here."
      Daylight dawned. "Oh, you mean my boobies. They're really big now, aren't they!"
      "They certainly are! And you're not the only one, as you've certainly noticed. We've already seen the players who have been affected in the same way as you."
      "So have I," the girl confided. "I'd already got their autographs. My boyfriend got them for me."
      "Oh, that's nice."
      "Yes."
      "Are you ready, then?"
      "Yes, Doctor." The girl sat there.
      Dr Lewis took a deep breath. Melanie watched her, her eyes widening a little, but she remained slouched in her chair. "We'd like to examine you, Melanie."
      "Not internally?"
      "No, just externally. In fact, you needn't even take your skirt off. Just your raincoat, your jacket, your sweater, your shirt, your T-shirt, your vest, your slip, and your bra."
      The girl's face lit up with delight. "I'm not wearing all that lot...!"
      "It's a warm afternoon, Melanie. You'll be much more comfortable if you're not wearing quite so many clothes."
      "I'd rather not, Miss Doctor..."
      "But we need to examine you, don't we?"
      "Why don't you just tell me which bits of me you want to look at, and I'll describe them to you?"
      As far as Dr Wallace was concerned, that sounded like a most satisfactory plan. Obviously not to Dr Lewis, though.
      "It would be much better if you took your clothes off, Melanie. You're not embarrassed about anything, are you?"
      "No, Doctor."
      "Well, then...?"
      Melanie slowly got up. "You promise you won't stare."
      "We won't stare, Melanie." Dr Wallace was pleased to see that his colleague had her fingers crossed behind her back.
      "And you won't laugh?"
      "We certainly won't laugh, Melanie! What is there to laugh at about a very attractive and well-developed girl taking her clothes off?"
      "Oooh, Doctor!" The girl was wearing a raincoat, reasonably enough during Wimbledon fortnight, although it wasn't really raining indoors. She took it off, although in an unconventional manner, loosening the belt then pulling the coat off over her head, like taking off a sweater. She eventually emerged, tousled, and dropped it on the floor. There she stood, drooping slightly, with her tennis-shoed feet apart and her knees together. Her face wore a shamed expression as if she had just performed a striptease in church.
      "And your sweater, Melanie."
      The sweater seemed to be all she was wearing, although it wasn't easy to say, as it came down to her knees. It was a huge chunky-knit white thing with alternate green, gold and green stripes round the vee-neck and just above the hem-line. There were similar bands near the ends of the sleeves, which had slipped down as she stood there until they covered her hands. Somewhere around the girl's tummy was an ornate embroidered badge with an elaborate heraldic design and the words 'Champions 1998'.
      "This isn't mine," she pointed out. "I borrowed it from someone bigger. He plays cricket."
      "It really suits you, dear," said Dr Lewis patiently, "but do take it off, please."
      "I promised him I wouldn't stretch it out of shape," she said as she began tugging it off over her head. It joined the raincoat on the floor and Melanie stood with her arms folded, revealed at last in the working uniform of a Wimbledon ball-girl: a burstingly-full green polo shirt and matching pleated skirt. Her knees weren't bad, Dr Wallace thought. He wasn't really a dedicated leg-man, but there was nothing wrong with being an all-rounder on occasion.
      "Now your shirt, Melanie," Dr Lewis urged gently.
      The girl may have been slightly hard of hearing. She placed her hands on her hips and prised off one white shoe using the toe of her other foot. Then she repeated the process with the other shoe and stood demurely in her almost white ankle socks. She had the tip of one finger in her mouth.
      "Melanie, dear. At this rate, it's going to take until bedtime before you get all your things off. Now although Dr Wallace may be finding this stimulating, it is fair to point out that we do have other things to do this afternoon."
      "Everything, Doctor?"
      "Not everything. Just your shirt and bra, then get on the table."
      "Mummy says it's rude to sit on the table..."
      "It's designed for sitting on, Melanie. That's what it's for."
      The girl considered this gravely. "Even so, I'd better not sit on it with my moist panties." She hoisted her skirt and slid the offending items down, bending at the waist to slip them over her feet. She tossed them on to her pile of cast-off clothing, then made a decision and dropped her skirt, placing that on the pile as well.
      "It's your top we're interested in, Melanie. Not your bottom."
      "Oops, sorry, Doctor. I'm so used to the doctor at school. She gives us internal examinations at least twice a week. I forgot. Should I put my skirt back on...?"
      "No, don't bother, for now. Unless Dr Wallace finds it a distraction ... no, he doesn't, it's all right. Just your shirt, dear. Please!"
      "Should I go behind the screen, Doctor?"
      "What the hell for?" Dr Lewis screamed, then recovered her composure. "Melanie. We're doctors. You're a patient. You are standing there wearing only a polo shirt..."
      "And a bra, Doctor..."
      "And a bra. You are already exposing your lower half, apart from your ankles. We need to examine your breasts, not your pudenda." Melanie blushed prettily, as did Dr Wallace. "Perhaps you might care to reveal why you wish to undress behind a screen before you come out and lie on the examination table?"
      "My boyfriend always says..."
      "Melanie! Take your fucking shirt off!"
      "That's right! How did you guess?" said the girl, genuinely surprised. She peeled off the shirt and stood there wearing only her bra. Now as someone has surely said before, 'only' is a misleading word to use in these circumstances. This bra was many things, but if there was one thing it wasn't, it was 'only'. One of the other things it was was 'black'.
      "My goodness, Melanie," said Dr Lewis. "That is a big bra, isn't it?"
      "It's one of my big sister's," the girl explained.
      Dr Wallace felt the need to interject. "Where's the apostrophe?"
      The girl screwed up her nose and looked at him.
      "What the doctor means, I think," explained Dr Lewis gently, "is, do you mean it's one of the bras belonging to your big sister, or one of the bras belonging to one of your big sisters? In other words, do you have one older sister who wears a large bra, or more than one?"
      "Yes and no, Doctor."
      "Yes and no?"
      "Yes, I've got two older sisters, and yes, they both wear big bras..."
      "But...?"
      "This bra belongs to my younger sister, Doctor. But it doesn't fit very well. I mean, it fitted okay last night, but I've grown since then. Do you want to look at the label, Doctor?" she addressed Dr Wallace, whom she had identified as a connoisseur. She aimed her little rump and approached him in reverse, looking over her shoulder and backing neatly into the space between his knees. Numb-fingered, he fumbled inside the broad black back-strap and inspected the bra label. "What's it say?" Melanie asked, wiggling her bottom against him with a hint of impatience.
      "'This bra belongs to Syrita Cranston. Wash separately'," said the doctor. "I can't read the rest."
      "Stupid old git," she muttered. "It's a 36H. That's why it's not a very good fit. I only need a 32. Syrita's built like a tank, you see? She wants to be a wrestler, but she'll probably grow out of it. She's only eleven." Melanie was silent for a moment. "A female wrestler," she added helpfully. "Or maybe a rugby player..."
      Dr Lewis resumed. "You're right. It's not a very good fit, dear. Slip it off and get up on the table."
      Melanie obeyed at last. She lowered the broad shoulder straps and pulled the bra off, sliding it down to her waist. Somewhat surprisingly, she didn't twist it round to unfasten the hooks. Instead, she pushed it further down past her hips and stepped out of it, bending forward from the waist to disentangle it from the toe of her grubby sock. Her breasts swung together, slapping against her thigh. She stood up again with some difficulty, smiled shyly at the two doctors and wiggled her bottom on to the examination table. Working by feel, she inched her way further on to the table-top, clutching her breasts with two inadequate hands and both forearms.
      "Lie on your back, dear."
      The girl lay back.
      "You can let go of them now, dear."
      The girl let go of them.

"She's gone back out on the court? With those?" Dr Wallace's eyes boggled. He paced rapidly across the room. "Which court?"
      "You haven't got time to go out there and watch her. Court Fourteen. They're letting her stand at the end and throw the new balls to the players. They don't want her trying to run around. It's bad enough as it is; she's supposed to throw the balls to the players then stand absolutely still. Apparently she's standing still but her breasts carry on wobbling for the next minute and a half. The organisers are thinking of complaining to her school and having her replaced."
      "Her school? How old is that little hussy?"
      "Old enough. More than old enough. And certainly big enough. Apart from that, what have we learned?"
      "She's got some sisters with big tits."
      "And a boyfriend. Who is possibly built like a brick shithouse and plays cricket."
      "She was a toilet-cleaner at Wimbledon, last year. And she worships a number of female tennis players and collects their autographs."
      "Not much to go on. But write it all down. No information, Dr Wallace, is ever wholly without value."
      "Was that Holmes?"
      "No, that was Lewis."

"Eureka! They all drink the same energy drink," Wallace announced. "IsoTropic! From a supplier in Putney. Name of Salim. A bit of a fly-boy, but not your average shady dealer. He seems quite switched on."
      "Salim, of Putney, you say?" Dr Lewis picked up her mobile phone off the desk, keyed in a number and barked, "Salim, Putney," into the mouthpiece. Wallace gaped at her as she listened briefly, then said, "Sammy Salim? That sounds right. Check!" She switched the device off with a beep. "What else do we know about him?"
      "He knew the names of all the players at Wimbledon who used it. Fourteen men and eleven women."
      "Fourteen and eleven?"
      "He made two deliveries. On Friday morning, the last six cases he had in stock. On Friday evening, six more cases of a new batch. These went to ... guess who?"
      "Six female players...?"
      "That's right!"
      "Better get on to him right away and tell him not to sell any more of that batch."
      "He won't. I bought the lot. Sixty-eight cases. I've brought a couple of bottles along for analysis."
      "Where's the rest?"
      "It's quite safe. In my garage at home. If this stuff works, that's sixty-eight times seventy-two, less two, at ... let's say �19.99 a bottle. That's..."
      "Ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred and thirty-one pounds and six pence," said Dr Lewis instantly. She began scribbling furiously on a pad of paper. "How much did you pay him?"
      "Twenty-five quid a case."
      "Hmmm. Still, it's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick." She pushed several long sheets of paper across the table towards him.
      "What's this?"
      "The agreement. My share is forty-eight grand, in round figures. Better make it payable monthly, four K a month starting August 1^st. Sign all five copies there, and there, and down at the bottom." She uncapped her pen and pressed it into his trembling fingers, then sat back to watch him sign. "It doesn't explain one thing, though. What about Melanie? What made her grow? You are responsible for printing the new labels, by the way."
      "Maybe she's natural. Her sisters are all big."
      "She might have been just saying that."
      "No, it's true. I parked down the road from her parents' house last night and watched through binoculars. She wasn't telling us any porkies. She's got two older sisters and one younger one. They're all whoppers, believe me."
      "I'm still not happy about her, Wallace. She's too..."
      "Sexy? Horny?"
      Dr Lewis blinked at him.
      "Busty? Smelly? Clever by half? Big for her age? For her boots? For her sister's bra?"
      "Shut up, for Chrissakes! She's too ... pat."
      It was Dr Wallace's turn to blink. "Pat who?"
      "Too smooth. Too convincing. Her story's too well rehearsed. I don't like it, Doctor. I don't like it at all."
      "What do you want to do? Should we examine her again?" Dr Wallace rubbed his hands together and flexed his knuckles with a cracking sound.
      "Later. Let's see the other three women first. The little Japanese one's outta here. She'll be wowing them in San Francisco by now."
      "Wow."
      "So let's the wheel the big Russky in here. Then that hairy little Frog."
      "Must we? Can't we just see the Hunter-Dunne woman?"
      "Later."

Dr Lewis sighed. "Neither of them has had any dealings with any of the ball-girls at all. Nada. They had their energy drinks delivered to their coaches in sealed cartons. They eat the same fancy organic veggie crap as all the other players. Assuming the source of the breast growth has been the drinks, as seems likely, there's been no way of young Melanie getting her hands on any. It all comes down to the Hunter-Dunne woman. If she comes up with the same story about not having had anything to do with the ball-girls, we've drawn a blank."
      "We'd better bring her in, then."
      Dr Lewis was already at the door. "Miss Hunter-Dunne? Please come in."
      The perfect English Rose manoevred her coltish frame into the examination room. She turned round, and things fell over with a crash. "Oops, sorry!"
      "That's quite all right, my dear," panted Dr Wallace. "Perhaps you'd like to get up on the table?"
      "It's my chests, Doctor. Every time I think I'm getting used to them, they go and grow again. I mean, look at them!" She fluttered her eyelashes and opened her eyes until they occupied the whole of her face.
      "We won't detain you long, Miss Hunter-Dunne," said Dr Lewis. "Then you can go and get used to them again."
      "Oh, goody-goody! Daddy will be so pleased."
      "Daddy?"
      "I told him I'd be home this afternoon." She caught sight of her profile in the mirror and her hands flew to her hair. "Golly, is that all me?"
      Dr Lewis planted her bulk in the way. Miss Hunter-Dunne eventually realised that the mirror was no longer visible. "Hello," she said.
      "You drink IsoTropic energy drink, Miss Hunter-Dunne?"
      "I suppose so. Daddy looks after all that kind of thing."
      "Your father is your coach?"
      "Daddy looks after all that kind of thing."
      "You have any boyfriends? Girlfriends?"
      "Daddy looks after all that kind of thing."
      Dr Lewis stared at Miss Hunter-Dunne's blank, idiotic face. "Daddy?"
      "Hello?"
      "Try to concentrate, Miss Hunter-Dunne, please. Do you know any of the ball-girls?"
      "Ball-girls?"
      "Those young girls in green skirts who run around on the court and throw you the balls...?"
      "Is that what they're called? Gosh!"
      "Your witness, Dr Wallace."
      "What?"
      "Measure her, or whatever else you want to do."
      His hands shaking almost too much to hold the tape measure, Dr Wallace updated his records. "My God, she's even bigger!" Miss Hunter-Dunne was so tall and gangling, he had to ask her to get down on her knees. "Fifty-seven inches," the doctor announced at last. "57-28-41."
      "Aren't you going to measure her thighs and calves as well?"
      "What for?"
      "Some people like large-boned, strapping English roses. You may go, Miss Hunter-Dunne."
      "Back to Daddy?"
      "Back to Daddy."
      Dr Lewis closed the door as a thunderous crash announced Miss Hunter-Dunne's collision with the scenery out in the corridor. "I dread to think what she means about her Daddy looking after everything for her. Although she is certainly dim enough to be one of the twelfth generation pure-bred Hunter-Dunnes. Anyway, she's the last of our growing girls, and we've drawn another blank. And they don't come any blanker than Miss Joan Hunter-Dunne."
      Dr Wallace stood up uneasily. "Nearly lunch-time. I thought perhaps I might take a breath of fresh air. Wander round a bit, try the strawberries and cream..."
      "And try and see your favourite ball-girl, perhaps? You're a disgracefully dirty old man."
      "I'm not old!"
      "Hmmm. Probably not too old for our young Miss Melanie Cranston, come to think of it. Maybe you could keep an eye on her for a while. See if she gets up to anything."

"Enjoy your strawberries, doctor?"
      "I couldn't find her on any of the courts. Nobody on the tournament committee seemed to know where she was at all."
      "In that case, you'd better get yourself off to her house and keep an eye out for her there. You know where it is, of course?"
      "Of course," said Dr Wallace haughtily.
      "Good. Don't forget your binoculars."
      "What about you? Where are you going?"
      Dr Lewis touched the side of her nose with a finger. "I have a few leads I need to follow up. See you in the morning. Just make sure you find that Cranston girl."
      Smiling, she watched him leave. Then she picked up the phone.
      "Hello? Okay, now listen, no names. You don't know me, but you recently had dealings with one of my business associates. I need to see you urgently. Don't tell me your address over the phone; this is an open line. Let's meet in the westbound services at Heston on the M4 at seventeen minutes past three. I shall be driving a black BMW, number DOC36M. I won't stop, just tag along behind me and follow me straight out on to the motorway. You'll be in a what? A white Transit? Very suitable. See you later.

"Now then, Mr Salim. I think you have something to tell me."
      Salim smoothed back his black hair. He had a bit of a reputation with the ladies, with his Middle Eastern looks � they referred to him as the Sheikh of Putney � he was a well-known figure around the warmest night-spots of the capital. The only thing was that nobody knew quite what he did. He was just that swarthy guy who could be seen cruising around in a late model Mercedes. Right now he was leaning against the driver's door of an anonymous white van, looking apprehensive. The woman jabbed a finger into his chest. Women didn't do that to Sammy Salim.
      This one did, apparently. "Something to tell you?"
      "IsoTropic."
      "Ah. IsoTropic. What about it?"
      "What's it made of?"
      Salim hung out his arms. "Made of? How should I know? I only buy it and sell it."
      "Oh really? You buy it from a company trading from a small industrial unit in Slough. Name of S&S Enterprises?"
      "So what if I do?"
      "S&S Enterprises. Not very original, Sammy. S&S � Salim and Salim. Yourself and your son, Sammy. Manufacturers of IsoTropic. So what's in it?"
      "You don't want to know."
      "I need to know. Trust me, I'm a doctor."
      "Nothing. It's mostly water. Glucose. Colouring, flavouring. Fizz. Nothing harmful."
      "And how about batch number 235-156a?"
      "What have you heard about that? What do you know about batch 235?"
      "I'd like to know more about it. After all, I do own approximately two thousand, four hundred and forty-seven bottles of the stuff."
      Salim sighed. "You'd better come down to Slough and have a look around. Your car or mine?"
      "Most kind of you to offer, old bean, but we'll take mine."

"It was all the girl's fault," said Sammy Salim. "Melanie Cranston!"
      "You know her, then?"
      "You mean in the biblical sense? Whatever. She's the brains behind it. She's Miss Big."
      "An apt title. But she's only a teenage girl, and she doesn't give the impression of being particularly bright. And you're telling me she's invented a breast enlarging potion?"
      "It was all an accident. She was at Wimbledon last year, too, only not a ball-girl. She was working as a toilet cleaner. She'd nicked a few bottles of IsoTropic to take to school and show off to her friends. She'd even had one of them autographed by one of the women players. But Syrita, her little sister, stole one of the bottles from her bedroom."
      "Her little sister? Syrita's built like a tank, so Melanie said."
      "She is now. Last year she was built like a normal ten-year-old. Maybe like a ten-year-old boy. She's a big-built girl, Melanie's little sister."
      "What happened to her?"
      "Melanie decided to pay her back. She opened one of her bottles of IsoTropic, added a secret ingredient, sealed it up again, sneaked into kid sister's bedroom while she was at Sunday School and swapped it for the stolen original."
      Dr Lewis was impressed by the man's alliteration, if nothing else. But she had to know something. "What did she lace the bottles with?"
      "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
      "Why not try me? Anyway, what about the rest of the story?"
      "Sister Syrita drank some. Just to wind Melanie up, she stood in her bedroom, uncapped her bottle of IsoTropic and took a big swallow. Melanie was killing herself trying not to laugh, because she knew what was in it. Then the two big sisters came in, and little sister gave them the bottle, and they had some, too. Then Syrita finished it off."
      "This is all very interesting, but what did Melanie put in the bottle?"
      Salim steered clear of the question. "It affected Syrita. You've seen her?"
      "No. But I've seen one of her bras."
      "That all happened in one week. Melanie showed me some pictures. She grew those huge tits in a week."
      "There must have been another reason. The girls must have been genetically predisposed to..."
      "The big sisters grew tits, too. But Melanie didn't drink any of it. She couldn't; she knew what was in it."
      "What was in it?"
      "You'll have to ask Melanie. I can't tell you."
      "You must know what it was."
      "I know, but my culture forbids me from telling you, a woman, what the substance was."
      "Bullshit!"
      "Okay, it's bullshit, but I'd rather you asked the girl. You're seeing her again, of course?"
      "Of course. Dr Wallace, my associate, is looking for her now."
      "He won't find her at home. She's posing."
      "She's what?"
      "Being photographed. The Daily Smut grabbed her yesterday and signed her up for an exclusive. She's near enough legal. At least, by the time she's appeared on the front page of tomorrow's Smut, and spread across the middle six pages, it won't matter a toss whether she's legal or not. It's disgusting, taking advantage of a young girl like that. It's shameful. Shameful."
      "They're photographing her this afternoon? It's not too late to put a stop to the Smut's little game. How much did they pay her?"
      "Put it this way. Her daddy won't need to give her any pocket money for a few weeks. And besides the cash deal, the Smut is keeping her in bras and bikinis, all specially made by a woman called Frizzle or something."
      "Twizzell."
      "You know her?" Salim became aware of Dr Lewis' bust as she stepped from behind a stack of drink cases and took a deep breath. "Ah, I suppose you would, yeah."
      "What else is the girl getting from these porn-pedlars?"
      "Her sister's getting bras, too. Just Syrita. They've got an option on her until she looks as if she might be sixteen. The art editor reckons she'd look good dressed as an England Rugby forward. Sporty Family. Busty Ball-Girl and Britain's Bounciest Open-Side Flanker. The paper said it was a pity they weren't called The Sport, but somebody else thought of the name first."
      Dr Lewis wandered across to a pile of IsoTropic boxes, stacked on pallets ready for despatch. The shipping labels announced the destination as Japan.
      "You export this stuff as well?" she said, surprised.
      "It's good stuff, why not?"
      "And all this stuff, it's the normal formula, I suppose?"
      Salim was outraged. "Of course it is! What kind of a mean, low-down sneaking cheating conniving wog do you take me for?" He dragged out a pack of foreign cigarettes and fumbled one out with shaking fingers. Dr Lewis was ready with her lighter.
      "Thank you!" she purred. She inspected the smoke drifting ceilingwards. Salim was having a brief coughing fit.
      "Let me tell you," he protested indignantly. "Your mate Wallace bought the last of that batch of weird stuff. There isn't going to be any more, never ever."
      "IsoTropic must be turning into a nice little earner, isn't it?"
      "Of course it is. We're part of Britain's export drive! We're making our country great again!" Salim lit another imported cigarette.
      "Excellent! Most commendable." Dr Lewis patted the top of the stack of cases. "They're very keen on big breasts in Japan, you know."
      "They are?"
      "Of course! Japanese girls are getting bigger..."
      "Are they? I hadn't noticed..."
      "Getting bigger, but maybe not big enough. Nor fast enough..."
      "What are you saying?"
      "Sammy! Come on! Think about it."
      Salim thought about it.

"Morning, Dr Wallace!"
      Dr Wallace failed to answer. "Have you seen this?" He flapped a newspaper at his colleague.
      "I don't read the morning papers." She grabbed the doctor's hand and studied the one he was waving at her. "Especially this rag. I'm surprised ... well, maybe I'm not. Who's this on the front page? Nice legs. Not a bad likeness, is it? And they've done wonders with her hair."
      "But it's ... it's..."
      "Melanie, of course. They're very good these days. They only took this picture yesterday afternoon, and here it is in living colour the following morning. More shots inside, apparently. Oh, yes! Excellent! Of course, they can show the tits inside the paper. God, she certainly fills both pages..."
      "You knew about this? And you sent me down there to sit outside her house with binoculars, getting arrested...?"
      "You didn't get arrested?"
      "Nearly. And all the time, she wasn't there. She was getting her kit off in some sleazy South London studio."
      "Was it really? It doesn't say where the pictures were taken. Do you recognise the background? The bed, perhaps?"
      "Of course not! What kind of a sad old bugger do you take me for? Don�t answer that! More to the point, how are we going to see the girl now?"
      "She'll be in soon. I spoke to her on her mobile phone."
      "You've spoken to her? She's got a mobile? And you know the number?"
      "Of course. Sammy told me. Oh, sorry, that's Sammy Salim, you know? You remember Sammy, surely? Oh, you do! Charming man. Yes, I had quite a nice chat with our Sammy yesterday while you were roaming around Suburbia spying on innocent young girls' houses. Once we've had a word with young Melanie, Smut's 46DD Ball-Busting Blonde Ball Girl, we'll be able to boost Britain's exports. France, Germany, America, Japan. Especially Japan!" There was a soft tap on the door. "Ah, that'll be her now. Come in, Melanie!"
      They'd only seen her in the guise of a ball-girl before. And of course as Smut's 46DD Ball-Busting Blonde Ball Girl. The vision which now slunk into the examination room had abandoned all pretence of ball-girlery, blonde or otherwise. She was now ideally equipped for a career in ball-busting. Gone was the green skirt and the matching, bulging, wobbling polo shirt. The legs which had won Dr Lewis' approval were now revealed by a pair of shocking pink shorts fitting appallingly tight around her bulging bottoms, both front and back. Her feet, a long way away from the shorts, were dazzling in the same �150 sports shoes she wore in the Smut pictures. Her bosom, all-too-clearly braless, was just about decently contained in a pelmet-like chrome yellow tank-top which looked in imminent danger of catastrophic explosion. It was patently obvious that young Melanie Cranston hadn't spent last night at home. Her mother would have had a seizure if she'd left the house this morning looking like that.
      "How did you know it was me at the door?" she pouted, gliding across to the examination table and picking up the paper. "Page nine's the best one. They had to retouch out my pubes. I tried to stop them, but they said the Smut's a family newspaper. My family doesn't get it. They'll have to now, won't they?"
      "I'm not so sure," said Dr Lewis, recovering slowly from the shock appearance of Melanie the Model. "Thank you for coming in. I know you must have a busy day ahead of you."
      "I'm finished with ball-girling," Melanie purred. "They're taking me shopping this morning. New bras, for starters! And bikinis and sweaters and shirts and jeans. Maybe even a little black dress in case I get invited out by somebody rich and famous. Can I take these trainers off? I've been wearing them since yesterday."
      "It might be better if you kept them on, Melanie. There's no air conditioning in here."
      "Suit yourself, doc. Did you want to examine me again?" She was already plucking at the waist of her shorts, anxious to get naked.
      "Not really, unless Dr Wallace needs to update his records...? Ah, yes, he does."
      "That 46 inches is a bunch of shit," the ball-buster complained bitterly. "I told them I'm still growing but they said girls don't get bigger that quick. They said they could either give my proper measurements or I'd have to be something like eighty or a hundred inches. They didn't seem to understand about bust sizes at all. I'm bigger than a double-D; look at me!"
      She linked her hands behind her head and thrust out her chest. There was a creaking sound and a split appeared down one side of her top.
      "Oh, shit! Never mind, the sodding thing didn't fit anyway."
      "We'll let Dr Wallace take your measurements and then we've got something to discuss, if you don't mind. We won't keep you from your shopping."
      "Can I get undressed? Please?"
      Dr Lewis sighed. "If you must! Go ahead. Don't take all day over it."
      The girl had already removed one shoe. She bent and picked it up, sniffed its interior and offered it to Dr Wallace, her eyes watering. "You'd never think they'd smell as strong as this, doc. They were brand new yesterday!" She placed the shoes side by side on the examination table and set to work on her shorts. "You mustn't stare like that, doc," she scolded. "I'm wearing a pad in my pants, just in case."
      Dr Wallace shrivelled and turned away.
      "You can spare us the details, Melanie," said Dr Lewis.
      "Oh, it's nothing like that! I'm not due for two more weeks. Only these shorts show every little spot of moisture. Moistness? Wet, anyway. Look." She picked up the shorts from the floor, placed a finger in her mouth then withdrew it with a dreadful sucking sound, and applied the damp tip to the pink material. "See? Imagine appearing in public with a great big wet patch round my puss like that. It goes nearly black, and all shiny..."
      "Melanie, please!"
      "What's up, doc?" She giggled. "Hey, I said what's up, doc. I wasn't thinking of Bugs Bunn..."
      "Melanie! Dr Wallace wants your top off, please."
      "Okay. I was only showing him why my crotch looks so full up in these panties. It will do him good to wait, anyway. If I took everything off in one go he'd be coming in his drawers." She began clambering out of the skin-tight top, her breasts appearing one at a time, wobbling like twin strawberry jellies.
      "Melanie, Dr Wallace is a mature gentleman, and a doctor. He doesn't come in his drawers, as you so crudely put it."
      "Then why's he gone and sat down in such a hurry?"
      "A touch of cramp," Wallace protested. "An old war wound. I don't like to talk about it..."
      "It's nasty," said Melanie. "All down your leg. You'd better just sit there and watch while Dr Lewis measures me."
      "You don't need measuring, Melanie," Dr Lewis snapped. "We'll leave that kind of thing to the Smut."
      "I shouldn't, if I were you. They'll only get it wrong. I bet I'm at least forty-eight now...!"
      "What did you put in Syrita's bottle of IsoTropic, Melanie?"
      "...Or maybe even fifty. It's misleading, with them hanging down like this. In a bra, they'd stick right out in front ... Syrita? The little bitch! What's she been telling you?"
      "Nothing. We haven't even seen her. But you admit you put something in the bottle you swapped with the one she stole from you?"
      Dr Wallace looked from one woman to the other. "What's all this about?"
      Dr Lewis ignored him. "You substituted the stolen bottle for one of your own, having added a foreign substance to it?"
      "Not foreign," Melanie grinned. "Not foreign at all..."
      "And when Syrita drank it, her breasts started developing dramatically?"
      Melanie snapped her fingers. "Sammy! That Egyptian bastard told you every fucking thing! That's the last time he gets me between his black silk sheets. He's only got four inches anyway! I'll tell the Smut. They'll be interested to hear that the Sheikh of Putney's only got a pork chipolata between his legs. I'll tell them he's only got one ball..."
      Dr Wallace stared. "Has he?"
      "He'll have no balls at all when I've finished with the bastard," Melanie promised darkly. "So he told you what I put in the bottle?"
      "I want to hear it in your own words, Melanie!"
      "Oh, shit. As if it mattered. You'd only find out in the end when the lab tests come through. It's love-juice."
      "What?"
      "He didn't tell you, then! Probably couldn't bring himself to say it. I emptied half the Iso-glop out of the bottle and topped it up with girl-goo. Girl-cum. Jungle-juice. I lubricate a lot, you may have gathered. That's why I need this pad, in case I start showing. In fact, I'm pretty wet now, if you want proof. I can squirt, too. I could spray that wall if I tried..."
      She appeared to be about to back up her claims, peeling her panties down to reveal a glistening patch of fair hair bedewed with droplets of moisture.
      "You topped up the bottle...?"
      "With a funnel, yeah..."
      "And made your sister drink it?"
      "I certainly wasn't going to drink it myself. It wouldn't taste bad, just not quite what you'd expect an energy drink to taste like." She giggled again. "It didn't half work, too! Talk about powerful stuff! Kid-sister Syrita had grown a pair of F-cups in a week, from being completely flat-chested. She didn't seem to mind. Nor did my other sisters, although they only had a little sip. I'd have had some myself only I knew what was in it! Of course, we've refined it now."
      "We?"
      "Sammy and me. The stuff I gave Syrita was miles too strong to use on tennis players. He'd got his chemist to work on it and we found I could make a pint jug of girl-cum do a whole case of IsoTropic. It took me a month or so to do the big batch we made. I s'pose it's still too strong, seeing what it did to that Japanese girl." Melanie cupped her rack proudly. "Or to me, come to that!"
      "You deliberately tried this mixture out on tennis players, knowing that it might cause runaway breast growth?"
      "Of course not! I only wanted them to grow a few inches. I chose the prettiest girls. Sammy had nothing to do with that part of it, I chose the girls. Pity those Americans went home, I never got to really enjoy looking at them when they were at their biggest."
      "You did it for your own enjoyment?"
      "Of course. I love athletic girls with nice muscular calves. And big tits. And sweaty wet bottoms. That's why I came here again this year. Doing the bogs was better than being a ball-girl. You could meet all kinds of girls in the bogs. But I've still had plenty of chances this year, once they realised I prefer girls to boys."
      "You do?"
      "Fifty-fifty, really. Don't tell my boyfriend, though. It would put him right off his game."
      "But what made you drink the stuff yourself?"
      "It was so hot out there on Court Number One, when we came off, Nakki gave me one of her bottles, and I drank the lot without realising. At least, now I know my juice tastes just as nice as any other girl's. By then, it was too late. I had these things by next day. They'd been pretty large to start with, but only like a D-cup. Now look at them!"
      Dr Wallace looked at them and came in his pants again.
      "You ought to do something about that, doc! It's a filthy habit."
      "I'll go and change," he muttered, hiding his trousers behind a towel and stumbling out of the door.
      "So, I suppose the game's up, doc? You'll be turning me in? Blowing the whistle? At least, they can't take these tits away from me now. And the Smut will look after me. Whatever happens, I'll always have a bra that fits."
      "Not so fast, Melanie. As a matter of fact, how's your Japanese?"
      "Japanese? I've picked up a few words. Grunts, mostly, but Nakki seems to understand what I mean. Nakki's a very understanding girl!"
      "Quite! You might like to get dressed while I'm telling you this. You're rather a distraction..."
      "Doc! Not you too?"
      "Of course I am, you little slut! And now we've got rid of Dr Wallace for a while, come here!"
      "Wow, doc!" Melanie said at last. Her nipples were at least as long as thumbs and fifty inches seemed to be a conservative estimate at her bust size. Between her feet, soaking into the practical and hard-wearing carpet tiles, was a substantial puddle of the most potent breast-enlarging ingredient known to woman.
      "Get dressed, quickly," Dr Lewis croaked, her voice trembling. "And I'll tell you my plan."