up at the big house

by barrowclough

i

quite a long time ago

 

hector, the lord smellinghurst, left it a bit late to get married.
     of course, he was under no pressure to marry and produce a string of sons and heirs to the smellinghurst estate, as his father was still hale and hearty and sexually active right until the moment he died in his bed at the ripe old age of thirty-nine. he died, to his brief but at the same time permanent regret, nine seconds short of orgasm, with the words of his lady wife ringing in his ears, "you inconsiderate bastard!"
     there were three immediate consequences of his passing.

the village pub was renamed the inconsiderate bastard.
the ex-lord's widow, after ensuring that she had milked her husband's sperm from his fast-cooling loins, gathered about her a retinue of mostly male servants and barricaded herself in the east wing of the manor. this arrangement was reasonably convenient and acceptable to all parties, but it also blocked the most direct route from the kitchens to the main dining room, resulting in cold meals for the next three months until the local builders could be persuaded to knock down the wall of the library.
the third consequence was that hector found himself the lord of the manor, without an heir and, more crucially, without a wife.
hector had tried, god knew. perhaps in his aspirations for the continuance of the family line, he was guilty of setting his standards too high. whatever the reason, he had reached his twentieth birthday without propagating his seed. he had spilled plenty of it on the ground, but he hadn't propagated it.
     it was practically unheard of. the smellinghursts were accustomed to propagation. it was what they did best. in fact, they did more or less nothing else. the family business, if there were one, would best be described as impregnation. they impregnated the girls from the village. most of all, they impregnated each other. there were a number of recognisable family traits as a result. you could spot a smellinghurst from a mile off. especially one of the smellinghurst young ladies.
     and yet, hector had never entered into the fuckfest. even surrounded as he was by the most healthily buxom serving wenches on this earth, and with a bewildering array of eligible and well-endowed cousins to choose from, the young lord smellinghurst had not yet found one to his liking.
     or maybe there was another reason.
     he hadn't found one with big enough tits.
     for hector was addicted to huge breasts. every tuesday, the chauffeur was despatched to london to bring a consignment of the latest big bust videos and adult reading matter to feed hector's obsession. it largely failed to satisfy his lordship, but he was obliged to carry on reading it, just in case he missed something.
     so, he had not yet found an eligible woman with large enough breasts. that's a lie: actually, he had found several of his closer or more distant cousins who met his requirements most spectacularly. sadly, they were obliged to reject his advances.
     not even the prospect of becoming the new lady smellinghurst could persuade these busty prospects to enter into a loving relationship with a man of such in-breeding. hector's chin was virtually non-existent. he couldn't pronounce any word with an 'r' in it. in fact, he could scarcely pronounce any word at all. worst of all, his cock was miniscule. not to put too fine a point on it, it was only one and three quarter inches long.
     erect.
     nobody could understand it. centuries of selective breeding had made the smellinghursts the envy of the aristocracy. even from the earliest age, those male members of the clan who went to prep school were regarded with awe in the changing rooms. later, at eton, for reasons of decency, all smellinghurst boys were automatically excused any school games requiring the wearing of shorts. they were even unable to take part in leisure pursuits for which long trousers were worn. any smellinghurst boy experiencing an unscheduled erection was instantly rendered helpless, whether on the cricket field or at the chessboard. except for hector, of course, but he was useless at games anyway.
     the females, of course, did not attend school. it was not so much that the smellinghurst family did not believe in education for girls: most of them received private education at home. the problem was more practical. most smellinghurst girls, especially those of the more recent generations, were so majestically developed that school uniforms were out of the question. you couldn't have a[censored]wobbling around from class to class with breasts the size of watermelons exploding out of her school blouse. it just wasn't polite.
     ideally, hector could have settled down with one of the less bosomy cousins, but the older surviving members of the family regarded this prospect with horror. hundreds of years of selective breeding would be thrown away at a stroke.
     nevertheless, the family heaved a collective sigh of despair when hector met lady harriet. he had been just twenty at the time, and harriet was fourteen. by smellinghurst standards, life had passed them both by. harriet was the mother of fine and strapping twin boys, miles and stirling, who were now approaching their fifth birthdays. yes, birthdays in the plural � miles, the older by ten minutes, was born on new year's eve, while stirling's date of birth was the following year. it had been assumed that young harriet had been merely a late developer when she became routinely pregnant by her younger brother at the age of nine. incredibly, her breasts had been non-existent, even at that advanced age. to the dismay of her aunts, harriet had returned obstinately to flat-chestedness immediately after the birth of the boys. even at fourteen, her breasts were little more than orange-sized swellings on her waif-like figure.
     quite what hector was thinking of, nobody knew. perhaps he looked at harriet and saw something deeper, something more worthwhile than any pair of giant breasts could ever be. or maybe he was becoming senile as he entered his twenties.
     the happy couple were married in the great dining hall at smellinghurst. they went for their honeymoon to the west wing, where the marriage was consummated, after a fashion.

 

end of part i


ii

ten years later

 

"go into the library and kiss your daddy goodnight, emma."
     "oh, mummy! gross!"
     "come on, em!" her younger sister, lucinda, tugged at emma's arm. "we'll both go together. he won't try to fuck you if i'm there as well. there's safety in numbers."
     emma reluctantly went with her sister. really, she wasn't too concerned with the dangers of a goodnight kiss from her father. in her present four-months-gone condition, his knob wasn't long enough to reach anyway. emma was simply trying to delay her bedtime, as most ordinary [CENSORED] did. if she could hang it out until nine, she could waylay brother stirling on the stairs and lure him into her bedchamber for a quickie before nurse came in to tuck her up for the night.
     lucinda had her own reasons for not delaying. she had a date with big brother miles. he liked to drop by his sister's room for an evening drink of milk. and with any luck, stirling would drop by and attend to her later, after nurse had been in to tuck her up for the night.
     their father was in the library, crouched in front of the tv with a stack of video cassettes. feverishly, he stuffed a new one into the slot as his two oldest daughters timidly entered the room in their diaphanous nighties. an image of a heavy-breasted blonde bimbo appeared on the screen and hector watched her with a trail of drivel running down his non-existent chin.
     "goodnight, daddy."
     "goodnight, daddy."
     "wha...? oh, i say! oh. well, goodnight, then..." his voice tailed off as the girls simultaneously planted a chaste little kiss on top of his perfectly bald head. then they fled, leaving him gaping after them with wonderment. his[censored]� in fact, pre-ten � daughters: easily as big up top as mindy mountshaft. he sighed and reached for another tape.
     back in the drawing room, lady harriet hugged her girls in turn as they leaned across the sides of the armchair to kiss her goodnight. "don't forget, friday tomorrow. you know what that means?"
     emma sighed heavily. "bra day again. why do we have to be measured every single week? i'm no bigger than last week."
     "your tummy's bigger, dear, even if your breasts aren't. besides, mrs armathwaite has to attend every week, so it makes sense for her to measure all of you each time. the younger ones are growing so fast..."
     "and so am i," said lucinda.
     emma snorted. even in her present condition, she was well aware that her vast-breasted younger sister lucinda had long since overtaken her, both in cup size and now in overall circumference. worse, her even younger sisters, already safely in bed with their brothers, were developing so quickly, it wouldn't be long before emma would be begging them for their cast-off bras. it wasn't fair. she was nine: she had a right to be bigger than lucinda. as for cressida and hermione, the twins, it was ridiculous that they should be so blessed. and even little charmaine was getting a pair of monster tits now that she was pregnant.
     "don't slouch, emma. pull your shoulders back! your deportment and carriage are all-important in your condition. if you don't hold yourself properly, you will have to wear a bra in bed, like your cousin suzanna."
     "huh!" but emma straightened herself up. the threat of being as pendulous as their thirteen-year-old cousin suzanna was so horrendous that both girls shuddered, the movement making their breasts wobble interestingly beneath their nighties. they climbed the curving staircase, where their worthy ancestors glowered down at them with minimal comprehension from their gilt frames, and paused outside emma's bedroom door.
     "sh-hhh, emma. listen!"
     boys' voices drifted towards them along the lofty-ceilinged corridor which described a huge curve to follow the layout of the front of the manor.
     "it's stirling," emma whispered.
     "and miles," said lucinda, her nipples springing into huge points. emma stared at her sister's display of blatant arousal. she was glad hers weren't as big as that: her babies would never be able to open their mouths wide enough. "let's creep closer and listen!"
     emma didn't want to, but the eight year old was already off, her breasts clearly visible from behind as she tiptoed exaggeratedly away, keeping close to the wall.
     "who was your biggest?" stirling was saying.
     "depends what you ... mean by ... biggest. i've had ... mrs anderson and her ... daughters." the cook and her daughters were famously huge-breasted, but they were almost equally well-endowed around their bottoms as well.
     "servants don't count," stirling sneered.
     miles didn't sound at all put out by this snub. "well, there's a ... very sweet little ... girl i'm seeing tonight who's ... pretty huge up ... top."
     lucinda gasped and planted her fists on her hips. "the two-timing bastard!" she gave an angry snort.
     stirling sounded interested. "who is it? one of uncle hugh's daughters?"
     "no, much ... closer to home. very ... close, in fact. and she's ... only eight, so she's ... going to get ... much bigger!"
     "you don't mean your sister lucinda?"
     "of course! i'm seeing her ... as soon as ... i've finished ... doing this."
     "what's he doing?" said emma. anything to prevent her little sister crowing with triumph.
     "i can't see."
     "get closer, then!"
     lucinda seemed to be about to order her older sister to get closer herself if she wanted to find out, but she realised that the pregnant emma might not be able to escape quickly enough if she were spotted. besides, she was as curious as emma was. she got down on her hands and knees and began to shuffle forward across the polished parquet. her shapely little naked rump protruded from beneath her inadequate nightdress, displaying an immodest bush of dark fur around her nether regions. her breasts dangled massively beneath her, their long nipples brushing the floor. the little girl had always been so brave and fearless, emma thought.
     "can you see them yet?"
     the[censored]had stopped, still � if you ignored her swaying breasts � as a statue: perhaps the statue of a pointing gun-dog. at last, she turned and beckoned. "come and have a look, sis. they won't see you, they're facing the other way."
     and emma crept up and joined her sister, standing over her to peer round the corner. she was aware of a warm, soft smell of highly aroused little girl wafting up into her nostrils. there, twenty yards down the corridor, by one of the tall windows, stirling was leaning indolently against the wall. he wore only a pair of silk boxer shorts and he was fondling his immense manhood with what appeared to be an unusually small hand. his twin brother, now silent apart from regular strangled panting, was buried up to the hilt in nurse, who was bent backwards over the window sill with her voluminous skirts flung up over her head.
     "fucking hell!" lucinda observed happily. "look at old nursie go!"
     "mind your language, lucinda! i shall tell mother." she bit her lip. it was going to be hard to keep a straight face when nurse came in later to make sure she was in bed and alone.
     the humping stopped, and nurse stood up and rearranged her uniform. she asked stirling if he wanted a go.
     "no thanks, nurse. i've just done it."
     "and just look at the mess on the wall, master stirling," nurse chided him. "it will take mrs anderson's girls half an hour to clean it all off."
     miles stared at the trail of sperm trickling down the paintwork and pooling on the floor. "it wouldn't take the horny little bitches so long if they were to use soapy water, instead of trying to lick it off. it's a terrible waste, stirling. there's enough cum there to impregnate the whole village."
     "too late, brother. we've got most of them up the spout already. talking of which, i'm seeing emma for a quickie this evening. go and tuck her in, nursie. the sooner you're out of there, the sooner i can start pumping a load of steaming hot juice into her gaping nine-year-old love-cavern."
     miles yawned. "whose is the biggest pussy you've ever had, stirling?"
     "depends what you mean by biggest..."
     lucinda scrambled to her feet. "come on! you heard, nurse will be along in a minute." she propelled emma in front of her along the corridor until the two girls arrived at their respective bedroom doors. "sleep tight, sister."
     their lips met with a chaste smack and a resounding collision of huge young bosoms. then they went their separate ways.

 

end of part ii

iii

the following morning

 

"good morning, mrs armathwaite."
     the girls greeted the family bra-maker in a singsong chorus. she surveyed them as they stood in a line with their heels pressed against the wall. emma was at the right hand end of the line, with the others ranged alongside her in descending order of age and height.
     "bras off, please!"
     obediently, the five well-drilled sisters removed their bras and stood there wearing only their panties. mrs armathwaite wrinkled her nose.
     "which of you girls has been having sex this morning?"
     the sisters stared at each other, then looked at their oldest sister for guidance. "she means fucking," said emma. "don't try and wriggle out of it, somebody in here absolutely stinks of cum. which of you has had her big brother's willie inside her since breakfast?" she gasped as all four of the younger girls instantly put up their hands.
     "it's a disgrace," said the bra-maker, her cheeks flushing as she wiped away a trace of saliva from the corner of her mouth. "an absolute disgrace. you are just [CENSORED]."
     "no, we're not," chirped charmaine. "we can't be [CENSORED] if we're pregnant. at least, i am," she added with a scornful glance at the twins to her immediate right.
     mrs armathwaite sniffed sharply and produced her tape measure. "you two!" she whirled the tape over the twins' heads. "same size as last week? any discomfort? rubbing, difficulty in breathing, feelings of tightness?"
     the twins looked at one another for inspiration. cressida appointed herself spokesperson. "i dunno," she mumbled at last.
     "you don't know? you must know if your bra feels too tight."
     "bras are always tight," hermione pointed out.
     mrs armathwaite rolled her eyes to the heavens. "arms up, both of you." she began measuring, then consulted a small black book. "as i thought. you're a whole inch bigger than last week!"
     the twins began to cry in unison.
     "what are you blubbering for?" lucinda asked them. "your tits getting bigger is good news."
     the twins stopped crying at once and brightened up. "how big are we now?" cressida asked.
     "you're a c-cup, as if it mattered. it doesn't really matter: your bodies are so small, you're a custom size anyway. you can't buy a 24c in marks and sparks." the girls beamed at her, not having a clue what she was talking about. "bloody inbred little bimbos," the bra-maker muttered as she turned to charmaine. "your turn, [CENSORED]." she sighed heavily. "how old are you?"
     "six, mrs armathwaite."
     "disgusting! arms up!" a flurry of brisk measuring activity. "you ought to be ashamed, at your age, being the first of your sisters to have a baby."
     "i'm not," charmaine insisted. "emma's a month further along than me."
     "emma's three years older than you! although that's irrelevant. it's still disgusting..."
     "anyway," said charmaine, rubbing her swelling belly. "i bet i'm not having a baby!"
     "what?" they all stared at the exceedingly buxom, bulging-bellied six-year-old, who looked mightily pleased with the attention she had brought on herself.
     "not one baby. it's more likely to be twins. or three. maybe four..."
     the bra-maker's hands were trembling so much she could hardly read the numbers. she had to rest the tape on the table and squint at it through her glasses. "thirty-three inches," she remarked to nobody in particular.
     "what's that in cups?" lucinda demanded.
     "it doesn't matter, i keep telling you! cup sizes don't matter at all. she's a d-cup, anyway."
     charmaine seemed to swell three sizes with delight.
     "your turn, emma," lucinda said kindly. "age before beauty."
     "i'm the same bra size as last week. my belly's a bit bigger, that's all."
     "i'd better check, just in case." mrs armathwaite worried that the oldest of the girls might complain to her mother that the family bra-maker wasn't doing her job properly. young emma was a devious [CENSORED], and quite capable of dropping her in it. the smellinghurst contract was a hugely lucrative one for a foundation garment specialist.
     emma raised her arms without being told. mrs armathwaite plied the tape assiduously.
     "40-39-33," she announced at last. "still a 32h-cup."
     "i thought you said cups didn't matter," lucinda crowed. "i bet mine matter more than hers. i was an h cup before i was even eight!"
     "only 'cos you were doing milk," emma reminded her.
     "i still am. once i started giving milk, mummy thought it would be a good idea to carry on and feed some of the other girls' babies. it keeps me from getting pregnant, she says. you can start measuring me now, mrs armathwaite, the milk's coming in again." she stepped forward and raised her arms. "god, i'm simply immense! will you just look at the size of these things!"
     everyone already was. the[censored]had been an incredible sight ever since she had started lactating at the age of six and a quarter, and her breasts had been steadily growing ever since. now, with each breast comfortably wider than her miniscule waist, they wobbled massively just above the level of the elastic of her brief panties � pale pink ones with yellow teddy bears. the huge, crinkly nipples sat fatly in the middle of areolae each as wide across as a saucer.
     "the doctor says i've got virginal hypertrophy, mrs armathwaite. how can i have that if i'm not a virgin?"
     "how can i take your measurements if you don't stand still, girl? you twins, you can help. one of you hold the tape against lucinda's right nipple. the other one hold it on her left one."
     the twins began to argue amongst themselves, and failing to reach an agreement, started sobbing.
     "you need to tell them exactly what to do, mrs armathwaite. they're not very bright," charmaine said, pushing the twins away and grabbing the tape. "i'll do it. there! wow, lucinda, your nipple just got bigger. there's milk coming out of your tits already."
     "hurry up and measure me, mrs armathwaite," lucinda panted. "i'm so full, i'll flood the room. twins, be ready to suck my teats. cressida take the left one and hermione the right." a howl of despair arose from the twins. "okay, hermione take the right one and cressida the left."
     that seemed to satisfy them.
     "you're bigger again, lucinda," mrs armathwaite announced. "47-17-27."
     "wow, cool! what's that in cups?"
     "it doesn't matter, i keep telling you! you're a 28s-cup."

 

end of part iii

IV

Later That Same Week

 

Miles and Stirling strolled in the garden, idly wondering who to fuck next.
     Miles groaned with pent-up lust. "If I don't pump this load into somebody soon, my scrotum's going to burst wide open. I need a girl, preferably with huge tits and under eleven."
     "That leaves you plenty of scope, round here," said Stirling. "There must be thirty or forty cousins who fit that description."
     "Where are they all, then?"
     Stirling shrugged. "At three thirty in the afternoon? Fucking their brothers, probably."
     "It's no use." Miles stopped in the middle of the path and unzipped his designer jeans. Using both hands he hauled out his mighty tool with grunting discomfort. "I'm going to have to ... oops! I already am..." The brothers watched the semen arc powerfully across the strawberry patch, spattering on the leaves. After some time, it stopped. "Shit, I needed that."
     "I think you just wasted it," his brother pointed down the path. "Look what's coming!"
     "Fucking hell!" Miles surprised himself by re-erecting immediately. "Who is that?"
     "Does it matter?"
     The girl approached, singing a little song. She had two blonde ponytails tied with yellow ribbons. A little lower down, she was barefoot, with shapely brown legs in a black leather micro-skirt which revealed that she was wearing scarlet panties. Above the waist, the contents of her white shirt easily met the brothers' demanding specifications. She stopped, her round eyes fixed on Miles' throbbing prong, still drooling a few last strings of potent male juice. 
     "Hello," she said to it.
     "Who are you?"
     The girl seemed surprised that the reply came from higher up. She glanced up at Stirling, then addressed herself to Miles' member again.
     "I'm Sharon," she said. "How do'you do." She put out her hand, grasped the thick flesh and pumped it up and down a few times. It grew even bigger.
     "We haven't seen you round here before," said Stirling. "Who are you? Who are your people?"
     There was no reply. Sharon was a well-brought-up little girl, and she didn't speak with her mouth full.
     "Sharon's a very working-class name," Stirling persisted, beads of sweat appearing on his brow as he watched the girl's cheeks pumping in and out. She was an undoubted expert. Miles seemed to agree.
     "Aaaargh! Fuck ME!" he screamed as he poured a steaming load down the girl's throat.
     She swallowed busily, then removed him from her mouth, delicately plucking a pubic hair from her tongue. She had a light dusting of freckles on her cheeks and a cloudy smear of semen on her little dimpled chin. "Sorry?" she said to Stirling. "Do you want one as well?"
     "Not just now, thanks. I asked you who you were."
     "My mum told me to come out here out of her way and get fucked. If you don't want a blow-job, maybe you could fill me up with your steaming cum? Twenty quid. I know it's cheap but this is a special offer because I like the look of you. Is yours as big as your brother's? The size isn't a problem; I've got a pretty huge cunt for my age."
     Stirling's eyes popped. Sharon had slid her panties down without apparently using her hands. How did she do that? What was more, she wasn't kidding. Her tits weren't the only oversized thing about her. "Who's your mother?" he asked.
     "You prefer older women?" Sharon looked disappointed. She pulled the scarlet panties up again with one hand and the glistening six-inch long slit of her hairless pussy disappeared from view. "I could ask her, but she's very busy Hoovering the ground floor. Then she's got to do upstairs..."
     "She's a cleaner? A servant? And you're her daughter?" Miles looked horrified and inspected his cock as if he expected it to start festering. "But you sucked me orff."
     "Yours tasted pretty much the same as everyone else's," Sharon giggled. "You want to see my tits? I'm only ten, but I can't get a bra to fit. They don't make them my size." She started unbuttoning her shirt.
     "Put them away," Stirling snapped.
     "Suit yourself." The girl shrugged. A preoccupied expression stole over her face. "Excuse me," she said, deftly removing her panties again, and she squatted among the strawberries and pissed in a noisy, gushing stream that seemed to go on for hours. Steam rose in billowing clouds. She stood up at last. "You got a hankie?"
     Miles produced his from his pocket. Sharon daintily wiped herself and handed it back to him. "You sure you don't want a fuck while I've got them off? Fifteen pounds...?"
     "We're not bloody well paying for it!" Stirling shrieked.
     Sharon pouted. "You can afford it. Look at the size of this place. All these gardens and stuff." She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled in among the strawberries, finally picking a large one and standing up with a big smile. "Open wide," she said to Stirling, and when he opened his mouth to protest, she popped the fruit inside.
     "It tastes of piss!" he protested.
     "Yeah! And girl-juice. I came while I was pissing. It always happens. I'm so horny, you see, and my clit is so long, I cum gallons every time I go to the toilet." She looked up at the big house. "I'd better be running along. "You're sure you don't...? Ten pounds? I can't do it for less..."
     "Go away!"
     "See ya later!" She reached into her cleavage and plucked out a yo-yo. Then she sashayed off, yo-yo-ing with casual skill, her rounded bottom twitching alluringly. Her breasts stuck out at least six inches on each side of her body.
     "Hey, she's a nice kid. Why didn't you fuck her?"
     "I'm not paying for it. The Smellinghursts don't pay for anything."
     "I know, but dammit, she'd got a huge pair of tits on her. And I've never had a b-j like that from any of our sisters."
     "She's nothing but a common whore. A cheap slut."
     "Is ten pounds cheap? I don't know how much these things are supposed to cost. I bet Mummy would give us the money, though ... hey, I've had an idea!"
     "What?"
     "Why don't we sell some of the girls? The twins, maybe. If we could get a tenner each from them, we'd make a couple of hundred in an afternoon."
     "But money's so vulgar, Miles! What on earth would we do with a hundred pounds each?"
     Miles had no idea.

 

End of Part IV

V

Six Months Later

 

Her mother glowered at her over her reading glasses. "Aren't you wearing a bra, Lucinda?"
     "'Course not! If I wear a bra, my tits stick out so far I can't get near the table."
     Her mother shook her head. "You'll have to learn how to eat with big breasts, dear. Other girls have to." Lucinda shrugged and tore a bread roll to pieces. "Hector, you're allegedly her father. Speak to the girl."
     "What, dear?" Hector cupped a hand behind his ear."
     Lady Harriet rolled her eyes. "It's Lucinda. Your second oldest daughter."
     "There's no need to shout. I'm not deaf, dammit! Lucinda? What about her?"
     "Look at her. She's not wearing a bra at the dinner table."
     Hector put down his SCORE and looked at his daughter for the first time. "Which one's Lucinda? Is she one of the pregnant ones, or the twins?"
     "She's not the twins. The twins are over there. There are two of them. And both the pregnant ones have had their babies. You're now a grandfather four times over. Hadn't you noticed, they don't come in to dinner any more?"
     "I'm the one with the big tits," Lucinda addressed her father. "Don't say you hadn't noticed that, you old fart."
     "How dare you speak to your father like that, Lucinda! You should discipline the girl, Hector. Make her wear a bra to the table. You're far too soft. And far too short as well," she muttered, sotto voce.
     "Babies?" queried Hector, still catching up with the conversation. "They've had babies? How many?"
     "The expected number," Lady Harriet sighed. "Emma had a baby girl. Charmaine had three little girls, seven pounds each."
     The twins burst into tears. Their howls rang around the dining room, vibrating the antique plates and the family silverware. Nurse rushed in and gathered the yelling bodies into her arms, uttering gentle words of comfort. "Shaddappp!" she screamed.
     Silence fell. Hector removed his fingers from his ears, but not too far in case the din started up again.
     "I'm sorry, ma'am," said Nurse. She selected a twin and held it by both its shoulders as if contemplating shaking it. "Now, what's all this noise about?"
     "Mama's going to sell Charmaine's babies!" said Cressida in a choking voice.
     "Seven pounds each," sobbed Hermione.
     Outraged, Nurse looked up at her mistress.
     "Those two stupid little tarts," said Lady Harriet. "That's how much they weighed, not how much we're selling them for!"
     "How much are you selling them for?" Lucinda asked, her mouth full of bread roll.
     "Oh, Lucinda, don't be so silly!"
     "With respect, ma'am," said Nurse severely. "I do think the [CENSORED]'s question deserves an answer."
     Lady Harriet stared at the caring professional in disbelief. If it weren't so difficult to get staff these days, she'd have given serious thought to dismissing the stupid cow. "That will be all, Nurse. Kindly take the twins and supervise their bath. Then it will be Lucinda's turn, then Emma and her little girl, then Charmaine and her three. Be sure to wash in all the folds of their intimate flesh and dry them properly beneath their full, heavy breasts. The rest of the evening's your own."
     Nurse opened and closed her mouth. In the past week, the number of girls in her care had been doubled at a stroke, yet she had not been offered a penny more in compensation. She began composing her letter of resignation, or more accurately, editing it, as she had written it many times over the preceding five years.
     At least, Nurse thought as she grabbed the two girls and herded them away to the door, the two boys were excellently behaved. They knew their place. Well-bred [CENSORED] were expected to be silent at mealtimes. The twin heirs to the Smellinghurst money sat at the table with eyes averted downwards. Closer investigation might have revealed that the two of them were absorbed with less innocent matters.
     "Put it away, Miles," Stirling whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
     "I can't. Just looking at young Lucinda makes me so fucking hard!"
     "She's your sister!"
     "So what? She's got fucking huge tits, and milk, too. Look at the nipples on her! They must be the biggest in the county." He continued to stroke the length of his improbable prong in a smooth rhythm throughout this hymn of praise.
     From across the long table, Lucinda glanced at him beneath her long eyelashes and flashed a conspiratorial grin.
     "See, she heard you! If Lucinda can hear you, so can Mama. Even if she is miles away at the end of the table, she's got ears like a hawk."
     "I don't care!" Miles gasped as he reached a thunderous orgasm, and Stirling had to clear his throat loudly to drown out the sound of his twin brother's semen splashing against the underside of the table.
     "Do put it away, Miles!"
     "How can I? It's so obscenely long and thick it will never go back into my trousers until it goes down, and that will take hours if I have to sit here watching Lucinda. Look at it, it's bigger than ever!"
     "You should have thought of that before you took it out."
     "I did. What's up with yours, anyway? Can't get it up?"
     "I can control my baser instincts! Uh-oh!"
     "What is it?"
     "I'm getting a hard-on. It's your fault for talking about it so much. And those twins..." Stirling clutched at his throbbing member.
     "The twins? You can't be serious! They're only kids!"
     "They're older than Charmaine, and you gave her triplets."
     "That wasn't me," said Miles, flushing. "It could have been any one of thirty people."
     Lady Harriet regarded them keenly. "What are you boys whispering about? It isn't polite to whisper. And don't sit there with your hands fumbling around in your laps. It looks terrible."
     "They're wanking, Mummy," Lucinda sniggered. "My big brothers are a couple of wankers."
     "Lucinda!"
     "Bankers?" Hector strained to hear. "Miles and Stirling? Bankers? Over my dead body. Smellinghursts don't work, dammit!"
     "They're not working, Hector. They're still at school."
     "What are they doing here, then? Why aren't they at school?"
     "They were expelled last year, remember? For onanism. That's why they have a tutor who comes to the house every three days."
     "Tutor?" Hector seemed to recognise the word. "Girls have tutors. Bloody tits too bloody big to go to St Bloody Angela's."
     Lady Harriet sighed. "No. the girls aren't old enough to go to St Angela's. When they're eleven, then they'll be old enough, and then their breasts will be too big. Meanwhile, they have a tutor who comes in every two days."
     "Same one as the boys?" Hector asked.
     Lucinda sniggered into her cleavage. "Ours is a man," she told her father. "His name's Jeffrey."
     "And the boys have Miss Middlemore," said Lady Harriet.
     A groan from the direction of Stirling indicated that his erection had just thumped the underside of the table.
     "Onanism?" Hector rumbled. "Onanism?"
     "Wanking, Daddy," Lucinda brought the conversation round full circle. "My big brothers are a couple of wankers. I bet they've got their huge teenage cocks out now."
     Lady Harriet's eyes boggled. "Lucinda! Leave the table at once. And you boys, stand up immediately!"
     "Oh, Mama!"
     "Stand up! And Lucinda, I told you to leave, not to sit there smirking and rolling your eyes at your brothers."
     There was a moment of confusion as Stirling and Miles tried to stand up without exposing themselves, and Lucinda tried to leave the table without her breasts plumetting out of her shirt and smacking her in the crotch. She eventually lowered them safely to rest. Hector didn't know which way to look first. His gaze flickered between the boys' groins and the only truly significant bosom left in the room. After brief deliberation he settled for the bosom.
     Lady Harriet knew exactly which way to look. No doubt about it. "Miles! Stirling! You are not only both partially erect, you have both removed your penes from your trousers."
     "Of course, Mama," said Miles. "When we've got hard-ons, there's no room inside." To emphasise his point, he laid his meat on the table where it twitched interestedly at the sight of its younger sister's mountainously wobbling breasts.
     "I told you to go, Lucinda! At least, go and put a bra on. Look at your ridiculous nipples!"
     "I can't, Mummy. I haven't seen them for months, except in a mirror, and there's no mirror in here."
     "Lucinda's milk's coming in, Mama," Stirling reported, and he dragged his mighty erection out from its hiding place and slammed it down next to his brother's. The two of them throbbed and beat on the tabletop in almost perfect synchronisation, trails of stringy juice seeping out on to the polished walnut.
     "Use your napkins!" Lady Harriet shrieked. "Have you no table manners at all? And Lucinda," she continued without taking her eyes off her sons' members for an instant. "Get out and express yourself in private."
     With a final smirk and a wink at her brothers, Lucinda slunk away to the door, where she paused and inclined her head with a beckoning motion. The twin penes thundered resoundingly against the woodwork in response.
     "Pea-knees?" Hector gargled at last.
     "Penes," said his wife. "The plural of what you haven't got."

 

End of Part V

VI

Next Morning

 

The twins were mating. Both sets. As the sun streamed in through the morning-room windows, the two tutors had given up trying to teach their classes. Miss Middlemore slammed her textbook shut in exasperation and flung herself into a couch. Across the room, Mr Pulitzer, known familiarly to his students as Jeffrey, was making no headway against the screams of four baby girls and was weeping silently into his hands.
     "They need feeding," Charmaine wailed. "I haven't got enough teats for three!"
     "Give me a couple," Lucinda sighed, heaving two of the biggest breasts in the world into view.
     "I've got a spare tit," said Emma. "And more than enough milk for one little baby."
     Babies were distributed around the room and the crying diminished by several decibels.
     The morning-room began to sound a little more like a classroom again. It didn't look like one. There were acres of pale breast flesh on view. Most of it belonged to Lucinda, but Charmaine's and Emma's would have tested the skills of any lesser bra-maker than Mrs Armathwaite.
     And meanwhile, through it all, the twins were mating. As if the details mattered, Miles was shafting Hermione and Stirling was up to the hilt in Cressida. Grunts, liquid sounds, pussy-farts and piglet-like squeals filled the musk-laden air. Two bare male bottoms wobbled as their owners thrust lengthily into two improbably receptive cunnies. The couples had adopted the same position � they were all twins, after all � the girls on their hands and knees on the floor with their long-nippled breasts swinging and dangling heavily beneath their narrow chests. The last six months had seen a most satisfying increase in the little girls' breast size. Mrs Armathwaite was disgusted, but delighted with their progress.
     Such was the power of the pumping that the tiny girls were slammed forward a couple of inches at each stroke, so the two couples navigated around the floor in a random manner, somehow avoiding the furniture most of the time. Only the occasional crash marked the upending of a priceless antique occasional table.
     "It's hopeless, Jeffrey!" Miss Middlemore complained, raising her voice above the room's various earthy sounds. "How can we teach with all this going on?"
     "What can we do?"
     "Come over here."
     Jeffrey did, joining Miss Middlemore on the couch.
     "They're insatiable, those four!" She pointed at the twins who had just met gently in the middle of the floor. The collision had triggered four simultaneous orgasms, followed by about a dozen more from the girls, and several others from the nursing mothers and Lucinda. The room smelled like an expensive brothel.
     "They're starting again," Jeffrey said wonderingly as the twins changed partners almost without missing a beat. "What are we to do?" he repeated.
     "If you can't beat them," sighed Miss Middlemore, "you might as well join them."
     "You mean...?"
     "Of course. They're making me horny as fuck! I'm so sopping wet my juices are trickling down my thighs. My nipples are like wine corks. My breasts are probably two inches larger in circumference than normal..."
     "You mean...?"
     "For God's sake, Jeffrey. Enter me!"
     Pausing only to take out his modest equipment, Jeffrey entered Miss Middlemore. It wasn't bad, but it was okay for all of twenty seconds.
     They had settled down to enjoy the afterglow when Nurse came in and surveyed the scene with an eagle eye. It took quite some time as there was a great deal to take in. On the floor, babies were almost certainly being made. Lucinda had been monitoring her twin sisters' menstrual progress and had announced to Miles and Stirling that this morning was as good a time as any. Hermione and Cressida were willing any time. They enjoyed fucking, performing with creditable enthusiasm and a lot of noise which did wonders for their partners' morale and well-being. True, they were young and skinny � there wasn't much of them apart from their big tits � but their brothers had no scruples.
     True, the boys would have preferred the comely Sharon, the cleaning woman's nubile daughter, who was just as loud as the twins. Being ten years old and an experienced whore as well, she was more satisfying than the twin sisters, and her tits and cunny were considerably larger. But she was charging fifteen pounds a time, and the boys found it increasingly embarrassing to have to ask Mama for pocket money. Mama always asked what they wanted it for and they were running out of plausible explanations. Besides, Mama was becoming suspicious.
     "Thirty pounds? What for?" she had asked only yesterday.
     "We want to buy something," shrugged Stirling. "A car."
     "A car? Why should we want another car? We've got dozens of cars."
     "But we want one of our own."
     Lady Harriet had fished a wad of notes out of her tin box. "What kind of car can you get for thirty pounds?"
     "A Bentley, I suppose," Miles had said.
     Lady Harriet had thought that sounded remarkably cheap for a Bentley, so she gave them three ten pound notes each. It had all gone before teatime, and Sharon had immediately bicycled off to the local fetish boutique and treated herself to some new clothes before the boys could demand their money back.
     "My turn now," said Lucinda, laying Charmaine's bloated babies down and standing up. Her monstrously naked breasts descended to beyond her crotch, capped with areolae as big and as nut-brown as cook's apple pies. She tweaked her nipples, producing twin sprays of milk. "Who's first?"
     "After you, brother," said Miles.
     "No, after you, I must insist!" said Stirling.
     Such well-bred boys.
     Their well-bred twin sisters pulled up their saturated panties with sloppy squelching sounds, sending copious squirts of juices in all directions. They wondered about putting their bras on before going out to play, but decided it wasn't really worth it as they'd probably be taking them off again in a couple of minutes. Hermione and Cressida were off to play with the gardener's son, Jack. Fourteen-year-old Jack liked playing with their tits. He liked fucking them, too, although he preferred older women. Emma's age made his conscience feel slightly more comfortable. Four fat young tits bounced heavily in their T-shirts as they scampered out of the French windows on to the terrace before their teacher could tell them to come back.
     Classes were evidently over for the day. Emma and Charmaine collected up their babies and took them over to Nurse, who was still speechlessly wondering how those scrawny little twin girls could take Miles and Stirling without a sign of discomfort. Herself, she couldn't accept the boys without going cross-eyed.
     "Look after the babies, please, Nurse," Emma commanded. "We need to get shagged as soon as Lucinda's finished with the boys."
     "That's a horrid word, Miss Emma," Nurse scolded her. "Your teacher ought not to allow such language."
     "Okay, then," said Charmaine. "We want to get fucked. Fucked absolutely fucking senseless. We want our big brothers' twelve-and three-quarter-inch mutton daggers up our steaming cunnies, still stretched to the size of dustbins after having all these babies. Mine's bigger than Emma's now," she added proudly. "We borrowed a marrow from the gardener's Jack. It was this big across." She made a circle with her fingers and thumbs, peered at Nurse through the hole, then moved her hands apart to make it bigger. "Emma couldn't get it in. It was pretty tight for me, too, but I was so sploshy it went in okay. Of course, I am rather more plump than Emma, but even allowing for that..." Obligingly, she spread her generous thighs and hoisted her mini-skirt. "See? Sorry about all the hair and stuff, but you can see how huge it is, can't you?"
     "Bring your babies upstairs at once, Miss Charmaine," Nurse snapped. "I shall speak most severely to your mother. I have never heard such disgraceful filth from the mouth of such a young girl. Personally..." her eyes swivelled to the two tutors, still limply entangled on the couch "...I hold the education system partly to blame. Miss Emma, you come, too. And Lucinda. Lucinda! As soon as you've finished, come upstairs to the nursery where all that milk can be put to its proper use, do you hear?"
     "Yes, Nurse," Lucinda replied meekly, and wrapped her thighs more comfortably round Miles' head. Disconcertingly, she was upside down, her breasts resting on the floor beside her innocent face. "Give me an hour, okay?"

 

End of Part VI

VII

Six Months Later

 

The twins were massively pregnant. Not Miles and Stirling, the other two. In fact, they were so comprehensively pregnant that Nurse was beginning to wonder whether the babies were due in three weeks rather than three months. Their twin bellies preceded them by a foot wherever they went, and their breasts weren't far behind. Their bodies were still as narrow as ever, apart from their hips, where Nature had suddenly decided to turn them into little Earth-mothers.
     Mrs Armathwaite was more disgusted than ever as she measured them. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," she railed. "At your age, you're 44-45-35. You're bursting out of bras at the rate of one a week. You are horribly pregnant."
     The twins began to cry. They cried a lot these days, perhaps because Mrs Armathwaite and Nurse never stopped telling them off. And also because Jack had gone off them. Once they had begun to expand so dramatically, the gardener's son had lost interest in them as sex objects. He'd also lost interest in their sisters, perhaps because girls who had babies and gave milk were too scary for a boy of fifteen. He'd never had more than an academic interest in the cleaning-woman's Sharon as he couldn't afford her services even at her special off-peak rate of a fiver a time.
     "Shut up!" Mrs Armathwaite screamed at them. "If you're old enough to become mothers of lots and lots of babies and to wear Q-cup bras, you can stop crying all the time. You're eight years old, damn you, not [CENSORED]!"
     "They're so tiresome, aren't they, Mrs Armathwaite?" said Charmaine sweetly, rubbing a chubby hand over her already swelling belly.
     "Mummy says there's something genetically wrong with them," said Emma. This time, she'd had a last-minute panic to conceive almost simultaneously with her kid sister so she didn't have to suffer the humiliation of being a month behind the seven-year-old mother of three. Her main problem now was that Charmaine was expecting triplets again. She'd never catch up with her at this rate. The other problem was the one revealed when Mrs Armathwaite arrived every Friday, that even allowing for her more than generous layer of puppy fat, young Charmaine's bosom had expanded to a majestic fifty inches and showed no sign of getting any smaller. As Lucinda was still getting bigger by the week, Emma had an awful feeling that she was going to end up with the smallest tits in the family, apart from their mother, of course, who didn't count.
     There was a knock on the nursery door. Everyone looked at everyone else and the twins began to cry again. "Come in!" said Mrs Armathwaite, as the only adult present.
     A little blonde girl came in. Correction, a short blonde girl came in. She wasn't little by any stretch of the imagination. Even Charmaine, with her fifty-inch bust, was impressed. Emma began to feel even more inadequate. The twins, who had stopped crying briefly when the blonde girl came in, started again. The blonde girl was an imposing sight. Whatever she was wearing, it wasn't anything that the Smellinghurst daughters had ever seen before.
     "Ouch," said the girl. "What did you do that for?"
     "Are they real?" asked Charmaine, withdrawing her finger.
     "Course they're fucking real! Do they feel like implants?"
     "What are implants?" Emma asked.
     "They're not real," said Charmaine, sinking her finger into the side of the girl's breast again. "They're rubber."
     "This is rubber," the girl explained patiently, her fingers squeaking across the shiny scarlet surface of her unusual garment. It was like a long-sleeved T-shirt, but it continued downwards to turn into a pair of impossibly brief shorts. "It's latex. My tits are real. So's everything else." And to demonstrate, she placed one foot on a chair and spread her legs lewdly.
     "It disappears right up her front bottom," Charmaine pointed out. She flicked a finger across the pencil-like protrusion at the top of the girl's pussy-crack.
     "What's that thing called?" Emma demanded. "I want one."
     "It's my clitty," said the girl in surprise. "Haven't you got one?"
     "Of course I've got one. Mine doesn't stick out in that horrid fashion. I don't mean that, anyway. What's that rubber thing you're wearing?"
     "It isn't called anything that I know of. It's just a rubber thing. The man made it specially for me. I s'pose he'd make you one. Rubber stretches in all directions, so it would fit you."
     "I want to try yours on. Take it off."
     "It's mine. I bought it with my money."
     "I don't care," said Emma. "Take it off."
     "Don't want to."
     "Who are you, anyway?"
     "I'm Sharon. My mum's a cleaner. I know who you are, you're a fat little stuck-up tart. And you're pregnant again."
     "I know. If your mother's a servant, what are you doing in our nursery?"
     "I need a new bra."
     Mrs Armathwaite looked at the girl with professional interest, summing her up as well into the custom range, and then some. "How old are you?"
     Sharon sighed resignedly. "Why does everybody always ask the same question? Eleven. And my last bra exploded while I was on the job."
     "Job?" Emma's nose screwed up at the unaccustomed word. "You go to work?"
     "No, I was on the job. Fucking. That's what 'on the job' means."
     "Oh." Emma thought about it for a while. "You mean working class girls fuck as well?"
     "We don't fuck 'as well', we fuck better. In fact, I fuck best of all. My mum used to, but she's well past it now. She's nearly twenty-three."
     "Can your mother afford a new bra for you, Sharon?" asked Mrs Armathwaite.
     "Of course she can't," said Emma scornfully. "She's working class!"
     The bra-maker shook her head. "Sharon needs a bra, Miss Emma. Her breasts are gigantic. I bet if she took that rubber suit off, they'd hang down to her belly button."
     "They do not!" said Sharon with an indignant pout.
     "Well, if they don't hang down that far yet, dear, they soon will."
     Sharon frowned uncertainly. "They don't hang down to my belly button. They hang down a long way past that!"
     "Oh, yuck!" said Charmaine. "She's like cousin Suzanna."
     Sharon laughed out loud, startling the Smellinghurst girls. "You mean that scrawny fourteen-year-old bitch? Hers hang down past her knees! Your brothers tied them in a knot round the back of her neck and made her cry. They're like Christmas stockings with a tangerine in the toe. Even my ol' great-granny's aren't as long as that, and she's at least forty-five. Nearly, anyway."
     "I bet yours aren't as big as Lucinda's," said Emma.
     "No, hers are pretty big," Sharon admitted generously.
     "And I bet yours don't give milk."
     "Of course they don't! I'm not a cow, I'm a little girl."
     "You've got tits like a cow," said Charmaine, who remembered seeing a cow once, before she'd cried and run away.
     "I s'pose I have." She looked at Mrs Armathwaite. "You gonna measure me, or not? 'Cos if you are, somebody's got to unzip me at the back."
     "I'll do it," said Charmaine.
     "You can't touch her," said Emma in disgust. "Her mother's only a servant."
     "It's all right, she doesn't smell or anything." Charmaine triumphantly heaved the zipper down. "Oh, yes she does! Wow, she stinks!"
     "I know," said Sharon. "I'd have told you if you'd given me a chance. The only trouble with rubber suits is that all the stink stays inside. Some of my boyfriends like it. It's a nice mixture of sweat and rubber and pussy and boy-cum. And a little bit of poo."
     Charmaine nodded. She could recognise all those components. All of them, apart from the rubber, were familiar enough to any sexually hyperactive seven-year-old. She assumed that the rubber would come much later in life, when she was as old as Sharon.
     "What are you doing down there?" Sharon asked her sharply. "Get your head out of my arse, you little lezzie tart."
     "I'm only smelling it!"
     "Are you a dog, or what? Get off." Sharon quickly shrugged out of the squeaky rubber and dropped it on the carpet where Charmaine pounced on it gratefully. Her description of her own breasts had been accurate enough. They wobbled around like cows' udders, hovering just above her hairless pudenda.
     Emma grasped a nipple in her fist and stretched it out eight or nine inches, lifting the huge breast upwards.
     "Ouch! What are you playing at?"
     "You've got no hair on your thing," Emma pointed in accusation. "It's bald!"
     "I know. I've never had any hair on it. I'm only eleven, after all."
     "But you've got huge tits!"
     "Lots of young girls have got huge tits, especially round here. I've got a giant pussy, too, look." She parted her knees and thighs, concentrating hard, and her audience watched in respectful silence as a mighty cavern opened up like the parting of the waters; fat, wrinkled, rosy lips quivering with the muscular effort of it all; her extraordinary clitoris bobbing its head like a boy's throbbing cock in miniature � no, not really in miniature. A blob of creamy juice oozed out and fell with a plop between her feet. "Don't worry about that," she said, scrubbing at the mess with the toe of her little shoe. "My mum cleans up in here every day."
     "You're a disgusting little girl," said Mrs Armathwaite severely.
     "I know. I'm really gross. Isn't it lovely! All the boys say I'm absolutely the wettest, poo-iest girl they've ever fucked."
     "All the boys?" said Emma.
     "Especially your brothers. Of course, they're not very experienced, they've only had me and you lot. And your Nurse, and their teacher and Mrs Anderson and her girls in the kitchen. Wow, if you knew what went on in that kitchen, you'd never eat again..."
     "What do you mean?"
     "You've got stew for dinner tonight. With sliced smoked sausage and courgettes."
     "So what?"
     "I've been helping them make it, 'cos Mrs Anderson had to go to bed urgently with the gardener's Jack. She needs another baby. You'd think twelve fat little girls would be enough for anybody. Anyway, you should have seen what we were doing with those vegetables before we sliced them up. And the sausage. Phyllis pushed one so far into her pussy it nearly came out of her mouth. Of course, courgettes are way too small for my cunt..."
     Droplets of fluid showered around the room as the girl shook her great dangling purple pussy-flaps between the fingers and thumbs of both hands. Mrs Armathwaite had turned pale...
     "...but it felt great with the sausage up my arse while I stuffed six courgettes and four organic carrots up my cunny all at the same time! And then I kind of did this ... and they all came shooting out like shells from a big gun! All over the kitchen table!" Sharon demonstrated, leaning back against a chair, spreading her powerful legs like a very young and very female colossus, and clenching her internal muscles. Slightly to the disappointment of the enthralled Smellinghurst girls, no volley of vegetables came exploding out, but an extraordinarily copious spray of juices jetted forth for what seemed like several seconds, finally descending in a dank drizzle for a couple of yards in front of her.
     "Gosh!" said Emma.
     "Fuck me," suggested Charmaine.
     "Do you want to know what Mrs Anderson's girls did with them after that?"
     "No!" Mrs Armathwaite shouted. "Get out, you foul creature! Get back to the servants' quarters at once."
     "Okay," said Sharon, grabbing her stinky latex suit from Charmaine and slinging it across her shoulder. "I shan't tell you then. I just hope you enjoy dinner tonight. And I don't need one of your fucking bras anyway. I'll get my mum to complain to her Ladyship. She can find a new bra-maker any time. There's the woman down in the village who makes bras for Mrs Anderson's girls. Daisy's tits weigh forty pounds each, and young Maisie's are even bigger than Lucinda's. Pity about her seventy-eight inch arse, but you can't have everything, my mum always says. See ya later girls!"
     The girls watched her go with admiration shining from their eyes. Moments later, a shriek echoed down the corridor and Emma went to investigate. She discovered Sharon immediately outside the door with Miles buried in her right up to the balls. Sharon clamped her big thighs round the boy's waist and winked at Emma as she adjusted her two-handed grip on Stirling's shaft and eased more of it into her mouth. Stirling cried out in a pained voice. "Emma ... can you ... get ten ... pounds off ... Mummy, there's a good girl? We've got to pay Sharon."
     There was a plop as Sharon pulled her face free and said in a strangely gurgling voice, "It's okay, this one's on the house." She collected Stirling's flailing shaft between her monstrous knockers and squeezed it tight. It disappeared completely. "Not many eleven-year-olds could do that, Stirl?" she exulted, and demonstrated her talent for multitasking by wringing a tortured scream from Miles with a twitch of her educated vagina.
     The female Smellinghurst twins chose that moment to come bouncing out into the corridor, their long nipples hardening with lust. They took in the scene and burst into tears.
     "We want to fuck!" howled Hermione.
     "So do we," Cressida concurred.
     Back in the nursery, Mrs Armathwaite was quietly sobbing. She might be about to lose her job at Smellinghurst Hall, she realised, and she was just beginning to discover that she had grown quite attached to the old place.

 

End of Part VII

viii

one year later

 

the twins were crying again. they could hear them in the distance across the lawn. big sharon leaned back against the grassy bank and gripped miles' middle between her thighs. he wriggled, helpless. the girl was incredibly strong. she'd already totally destroyed stirling, leaving him drained and wasted, flat on his back on the grass.
     "i can't breathe, sharon," miles gasped.
     "never mind." she gripped tighter, toyed with one of her nipples between her thumb and three fingers, then jabbed the boy in the eye with it.
     "ouch! what was that for?"
     "you've stopped moving. if you want to fuck big sharon, you've got to work harder than that. you don't know what work is, do you?"
     "no, actually," miles replied honestly.
     "you'd better come to the kitchen, then," she decided suddenly, ejecting him from her enormous womanhood in a spray of juices and standing up. in this last year, she had become quite a grown-up lady. at six feet one, she was now two or three inches taller than the boys, her legs were like pillars of oak, her hips broad and made for [CENSORED], her waist lithe and slender, and her upper body immensely powerful, the better to carry around those twin gigantic spheres of flesh which had now developed to such a fantastic size. her blonde hair, which she still tied in a ponytail, swished around her muscled bottom as she tossed her head like a warhorse eager for the charge.
     miles lay back on the damp grass and looked up at her. unutterably voluptuous. totally insatiable. twelve years old.
     "come on," she urged. "bring him. there's lots of vegetables to prepare, pans to wash, all the cutlery to polish..."
     miles groaned and tried to rouse his brother. "you've killed him," he said.
     "don't be silly!" sharon bent over stirling's prone form, jerked his head round to one side with a crunch, and waggled a nipple in his face until his mouth opened automatically and sucked it in, or as much as would fit. "there, he's still alive. get up, you! work!"
     sharon had become a pain in the arse since mrs anderson had been fired for something her daughters had done to the family reunion dinner. sharon's mother had been promoted to cook-housekeeper and had moved seamlessly into the kitchen, bringing along her only beloved nubile daughter as assistant and recruiting sergeant. no sooner had the anderson brood plodded away down the drive with their suitcases, than sharon had immediately taken over, getting on her mobile phone and employing sylvester, a jamaican boy she knew from somewhere or other. he didn't know jack-shit about cooking, but he knew how to hide the salami. in his first week at the hall, he had hidden it right up to the massive hilt deep inside all five of the smellinghurst daughters and, it was rumoured, in the mother as well. when he wasn't hiding it there, he plunged it into the ever-accommodating sharon, who deducted her fees at source, leaving sylvester barely enough pocket money for his weekly supply of funny cigarettes. sylvester had to admit, there were worse ways of earning a living, especially if you liked giant-breasted very young girls. fortunately, as it happened, he did.
     it didn't really matter that sylvester hadn't a clue about cookery. his position on the nominal roll of smellinghurst employees was described as catering assistant, and he performed his duties admirably, catering for the needs of the family's distaff side without breaking out of a canter. he was comfortably bigger in the pants region than miles and stirling, but most of all he came as a refreshing change to the sisters as he wasn't such a chinless upper-class twit. he referred to his lovers, one and all, as 'bitch', which they found unusual and exhilarating, although it tended to make the twins cry. but then they cried anyway, when it wasn't their turn. it was quite possible that sylvester couldn't tell them apart; not just the twins, but any of them. he had been known to observe that 'all white fuck-bitch she look same to me, know wot i mean, man?'
     now, as they trailed behind big sharon into the kitchen � watching the cheeks of her remarkable backside twitching beneath the hemline of her white plastic skirt, idly wondering which of their juices it might be pouring in a glistening flood down the inside of the young girl's tree-trunk thighs � they were relieved to see that sylvester was not present. he made them feel inadequate. presumably he was off somewhere porking their young sisters.
     upstairs, charmaine was getting royally fucked by her cousin. "be careful, james," she warned the thirteen-year-old. "you shove that thing any further inside me, the quads will be pregnant before they're born."
     the thought seemed to drive james on to even deeper thrusts. he was an excitable youth as well as a phenomenally well-hung one. even by smellinghurst standards, james had been right up there near the front of the queue when the wedding tackle had been handed out. he made her big brothers look no more than average. he was even three or four inches longer than sylvester. charmaine was keeping him to herself, well away from her other sisters. she wished she'd known about him earlier, when she'd been trying to get herself pregnant the first couple of times.
     keeping james hidden wasn't easy. a dong reaching down to just below a boy's kneecap can not be disguised any more readily than a pair of testicles as big and heavy as cricket balls. fortunately, he was a shy boy, easily embarrassed, so when he wasn't stuffing his busty little butterball of a kid cousin, he spent most of his time with two of his younger sisters, molly-jean and babykins, who could have kept mrs armathwaite in full-time employment if their mother hadn't been some kind of hippie happy-clappie religious throwback who believed that bras were an abomination in the sight of the lord.
     whether her nine daughters, ranging between seven and fifteen, would have agreed with her was never put to the test. she never sought their opinion, which was a pity as the girls' bust measurements averaged something in excess of forty-five inches. it suited james perfectly, as he liked his girls busty and instantly accessible. in molly-jean and babykins he had chosen two of the most buxom, both of them well up to the highest smellinghurst standards. the girls had made themselves available to him one hundred percent of the time for the last year or so, and could consider themselves extremely unlucky not to be mothers several times over.
     that was almost certainly the attraction in charmaine. she had already given birth to two sets of all-girl triplets, and was now six months pregnant with the next batch, quads this time. pregnancy suited her, which was probably just as well. her constantly [CENSORED] hips, her more-than-baby-fat thighs and tummy, her pudgy arms, her double chin; all brought james to a peak of arousal as soon as he set eyes on her. and the thought that this plump and voluptuous[censored]would be a mother of ten little girls at the tender age of eight and a half was enough to make him cry out in the night and ejaculate spontaneously.
     true, even with her resounding fifty-five inch bust, charmaine was no match in the tit department for james' little sister babykins, a skinny almost-nine-year-old whose monstrously hypertrophied smellinghurst attributes hung all the way down to her pudenda, but altogether there was far more of charmaine to love, and it was much more evenly distributed.
     he pumped his meat into his cousin from behind, and her head thudded against the padded headboard, setting everything shuddering. afterwards, as they subsided in a sweating heap, they could hear the twins getting the same treatment down in the garden.
     the twins sobbed gently as they reached their hundredth orgasm of the morning. each of them wanted the boy who was currently mating with her sister. as if it mattered, when the boys were their twin cousins, ralph and dominic; pretty little nine-year-old boys with cocks to match their age. both hermione and cressida were convinced that the other sister's partner had the bigger cock. so far, they had swapped six times, and twenty seconds later both had been crying again.
     the boys pressed on gamely, knowing that they were identical in length and breadth and probably in staying power, too. they'd been stuffing the vastly-pregnant little girls for two hours, and the overwhelming sensation was a raw numbness. it would soon be over; only another month and they'd be able to take a week or so off: perhaps they could even get back to fucking their own deliciously plump sisters. cousins were okay, but they weren't a patch on the real thing.
     lucinda turned off her twin breast pumps and mopped her groin with a bath towel. the sounds of junior love-making echoed around the house. here she was, practically ten years old, with the biggest, milkiest set of tits in the whole place, and she wasn't getting any of the action. even her brothers weren't available. that mountainous sharon monopolised them these days. jack the gardener's son seemed to be turning into a poof, and all the cockiest cousins already seemed to be getting their oats on a regular basis. sylvester had provided a brief diversion, but he was so much in demand with his bitches that the only time lucinda ever saw him was when he was on his way somewhere to impregnate one of her countless nubile cousins. she fancied her cousin james, having spied what appeared to be a knee-length cock twitching in his trousers at one of the most recent weekly christening ceremonies. but charmaine had cornered him, and perhaps it was just as well. young charmaine could accommodate such a mammoth hunk of equipment far better than lucinda. even the scrawny twins could probably take him in up to the hilt, although it would surely reduce them to floods of tears. her younger sisters were undoubtedly designed by nature to breed with the largest of male organs. and lucinda had obviously been placed on this earth to feed all their resultant babies.
     she sighed, reached into her drawer, and took out her second-biggest vibrator. lucinda wasn't a greedy little girl.
     emma wasn't at all happy. what was the point, she wondered, of her mother employing a full-time nursemaid, if the woman was going to leave an eleven-year-old girl in charge of all ten [CENSORED], only two of which were her own? the little bastards needed full-time attention and consumed vast quantities of milk. at least, lucinda's cow-like output of dairy produce easily took care of the needs of the whole brood, but lucinda didn't hang around to feed the kids; her responsibility only went as far as providing bottles of the stuff.
     emma wasn't at all happy because she wasn't getting any action. all the eligible cousins seemed to be booked up for months in advance keeping charmaine and the twins pregnant. her brothers were busy with big sharon, and even sylvester didn't seem all that interested any more. she was on the shelf, past it, an old maid at eleven. and as if that wasn't bad enough, she was losing her youthful figure. her breasts were getting smaller and heading south. it was no fun any more, being a girl. the only time she'd felt truly fulfilled had been when she was pregnant, doing what a real smellinghurst did best. but she couldn't even get pregnant now, if all the eligible boys were busily occupied elsewhere.
     she was desperate enough to try anything. maybe she could find another boy to fuck her, someone who wasn't a member of the family. the very thought of such a thing made her blush for shame. it also made her nipples throb and her lubrication flow like the mighty thames itself. that was it, she thought. she'd find a man outside!
     she made her way to the window and looked out. there weren't any men outside, as far as she could tell. somewhere in the distance the twins were crying, so presumably they were outside, and wherever they were, there would be boys between their thighs. but the twins were certainly somewhere on the grounds of the big house. they would never venture outside. they had no need to. standing on a chair and craning her neck, emma could see beyond the estate; a church steeple, a tractor moving up and down a field. would there be boys out there? men, even?
     only one person would know.
     emma climbed down from her chair and headed for the kitchens. big sharon would help her get laid.

 

end of part viii

ix

one year later

 

lady harriet was starting to feel that life was passing her by. "what would happen if hector died without having a son and heir?" she asked mr blenkinsop, the family's solicitor. "who would be the next in line?"
     "theoretically, nobody. but there might be a case for your two boys to be the new lord smellinghurst. one of them, anyway. on the other hand, the lordship might pass to the oldest son of the oldest of your daughters who have any sons. have they?"
     "have who what?"
     "do any of your daughters have a son?"
     "you're supposed to know these things! the answer's no. they keep having daughters. how can the human race be expected to continue if little girls keep having daughters all the time?"
     "the survival of the human race shouldn't depend on little girls having babies anyway," said blenkinsop stuffily. "procreation should be the preserve of married couples."
     "i can't believe you said that!" lady harriet flung the sheets aside and sprang lightly out of bed, revealing the pale and spindly legs of the lawyer glowing in the watery sunlight from the window. his penis had dwindled to a mere four or five inches, although for her ladyship that was corn in egypt compared to her useless husband. "of course, all this would be idle speculation if i could have a son at the end of the day."
     "you won't have one as soon as that," said blenkinsop with a nervous glance at the alarm clock. "and why the panic? his lordship isn't thinking of dying just yet, is he?" he made a mental note to help his lordship redraft his last will and testament: six hours at �500 an hour...
     "he's strong as an ox," growled harriet discontentedly. "but you can't be too careful, can you?" she turned back to the view from the window, and the outside world. surely out there there must be strong, virile men with cocks as big as those of her own beloved sons, horny-handed sons of toil who would give their last penny to give a randy aristocrat a good old-fashioned shafting. "haven't you got it up again yet?"
     "it's only been ten minutes."
     "you're useless, blenkinsop. how did you ever manage to father two sons? if you can't impregnate me this time, i may have to consider engaging another law firm to conduct the family's affairs."
     "but blenkinsop, blenkinsop, blenkinsop and blenkinsop have been the smellinghurst's solicitors for more than a hundred years!"
     "and where has it got us? a house full of increasingly huge-titted girls and more being born every week. we need an injection of new blood, and more importantly, new semen. that will be all, blenkinsop. you may get dressed outside. and send for young sylvester."
     blenkinsop sucked in his breath. "do you think that's wise, your ladyship? although undoubtedly the young man meets certain ... how shall we say ... standards, there can be no doubt that the arrival of a black baby might be viewed with deepest suspicion."
     "i'm sure we could think of a reasonable explanation. who else is there? there must be a well-hung male who can do the business." she suddenly stared out of the window. "who the fuck's that?"
     blenkinsop hurried to his employer's side, anxious to salvage his company's fate. he was in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a young girl trundling a wheelbarrow into the shrubbery. her screams rang out across the kitchen gardens. she was pursued by a small boy; a pretty boy with fair hair cut in the fashion of a boy soprano in the church choir. blenkinsop faithfully identified the personnel in the tableau vivant.
     "the young woman was your second daughter, lucinda, your ladyship. she has taken to loading her breasts into a wheelbarrow for transit purposes, an inelegant and unladylike solution to..."
     "not her! you think i can't recognise my own daughter's fucking great tits? who was the boy with no trousers on who was chasing her?"
     "it is difficult to say from a back view, but i think it might have been master james, your ladyship. master james is the second son of your second cousin emerald, by her younger double first cousin and son marmaduke. he is a personable young lad, with an excellent singing voice, or so the rector tells me..."
     "pity the rector didn't tell you how big his cock was, as well. you think i can't recognise young james? that kid was two years younger. besides, it can't have been james."
     "why not?"
     "listen!" lady harriet held up a finger for silence. the big house was rarely totally quiet. there was always so much activity. as blenkinsop stood poised, his head on one side like one of hector's most inbred deaf and blind gundogs, sounds of love-making drifted in through the window. the distant sobbing of the twins came clearly across from the stables. from the east and west wings came a dozen distinct and separate sets of lust-filled cries of young girls in orgasm. down in the shrubbery, lucinda was getting some action at long last, and was clearly enjoying it. her wheelbarrow fell unheeded on its side with a resounding clang. and from the room next door, the regular thumping of the headboard against the wall was mingled with panting and squeaking. "that's james," she announced triumphantly. "he's in charmaine's room, as he always is at this time of the morning."
     "you allow miss charmaine to sleep with her own cousin? but she's only eight!"
     "she's not sleeping with him, you disgusting pervert! listen to that noise. you call that sleeping? she's getting her brains fucked out; not that she's got many anyway, the inbred little bimbo. shit, the [CENSORED]'s already got six little brats by her own half-brothers, she might as well finish having her family while she's still young enough to enjoy them. but charmaine and james aren't our immediate concern. i need you to perform a service for me."
     "it's still only been eleven minutes, your ladyship."
     "never mind that, man. get out and put your suit back on. yvette will help you if you ring for her. then get your arse down to the shrubbery and as soon as lucinda's finished with that boy, whoever he is, send him up here to see me."
     "why wait until they've finished?"
     "poor lucinda hasn't been getting it. the poor [CENSORED], and she's got a giant pair of tits. the poor girl shouldn't have to mope around doing nothing besides feeding all her sisters' baby girls. it isn't natural. i had twin boys by the time i was her age. no, wait until she's satisfied, then send the boy up here."
     "but the unfortunate lad can't be expected to know any better, harriet. smellinghurst is a seething hotbed of[censored]and lust. how can you expect him to resist a girl with lucinda's physical attributes if he's never been taught otherwise?"
     "i'm hoping he hasn't been taught otherwise! did you see the tadger on that kid? he was nearly tripping over it! that's why i want him up here. not tomorrow, today; this very morning! mr blenkinsop, move your arse!"
     mr blenkinsop did as instructed. he lurked at the edge of the shrubbery until the noises had died down, then he coughed politely and pushed his way in through the bushes, almost tripping over the prone figure of a small boy wearing nothing but a shirt.
     "hello, mr blinkingspot," said lucinda. she was stark naked, reclining on her back on a grassy bank with a contented smile on her face. her clothes had been neatly folded and placed in the wheelbarrow, but it had fallen over early in the proceedings.
     "your mother sent me, miss lucinda," said the solicitor. "have you finished with the young gentleman?"
     lucinda sat up with a sigh and began climbing into her crisp-crotched silken panties. "what's she want me for this time? not more babies to feed?" her breasts heard her comment and began to dribble milk.
     "it isn't you she wants, miss lucinda. it's the young gentleman. what is his name?"
     "i didn't ask him," said lucinda. "i think he's one of uncle marmalade's. what's your name, boy?"
     the small boy still lay in his original position among the leaves. he stirred and looked up, blinking, then laid his head down again, exhausted.
     "whatever he's called, he's got a fucking great dong on him," the girl retrieved her cut-off jeans from the overturned wheelbarrow and tried to climb into them. can you help me, mr bleedingspot?"
     "blenkinsop. how may i help you?"
     "that's what i said. just hold my tits out of the way so i can get my jeans on. they're a bit heavy. careful! i told you!"
     "sorry, miss lucinda. it slipped right out of my hands. her ladyship requires the boy at once, miss lucinda."
     "oh, all right." lucinda crawled across to the boy, bumping her breasts out of the way with her knees. "get up, you! my mummy wants you."
     "what for?" the boy sat up and scratched his head. mr blenkinsop stared. then he rubbed his eyes and stared again.
     "is that real?"
     "it felt real," said lucinda.
     "ouch!" the boy grunted.
     "it's real," lucinda confirmed. "he felt it when he knelt on it. you've got to go and see my mummy. you know where to go? up the stairs, turn left..."
     "which way is left?"
     "he's only eight," said the almost-ten-year-old wet-nurse. "this is your right hand, and this is your left. right?"
     "yeah. i go up the stairs. but which way is left?"
     "just go into one of the bedrooms and ask for your auntie harriet's room. she's the old woman with no tits."
     "okay, miss lucinda." the boy pulled his shirt down to cover his bottom. it failed absolutely to conceal his boyhood, which was limp but still obscenely huge. he toddled away, adjusting his step every few paces as his swinging cock became entangled with his knees.
     "was it a good idea to tell him to look in the other bedrooms, miss lucinda? if he turns the wrong way at the top of the stairs, he may encounter one of your sisters."
     "mummy will murder them if she finds they've been shagging her little boyfriend." she righted her wheelbarrow and began heaving one of her breasts into it. "would you like a drink, mr bonkingslop? i've got lots and lots of milk leaking out and it will only go to waste."
     "a drink, miss lucinda?"
     "well, you're not allowed to fuck any of us girls, are you? but there's nothing to stop you grabbing my monster tits and having a nice drink, is there?"
     "but you're only a little girl!"
     "little?"
     there was a clang as the wheelbarrow toppled on to its side.

end of part ix

x

one year later

 

now that she was in the kitchen, or lurking just outside the door, emma didn't know what to do. she'd never really been in the kitchens before, although she knew the staff had lots of fun with the right shaped vegetables. but sharon was nowhere to be seen. sharon's mother was slaving over the hot stove, a white apron tied around her middle, muttering a stream of oaths and industrial language as she jabbed at the contents of a large saucepan with a wooden spoon.
     there was a knock on the back door.
     "come on in," sharon's mother shouted, untying her apron and tossing it in the corner. she was wearing a skirt that could well have been one of her daughter's until sharon's latest growth spurt. it came down to about fifteen inches above her knees and it was made of shiny yellow plastic. it was so short, emma wondered why she was wearing it at all, although perhaps the woman liked to look decent in case anyone came visiting. but what was she doing? she hoisted the skirt up around her waist and bent backwards across the kitchen table, spreading her legs wide. emma was familiar with the pose � it was her fat sister charmaine's position of choice � but she was puzzled. there was something missing.
     "bloody box! too big to come through the door." the postman came backwards into the kitchen, dragging a large box behind him. emma knew he was a postman because she'd seen one on tv. it was the first time she'd realised that postmen called at the big house. he stood up, panting, and took off his postman's cap to wipe his brow. he delivered a heartfelt kick to the box, which spewed out a torrent of packages that emma instantly recognised as video cassettes. "load of rubbish, this lot," the postman complained as he dropped his postman's trousers and hopped around trying to get them off over his shiny postman's shoes. "we had a look at them this morning down the sorting office. i dunno what 'is lordship wants this lot for. women with big tits? all the young[censored]in the big house have got tits twice as big as these."
     "never mind them," said big sharon's mother. "shove it up me."
     the postman was a good public servant. he shoved it up her. emma watched fascinated as the postman thrust his postman's cock in and out of the cook. she'd never really seen grown-ups trying to do it before. it was faintly embarrassing, with the postman grunting and sweating in his big red and blue jacket, constantly losing his rhythm, and sharon's mother just lying on her back squeaking. at least it was soon over.
     the postman withdrew and wiped himself on a dishcloth while big sharon's mother made him a nice cup of tea. emma had never seen such a short one, apart from her father's, of course. her brothers' were at least three times as long as this thing. it wasn't even as long as sharon's clit! she found it worrying. why did grown-ups have such small ones? her big brothers' were as long as that cucumber on the table. sylvester's was even longer, and as thick as her ankle; so thick that emma shuddered when she remembered how it had felt. and there were even bigger ones in the big house, she knew. cousin james's was so long he could kneel on it if he wasn't careful. there were probably other cousins even bigger, jealously guarded by their crafty sisters.
     maybe finding a man wasn't such a good idea after all. it would have to be a boy; only a boy would be big enough to satisfy her.
     "what you doing?" the voice came from behind her, and about a mile above her head. emma nearly hit the ceiling, until she was forced down by two hands like steel traps gripping her shoulders.
     "sharon! i'm not doing anything!"
     "you were watching my mum and the postman. admit it. it's all right, they do it every morning on the table."
     "why does she do it with the postman? he's not her brother or anything."
     sharon shrugged her powerful shoulders. "i suppose she enjoys it."
     "why do grown-up men have such little willies?" emma asked.
     "the size doesn't matter. i've had the postman and he brought me off okay. only once, though, and he'd finished before the kettle boiled so he had to wait for his tea. if it's a big one you want, you ought to get your arse over to the east wing and try some of your cousins. there's archibald, barnaby, cardew, d'abernon, etheridge, fauntleroy, gervaise..."
     emma stared at the big girl in awe as she recited this list without hesitation or consulting her notes. she gave every sign of being able to carry on and go all the way around the alphabet again. "i want a big one," emma insisted. "how big are their willies? how old are they?"
     "between ten and seventeen."
     "ten's a bit young..."
     "that's how many inches."
     "golly! how old are they?"
     "i just told you, between ten and seventeen. barnaby's one of the biggest at the moment. he's only eleven, but he's so thick i can't even get my fingers halfway round it. and seventeen inches ought to be big enough for you. he even made the twins cry with it. his mother says he's in the middle of a growth spurt."
     emma felt faint. "in the middle?"
     "yeah! if you want, i can get you a place on his waiting list."
     "he's got a waiting list? how long will i have to wait for my turn?"
     "if you go on the list today, you'll be on the real waiting list by next year, unless there are any cancellations. then your turn will come round in about five years' time. after that, it comes round a bit quicker..."
     "but i'll be seventeen by then! and so will he. he'll have started getting smaller, like the postman."
     "suit yourself. if you don't mind how big it is, i can fix you up tonight."
     "wow! yes, please! what's his name?"
     "john," said sharon without a moment's pause for thought. "they're all called john. come down here at ten tonight."
     "but i go to bed at nine."
     "you get up for sex, don't you?"
     "no," said emma innocently. "i always have a wank then i go to sleep."
     "you're a disgusting slag! all you smellinghursts are the same. if you want a fuck, be down here at ten."
     "i'll try. who will it be?"
     "nobody you know."
     "nobody i know?" emma went pale. her resolve to find herself a lover from outside the family began to waver. "not even a cousin? mummy warned us about fucking people who aren't family."
     sharon sighed heavily. "you're so fussy! okay, get down here as soon as you can tonight, i'll have a word with my mum and we'll find a relative for you. how about your dad?"
     "daddy?"
     "that's him. he'll be down around nine-ish. do you fancy him?"
     "nah, he's bald and he smells all smeggy!"
     "he'd be good training for you," said sharon severely. "how to pleasure yourself on two inches. valuable experience for later in life. still, it's up to you. now, about the money..."
     "what money? i don't use money. i can't pay!"
     "no, the johns pay you."
     "what for?"
     sharon cursed herself for mentioning the money in the first place. a new source of income had just slipped out of the window. "men always pay for sex with girls. they even pay for women like my mum. some of the perverted ones do, anway. they'll pay you money. usually they give it to you just before they leave. of course, i could look after that side of the business for you. i could take my commission and handling fee and pay you your five per cent."
     "oh. do you have to?"
     "i wouldn't do it for anyone else. i ought to take more than that really."
     "but what would i want money for? it's no use to me. i just want to get fucked."
     a wave of relief came over sharon and she began mentally calculating the profit she could earn from a nubile girl of lofty birth. nevertheless, keeping up the act, she wagged a finger at her young recruit to the profession. "just don't you start getting ideas, that's all; we're not having you hanging round here, doing it for free with anybody. you're supposed to do it with your own family. that's the way it is. i'm only letting you do it tonight 'cos you're my friend."
     "all right." emma wondered why sex had to be such a complicated business. why couldn't she just do it, same as charmaine and the twins did. and everyone else in the house with the possible exception of lucinda, and she didn't really need to fuck because she came all the time she was feeding babies. she said it was better than sex. "can i stay and watch now, sharon?"
     "there's nothing to see down here. the postman's just leaving and we're not expecting anyone else until the window cleaner finishes the back of the west wing at three o'clock. we're preparing dinner now, and you're not allowed to watch that." she turned emma round and ushered her out and up the sloping corridor from the kitchens. "go and have a lie-down."
     emma didn't really want to lie down, not on her own, at least. but sharon was big and strong, and she frog-marched the young lady all the way up the grand staircase, along the corridor and into her bedroom where she dumped her on the bed.
     "stay there," she commanded.
     glumly, emma lay back and wished for a beautiful prince to come into her room and fuck her brains out. "it isn't going to happen," she told herself, slipping a hand down the inside of her little designer jeans and pants.
     "excuse me?"
     emma turned to the doorway. a small boy's head was poking round the door. "what do you want? i'm busy. go away."
     "are you an old woman with no tits?"
     emma choked back a sob. here she was, on the shelf, all washed up, her tits getting smaller by the minute, and little boys came barging into her room when she was having a quiet wank to remind of the fact. "yes!" she sobbed.
     "oh, good! lucinda sent me." the boy came into the room. emma rolled on to her back again, not even bothering to remove her four fingers from her slippery tunnel. "what did you want me for?" the boy asked. he had an annoying, whiny voice. he couldn't have been more than eight. "wow, what are you doing?"
     "what does it look like?" emma moaned. "who told you to come in? didn't your mother tell you it's rude to watch a girl when she's playing with herself?"
     "no, she makes us watch her all the time. can i have a wank while i watch you?"
     emma was shocked. "certainly not! you're not old enough!"
     "i made my big sister pregnant," the boy said peevishly. his silly little-boy's voice somehow didn't seem to go with the words he was saying.
     emma's fingers stopped their in-and-out plunging. "you did what? when? who is your big sister?"
     "lady constance. she's eight months gone now, with twins. that was me. let me watch, please! i'll even fuck you if you like. i'm ready again."
     emma knew of lady constance. she was one of the mystery ladies of the east wing; related in some way too convoluted for emma's simple mind to grasp. she was quite ancient to be having sex and babies � nearly eighteen � but she'd always had a magnificent pair of tits on her. and this little squirt was the one who put her in the club. how did he know for certain? "how do you know it was you?" she asked, sitting up. then her attention became focused upon the boy's lower half. "fucking hell!" he was wearing only a shirt, which wasn't particularly unusual around the big house, where half-dressed [CENSORED] were in the habit of scuttling from room to room between sexual partners. but dangling, or half dangling, between his legs was the reason for emma's astonished outburst. 'fucking hell' didn't seem adequate. she tried again. "fuck me!" she cried.
     "oooh, thanks!" the boy scrambled on to the bed, held his tool out of the way and crawled carefully between emma's thighs, which parted willingly. then she had to kick him out of the way to get her jeans off. like a well-brought-up [CENSORED], the boy helped her. the extra twenty seconds, to say nothing of the warm scent of lust rising from emma's loins, had given the boy the opportunity to become fully erect. this, thought emma, was ridiculous! it made even sylvester's look like a cadbury's chocolate finger.
     lady constance's little brother wasn't much of a one for foreplay. he prodded around for a second or two, guiding the thing with both hands, then it found the way in and slid home with a liquid squelch. it didn't fit completely; in fact, there was considerably more of it outside emma than inside, even after the boy had tried a couple of tentative thrusts and commenced a slow, deep rhythm, moving in and out fully ten inches at a time. emma tried to grab him round the buttocks to hold him in, but his buttocks were too far away.
     "wow!" she said after a few minutes.
     "i'll last longer if you don't say anything," advised the boy, without missing a stroke. "i fucked lucinda earlier and she was shouting rude words the whole time. i shot my load in no time."
     "oh." emma shut up and admired the ceiling. there were worse ways of spending the afternoon. and to think, girls like sharon actually expected to get paid for doing this. she felt an orgasm bubbling up and tried to do it without screaming.
     "stop shouting," scolded the boy. "i nearly came then."
     "sorry!"
     "that's all right. how long do you want me to carry on? if you're very quiet, i can keep going 'til dinner time. then i've got to go. it's fish fingers tonight."
     "dinner time would be fine," said emma. only a couple of hours. she came copiously, but without a sound.
     "have you just done a piss?" the boy asked.
     "of course not!"
     "you can if you like. i wouldn't mind."
     "i'll see what i can do," said emma. she'd never been particularly aroused by watersports, which was the kind of thing that was very popular among those perverts in the east wing. but if the boy was giving up his entire afternoon for her, the very least she could do was to pee all over him. in fact, the more she thought about it, the more she realised that she hadn't been to the bathroom for hours.

end of part x

xi

later that same afternoon

 

"what will happen if daddy dies?"
     "we'll have a funeral, i suppose," said stirling. "is my cock getting bent, do you think?"
     "it always has been," said miles. "it's not just bent, it's got a twist in it, like a barley-sugar stick. you could literally screw a girl with it. at least, mine's nice and straight. i know we'll have a funeral, but what about afterwards?"
     "same as when great uncle sebastian snuffed it, i suppose. cook will do one of her cold buffets, a couple of dozen whole salmon, a few sides of ham, half a roast ox..."
     "no, i mean after that. like who will be the new lord smellinghurst?" miles stopped wanking for a moment and cleared his throat importantly. "i suppose it will just have to be me."
     "you? it can't be you. we're twins."
     "yes, but i'm older by ten minutes. or a whole year. it has to be me by seniority. terribly sorry, old thing, but that's the way the ball bounces." his balls started bouncing again as he resumed his masturbation. stirling, meanwhile, had stopped, and his corkscrew cock began to soften noticeably.
     "you can't be lord smellinghurst. neither of us can, in fact. we're not daddy's sons."
     "we might be. nobody knows whose anyone's[censored]are round here."
     "mummy does. she'd have been sure to remember if she'd shagged daddy before she met him socially. if mummy doesn't have a boy, the title will pass to one of the girls' baby boys."
     "they haven't got any. they keep having girls. and mummy isn't having any more babies. she and daddy don't do it any more."
     "that won't stop her. she fucks like a rabbit."
     "i've never watched rabbits fucking," said miles loftily. "anyway, i suppose it will be meeeeee!" he came majestically and the chauffeur ducked as a spurt of semen splashed against the glass partition a few inches behind his head. the bentley resumed its sedate progress round and round the gravel drive in front of the big house. it was usual for hemmings to keep driving until both the twins had ejaculated.
     stirling was still a long way from his climax. he put himself away. "it will have to be one of the girls. charmaine's expecting four this time. there's bound to be a boy in that lot. that's assuming the twins have girls again next month."
     "the next lord smellinghurst can't be one of the twins' babies!" miles gasped. "he'd be crying the whole time."
     "all babies cry. it's what they do. better a twins' baby than you, anyway. you'd be hopeless."
     "would not. you'd be hopeless. besides," he added craftily. "what if both twins had a boy � simultaneously? who'd be the next lord then?"
     "it's all silly games," stirling sniffed. "daddy's not going to die anyway. not for years. one of our little sisters will have a boy baby long before then. and if he's not daddy's, that's a good thing, 'cos he won't have a prick like a cocktail sausage."
     the bentley scrabbled to a halt in the gravel and hemmings's cursing carried clearly to the boys in the back seat.
     miles was outraged. "what's the damned fellow stopping for, dammit? you haven't come yet." the glass partition slid open and hemmings explained.
     "we nearly ran h'over someone, master. hay young boy came a-running down the steps and fell over in front of the car."
     "he fell over, and you missed him?"
     "i thought of running h'over the little bastard ... erm ... beggin' your parding, master ... the young fellow, but i realised just in time that 'e was h'excellent breeding stock."
     "what are you talking about, man?"
     "the reason 'e fell over, young sir, was that 'e tripped h'over 'is prick. 'e was 'ung like hay cart'orse, gentlemen, h'and 'e weren't a day h'over h'eight years h'old."
     the boys translated this message in silence.
     "'ow big ... i mean, how big was his willie, hemmings?" stirling asked.
     the chauffeur turned round in his seat. "h'aybout twice as long as that," he said, pointing at miles's groin. "and as thick as this." he demonstrated how thick, using both hands.
     "that's pretty thick," said stirling, miles not being in any mood to comment. "how could you see it? surely he wasn't naked?"
     "not h'entirely, no. he'd got a shirt on. no trousers, though, and his tadger was swingin' round below 'is knees, so 'elp me gawd and strike me dead if i'm a-lyin'."
     stirling nudged miles. "he's the one we need. if he's got a dong like that, we ought to be breeding from him, making the next lord smellinghurst. he'll have to be introduced to mummy! come on, brother. let's break the good news to her right away!"
     "h'i take it you've finished, gentlemen?"
     "yes, that will be all, hemmings. you may wash the car and put it away. don't forget to wipe the semen from the interior."
     the twins climbed out and scampered indoors, up the stairs and turned left at the top.
     to their surprise, they found emma in their mother's room, looking as if she'd recently lost her horse. she was stark naked, standing with her legs bowed. a spreading pool of juices had collected between her feet.
     "in the end i had to toss him off!" the girl was saying.
     "what a dreadful waste, [CENSORED]! you masturbated a boy instead of making love properly?"
     "no, i was on my back, and he was so scrawny, he can't have weighed more than one of the gardener's baby lambs. all his strength must have gone into his cock. so i kind of bucked my hips upwards and he sort of flew up in the air. he didn't come right out of me until he was halfway to the ceiling!"
     lady harriet gnashed her teeth. "and what was this boy's name?"
     "i don't know, mummy. we weren't introduced."
     her mother nodded her approval. it wouldn't be correct for a girl to make enquiries about a boy's personal details without a formal introduction. "how big was his willie again?"
     emma turned to her twin half-brothers who were now standing just inside the doorway. with practised ease she unzipped miles's trousers and extracted him with a flick of the wrist. "about twice as long as this," she said non-judgementally. "and about this thick." she demonstrated the thickness using both hands.
     "that's the one. hemmings nearly ran him over," said stirling. "the kid tripped over his prick, then he got up and ran off into the rhododendrons. you ought to meet him, mummy. he sounds ideal."
     "i fucking know he sounds fucking ideal," her ladyship snarled through gritted teeth. "i told that useless blenkinsop to send him up here to me. stupid man doesn't know his left from his right. i'm getting rid of him. get him back and bring him up here, you boys."
     "who, mummy? mr blenkinsop?"
     "fatheads! not blenkinsop. this boy with no name!"
     stirling headed for the door. "okay, mummy. come on, emma. you can help us recognise him."
     "you've got to be kidding!" her ladyship yelled. "you're looking for a four-stone boy with a dick as big as your arm!"
     "all right, mummy." stirling ushered his sister from the room.
     "where are we going?" emma asked as they passed the top of the stairs.
     "your bedroom for a quickie," stirling panted. "miles can go and find this boy. run along, miles, there's a good chap. come on, emma, your room's closest."
     "you horny bugger," miles complained, but he turned and started down the stairs. "you're welcome to her, she's a little slut."
     "i know," said stirling. "that's why i want her so desperately."
     emma took his hand and skipped beside him to her bedroom door.
     "don't stop skipping, em, it makes your big titties bounce."
     "they're not big, and they're all horrible and floppy," the girl said, looking up at him without much hope of contradiction.
     "they're nearly as big as some of the little girls in this place. and they're easily bigger than any of the models in daddy's big tit videos." he pushed her ahead of him into her bedroom. "and when you're pregnant again, they'll be huge and full of milk. wow, it smells sexy in here!"
     "no, that's me," said emma, bending backwards over the edge of the bed and closing her eyes. "i stink of sex. there's cum still pouring out of me. have you had a wank this afternoon yet?"
     "no, i was having one when hemmings nearly ran over the boy with no name. so i'm pretty full of spunk right now."
     "good! fill me up. make me have fifty babies. some boys would be nice this time, just for a change."
     "i shall do my best, sis." it didn't take long, so they did it three times before dinner.
     "it stinks of sex in here," said lady harriet at the dinner table.
     "that's young emma," said stirling. "she's been at it all afternoon."
     "it's a good job we've got fish," miles sniggered coarsely.
     "did you find that boy for mummy?" emma asked.
     "which boy?" asked lucinda.
     "boy? a boy for her ladyship?" hector's brain clicked into gear. "why d'you want a boy, harriet, hmm?"
     "what does the bald old fart think you want a boy for, mummy?" said lucinda. "who was he, anyway?"
     "the same one you lured into the shrubbery earlier. and don't refer to your father as old."
     "gosh, yeah! you should have seen it. it was as long as this! and this thick!"
     lady harriet seethed gently. "that's as big as miles and stirling's put together. what was his name?"
     "he put his big sister in the club," said emma. "lady constance."
     "he's constance's little brother? that means he's one of vagina's little boys. my own sister! that means he's..." she fell silent as she tried to work out the relationship.
     lucinda giggled. "little? mummy! he's probably got the biggest willie in the world."
     stirling confirmed his sister's estimate. "he tripped over it, hemmings said. if it was long enough to trip over, it would have to hang down past his knees."
     "it didn't hang down while he was with me," said lucinda. "it stuck straight out. but then, i'm a simply beautiful young girl and i've got the biggest tits in the world, probably."
     "don't be vulgar, lucinda," her mother scolded her. "ladies don't brag about such things."
     "mine are pretty big," charmaine mumbled.
     "don't talk with your mouth full, charmaine."
     "sorry, mother," said miles, removing himself from his sister's mouth. "i get so turned on when she comes down to dinner dressed like that."
     "why are you wearing your bikini, charmaine?"
     "none of my other clothes fit, mummy" the girl protested, parting her thirty-inch thighs to allow miles better access. he crawled around under the table for a few seconds before grabbing his fattest, youngest sister beneath her hairy armpits and hustling her away to the chaise longue. he was inside her before they reached the horizontal.
     "miles!"
     "it's all right, mummy," said lucinda. "he can't make her pregnant. i bet i am, though, after this afternoon! he must have come a gallon. both of them."
     "both?"
     "i nearly forgot. i had mr bonkinsplosh as well. he only wanted a drink, but one thing led to another. he wasn't bad, but i could hardly feel him in there after that boy."
     "it was the same with me and stirling," emma confessed.
     "what is the matter with this family?" lady harriet screeched. "you're all obsessed with cock and cunt!"
     "what? what?"
     "not you, hector."
     there was a polite knock on the dining room door.
     "who can that be?" lady harriet peered over her spectacles. "miles, ring for the housekeeper, have her find out who it is."
     "i'll go, miles," stirling offered, observing that his twin brother was at that moment pumping his seed into his howling sister. he pulled on the bell-rope. somewhere in the kitchens a bell would be clanging urgently.
     "thanks, bro. i'll do the same for you sometime."
     there was another knock on the door.
     "why don't i just open the door, mummy? that way we'll find out who it is."
     "don't be tiresome, stirling. ring for mrs such-and-such again at once."
     the family sat in silence for some ten minutes, ignoring the repeated knockings. miles helped charmaine back to her seat while stirling mated discreetly with lucinda up against the sideboard.
     finally the door opened and big sharon came in, wearing a disgracefully short skirt. she carried a small envelope on a silver tray which she offered to lady harriet.
     "miles, please."
     "yes, mummy." miles snapped his fingers at sharon whose eyes narrowed rebelliously for a moment before she glided across to the sideboard, shoved the thrashing bodies of stirling and lucinda aside and found the letter opener which she delivered to the young master. he opened the letter and removed the pink card.
     "read it, then!"
     "i have, mummy."
     "no, read it out loud, miles."
     miles studied the card again. "it says nurse would like to see you, mummy."
     "very well. girl, show nurse into the parlour. i shall see her when we withdraw."
     "i think it might be urgent, ma'am," said sharon.
     lady harriet's eyes bugged as if sharon had just raised her leg, hiked up her skirt and farted. she stared at the servant for thirty seconds, daring her to exist. only when sharon's undoubtedly solid form refused to melt away did her ladyship speak. "that will be all, girl!"
     sharon bobbed a clumsy curtsey, tucked her tray under her arm and wiggled exaggeratedly to the door, passing within millimetres of hector's chair and causing him to clutch at his chest and slump face downwards into his sea bass en croute. she pinched stirling's bottom, bringing a squeal of delight and a gush of fluids from the impaled lucinda, then paused in the doorway, where she raised her leg, hiked up her skirt and farted for something like fifteen seconds continuously.
     "what an unpleasant young girl, hector! hector, do pay attention!"

end of part xi

XII

One Hour Later

 

The ladies withdrew, leaving four snail-trails of silvery juices on the parquet and a haze of sexual musk hanging in the air.
     "Daddy hasn't touched his pudding," said Stirling. "Pass the port, there's a good chap. Thanks." He lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair. "God, the girls are horny as fuck tonight. I've never known them so bad. Even old Emma."
     "She's fertile. Her and Lucinda. Mummy, too. You can smell it." He waved his cigar smoke away and tilted the port bottle into his glass for a refill.
     "Not like daddy to go to sleep as soon as this. He usually waits for the cheese."
     "I don't blame the old bugger. I'm knackered myself," said Miles. "Young Charmaine's tremendously agile for such a preggers fatso. Did you see that trick she does with her legs?"
     "She learned it from Lucinda. God, talking of Lucinda, the kid sucked me dry. Twice. I swear her tits are still getting bigger, too."
     "Of course they are. Why shouldn't they?"
     "Got to stop somewhere, old chap. Can't just go on growing, can they? Cheers!"
     "Cheers! Don't see why not. She's not even ten yet. They ought to carry on growing for another five years or more."
     "God! Imagine, eh?"
     "God! Yerrss! Hic."
     The brothers lounged in their chairs, wanking indolently. The dining room door burst open, causing them to ejaculate incontinently all over the cheese board.
     "Miles! Stirling! Quick!"
     "What is it, Emma?"
     "It's the twins! They've had their babies!"
     "Oh, yuck, Emma! We're at the table!"
     "Sorry. I thought you'd want to know. Especially since they've had boys!"
     "Boys?"
     "Boys?"
     They all listened. Sure enough, mingling with the usual distant crying of the twins from the nursery was an extra added dimension, the lusty yelling of healthy babies.
     "Boys?"
     "Boys?"
     "Boys," said Emma. "They're so lovely, all fat and pink, and..." she blushed delightedly, "...and they've got willies!"
     "Of course they have," growled Stirling. "How else would you know if they were boys or not?"
     "How big are they," Miles asked suddenly.
     "Not very big," said Emma with a hint of regret, holding her hands about six or seven inches apart. "Only about this long. Quite thick, though!"
     "What?"
     "What?"
     The boys pushed back their chairs, tucked away their still-seeping manhoods and followed their oldest sister to the nursery.
     Big Sharon watched them leave, then slipped into the dining room. She seemed slightly surprised to see Lord Smellinghurst still slumbering in his fish, but she glided around, collecting the semen-streaked plates and dishes and loading them on to the trolley. Then a thought occurred to her and she moved round to the head of the table. Carefully, she grasped a handful of hair and raised his Lordship's head. She raised an eyelid.
     "Fuck it!"
     She lowered the face back into the fish, took a notepad from her breast pocket and laid it on the table, pounding it with her fist to flatten the nipple shape out of it. Then she took a pencil and carefully crossed the late Lord Smellinghurst's name from her list of clients. Her mum wouldn't be at all pleased, either. A family funeral would mean a cold buffet, a couple of dozen whole salmon, a few sides of ham, half a roast ox. And it would mean there would be a new Lord Smellinghurst in charge, and that could be Bad News. One of the boys. Miles, probably; he was always going on about being the older of the two by ten stupid minutes. Sharon didn't fancy the idea of either of the twins becoming the new Lordship. Sharon hadn't exactly been kind to them. They would relish their revenge. No doubt about it, if Miles or Stirling became the new Lord, Sharon and her mother would be walking down the drive with their suitcases ten minutes later.
     She yanked his Lordship's face out of the plate again, dragged back his chair and lowered his body to the floor. Dumping him on his back, she ripped off his tie and opened his collar. Then kneeling by his side she lowered her face and placed her mouth over his. It tasted a bit fishy, but no worse than some men's cocks. Sharon took a deep breath and blew.
     "Wow, Sharon! Cool!" Lucinda came in and squatted down beside the serving maid with a squelch of semen-filled pussy. "What'ya doing?"
     "Trying to bring your daddy back to life," she panted, and began punching the limp figure in the chest.
     "Have you killed him, then? What did he do to you? Aaaah, that's right, make him all better again," Lucinda added as Sharon tried resuscitation again.
     "It's no good." Sharon sat up, out of breath. "How long had he been like that, with his face in the fish?"
     Lucinda considered, her cute little face fierce with concentration. "He fell asleep just after you delivered that note. It must have been the shock of hearing that the twins had had their babies."
     "Naaaah! Think about it, Lucy. The note only said Nursie was waiting outside with a message. It didn't mention babies. Anyway, even if it had, what's shocking about you lot having babies? You have them all the time."
     "I don't," said Lucinda virtuously.
     "It's not for want of trying. You're as bad as the rest of them, giving free sex to anyone who asks. How can a whore make an honest living with you lot around?"
     "What's a whore, Sharon?"
     "Me."
     "I can't help it if I'm attractive, can I? It's not my fault I've got a seventy-three inch bust. Mummy says I'm probably the biggest in the world," she said modestly.
     "You're nowhere near being the biggest in the world," Sharon sneered.
     "I'm bigger than you and I'm not even ten yet."
     "There are girls in this house with bigger tits than yours!"
     Lucinda turned pale. "No!" She looked down at herself. Wearing a loose T-shirt and squatting down like this, her breasts rested on the floor to each side of her feet. "Bigger than mine?"
     "I've seen them. There's all sorts of things hidden away in the east wing. Babies with tits, girls who get pregnant before they're even as old as Charmaine was, there's even a boy with three legs." Sharon was gratified by Lucinda's enthralled reaction to this grotesquerie. "You know Randy?"
     "Randy?"
     "Young Randolph. Lady Constance's kid brother. Lady Vagina's fourteenth. He's only eight and he's got a thirty-one and a half inch cock. Thick, too. Too thick even for me."
     "Is that his name? Randy? Wow, Shazz. I had him this afternoon. He was pretty good."
     "You had him? He fucked you?"
     "Not really. It was more the other way around. It was a tight fit, but it went in okay."
     Sharon reddened. These kids could take Randy and she � a hardened professional prostitute � couldn't get him in. If word got out, she'd be finished on the circuit. "Of course, when I said he was too thick for me, I wasn't talking about my pussy. I meant he was too thick for my arse."
     But the scatterbrained Lucinda seemed to have lost interest. "Aren't you going to kiss daddy again? Is he dead now?"
     "I'm afraid so. You'll have to be a brave little girl, Lucinda. That's the way it is, one life ends, two new ones begin."
     "Yeah. Okay. Now, what about these girls with bigger tits than me, Sharon? I want to see them."
     "What, now?"
     "Yes, please. I've got time before I have to go to bed. In fact, with Nursie busy with the twins' babies, I might stay up late tonight. We could go and find Randy again, and you can show me these girls with bigger ones than mine. Are they much bigger? How old are they? Do they stick out or hang down?"
     "Lucinda, shut up!"
     "Okay."
     "Not now. Not tonight. I've got lots and lots of work in the kitchens after you girls have all gone to bed."
     "Work? Earning money?"
     "Earning money, yes. Other things as well. I need to find out who your new daddy is going to be."
     "Gosh, Sharon! Do we really need one?" She appeared to think for a while about her newly orphaned condition, then lost interest. "I wish I knew about money. Mummy says we don't need to worry about it."
     "You probably don't. Now, can you do something for me? Go down to the kitchens and find Mr Hemmings. Tell him I need him up here, pronto."
     "Pronto." Lucinda tried out the word. "Okay!" And she stood up with a huge effort, adjusted her vast breasts and wobbled slowly from the room.
     As soon as the chauffeur arrived, they'd carry Lord Smellinghurst down to the kitchens out of the way. He had to be kept hidden out of sight until Sharon had a chance to do something about getting rid of Miles and Stirling. Hemmings would be able to help her with that part of her plan.
     Hemmings came bustling into the room, buttoning his shirt. "This'd better be important, young Sharon. I 'ad me leg over yer mum down there when Miss Lucinda come in and interrupted proceedings right on the vinegar stroke. She said you wanted me up here, Bonzo. What the fuck's Bonzo, today's secret code word?"
     "Pronto, I told her. The stupid little cow. Now, you grab his arms, I'll take his legs. Take him down to the kitchens and put him in the cold room."
     "What's up wiv 'im?"
     "He's snuffed it. We've got to get him out of here before anyone notices."
     "What were you doing to him...?"
     "Nothing, I wasn't even in here. He just stopped breathing and died, that's all. Now, listen, I've got a plan. We need Mister Miles and Mister Stirling out of the way before they start getting any big ideas about becoming the Lord of the Manor. First, though, we've got to hide this corpse in case Her Ladyship starts trying to arrange a funeral. Before we can bury the old bugger we've got a lot of arranging to do."

End of Part XII

xiii

next morning

 

"hell of a night, miles!"
     "absolutely!"
     the brothers leaned back against the warm leather, closed their eyes and volleyed two synchronous streams of semen against the glass partition of the bentley. then they waited for hemmings to stop and let them out.
     the limousine purred silkily on.
     "damn the fellow!"
     "what's the matter with him? he'll have to be replaced, you know."
     "where are we?" stirling leaned forward and rubbed at the steamy glass. "i'm buggered if i'm walking an extra twenty yards because the bolshie bastard chauffeur can't be bothered to stop directly outside the fucking front door..." his voice tailed away.
     "what's the matter, old boy?"
     "bloody house. it's gawn."
     "gawn?" miles leaned across his brother to see out of the window, then back to look out of his own side. he even peered over his shoulder out of the back window. the big house had undoubtedly gawn.
     "who's done it? who'd steal a house?"
     "could be anyone, old thing. one of the unemployed, probably, you know what they're like."
     stirling shook his head. "no," he replied honestly. the car rolled on, slightly faster now.
     "hey, i've thought of something," said miles. "i may be wrong, but we're not going round in damned circles."
     "i think you're right. but that would mean..."
     "exactly! it isn't the house that's gawn, it's the bloody bentley. and we're in it!"
     "you mean, we're not at home any more?"
     "that's right! we're ... somewhere else."
     stirling considered. he had never been anywhere else before, especially in the bentley. "but that means ... we've been kidnapped!"
     "why? whoever would want us?"
     a good question.
     there was no answer, at least none that sprang immediately into the twins' limited brains. they looked at each other for inspiration for ten minutes or more, then began wanking again.
     in the driver's seat, hemmings picked up the mobile phone and discreetly checked the display. "hello, sharon? yeah, just come down off the moors and about ten mile from the motorway. we'll be there by four this afternoon. what do you want me to do with them?" he listened to his young mistress's instructions and smiled to himself. say what you like about big sharon — and most people did — she was a girl with style. he lit a benson & hedges and drew deeply. the big car swished on, over a humpback bridge and along a winding village street, scattering the locals and making the dogs bark. this was the life!
     back at the big house, sharon was getting fed up with little girls. scarcely a minute went by but nurse was ringing the bell and summoning her from the kitchen on some stupid errand for the new mothers. the twins were crying. when could they start fucking again, they wanted to know. when nurse told them not to be silly; it would hurt if they had sex so soon after having their lovely big baby boys, they had to start crying again because it would hurt.
     "which one's kid was born first?" sharon asked.
     "shusssh!" nurse dragged her away. "we haven't decided yet. we think it was that one."
     "was that hermione's or cressida's?"
     "does it matter?"
     "course it does. whichever was first gets to be the next lord."
     "we already know that," said nurse. "it's that one there. his willie's half an inch longer."
     "let's have a look."
     "no, i've just put their clean nappies on." she pointed to the two rosy-cheeked bundles in their matching cribs.
     "look at that!" sharon pointed at the chosen son and heir.
     "if you reckon you'd do any better, you can try putting a nappy on him yourself. he gets a stalk on as soon as any female comes within a yard of him."
     "so which twin had him?"
     "it doesn't matter. when they need feeding, we just give them the first baby we can grab hold of. the twins are too stupid to notice. besides, we can't tell them that one baby was born before the other, it will only start them crying again."
     "how can they start crying?" sharon yelled over the twins' latest sudden outbreak of howling. "they never fucking stop! i'm out of here."
     "what did you come up here for anyway?"
     "you bloody rang that sodding bell, that's why!"
     "ah, i just remembered. her ladyship was trying to find you."
     "why couldn't she ring the bell then?"
     "why should she ring bells when she's got me to do it for her? anyway, she's grieving."
     "she can't be, she doesn't know about ... i mean, what's she got to grieve about?"
     "because her boy won't be the next lord smellinghurst, that's why. now she's got a male grandson, her only hope is to have a boy baby while his lordship is still alive and kicking. if she doesn't, she's going to be shunted off into retirement somewhere while one of these two monster-cocked little shit-machines becomes our next boss."
     "but how is her ladyship going to have a boy baby?"
     "she's been trying hard." the nurse touched the side of her nose with a conspiratorial finger. "not necessarily with you-know-whom!"
     "whom?" big sharon wondered how long his ex-lordship's body would keep, down in the cellar where he was lying not quite in state on a pile of apple-boxes. the old bugger didn't look particularly comfortable, the pile of boxes being slightly uneven. when the time came, he'd either need a specially l-shaped coffin or hemmings would have to saw him in half across the middle.
     "i did hear," whispered nurse. "her ladyship was trying to lure young randolph to her room. you know...?" her hands came out in front of her, a foot or so apart, then the gap widened while her face grew progressively redder. they eventually stopped almost precisely thirty-one and a half inches apart, which made sharon wonder just how familiar the nurse really was with the boy's apparatus. but then there were no secrets among the medical fraternity...
     "did she get him?" sharon asked eagerly.
     "not yet. that young emma somehow tempted him away. the shameless little slut."
     "tell me about it! her and lucinda; if it's not one of them, it's the other. they're following me around like little dogs. they seem to think i can get them laid, i can't think why. where's her ladyship now?"
     "back in her bedchamber."
     "if she asks for me again, stall her. i'll pay her a visit as soon as i can, and i'll have a special friend for her. a very special friend!"
     "you mean...?"
     "who else? if young randy can't give her ladyship a male heir, nobody in the big house can! and he'll even make these two look underendowed!" sharon's eyes goggled. the present chosen one had developed an erection in his sleep. his disposable sanitary-wear came apart with a great rending of velcro.
     "naughty little boy!" nurse scolded him, flicking the tip of the baby's organ with a finger. it wilted, then immediately grew again. "look at it! ridiculous thing!"
     "i shan't be long," said sharon, almost breaking down the door in her need to get out.
     meanwhile, the long bonnet of the bentley was pointed to the north, blasting discreetly up the fast lane at a dignified 125 miles per hour. hemmings didn't often get a chance to do this. most of his driving had either been carting his ex-lordship to the porn shop fifty miles from the big house. either that, or lapping the flower bed while the boys beat their mutton in the back seats. well, to judge by the streaks of dried semen on the glass partition behind him, the boys were still doing what they did best. he wondered if they had the faintest idea where they were going and what they were going to do when they got there. hemmings had a pretty good idea. they would be well looked after. last night's phone call to mrs mcgonagall and the promise of an unspecified but obscene sum of money would ensure that the boys' immediate future was going to be comfortable, to say the least. 
     hemmings hoped that his own future was as assured. sharon's plan, hiding his lateship in the cellar and getting rid of the inquisitive twins, was no more than a delaying tactic. even lady harriet was bound to wonder after a day or two where her husband had got to. not to mention the boys. the servant-girl didn't seem to have thought it through very well. her hastily-conceived plan could well cause more ructions than if they had quietly got on with the funeral arrangements.
     the sooner he got back to the big house, the better. the big car wouldn't go any faster, but he'd be on his way home in the morning after a good scottish breakfast and good scottish fuck with this widow mcgonagall he'd heard so much about.
     splatt.
     splatt.
     the boys were almost in sync, still. hemmings grinned to himself and waved regally to the cars as they got out of his way. peasants!
     back at the big house, sharon knew her plan was a good one, even though she'd had no idea what she was doing until she'd done it. the plan was even better now, she thought, striding along the endless corridor to the east wing. emma had tried to keep up for a while, panting and whimpering, then she had sat down, desolated, abandoned and thoroughly lost.
     "where's young randy?" sharon demanded, barging into the east wing's largest nursery and following the sounds of squealing and splashing until she reached the bathroom.
     "who wants him?" the two nurses continued what they were doing without looking up.
     "lady harriet."
     "that slut!"
     "that slut's our boss. she needs randolph, now."
     the second nurse spoke for the first time. "she's welcome to him, if she can find him, the little bastard." she dipped her sponge into a bucket of hot water and wrung it out before applying it to the upside-down[censored]dangling in front of her. it was a boy, undeniably so, and probably one of lady vagina's latest offspring.
     "why do you hang them upside down?" sharon asked, curious despite herself.
     "so we can get at the private bits," said the first nurse, scrubbing away at the hirsute groin of her [CENSORED], which was even more undeniably a girl. its breasts dangled and swung down past its angelic little face, the nipples tracing patterns on the wet tiled floor. "and we can wash under the girls' tits this way, too. madge is right, if you want randy, you can find him yourself."
     "van-dee!" said the upside-down girl, jetting a gush of feminine juices over her nurse's starched uniform bodice.
     "now look what you've done!" the nurse accused sharon. "this apron was clean on this morning. if i've got love-juice in my watch, that's fucked it."
     "fucked it," the girl agreed, and did it again just to be on the safe side.
     sharon gaped at the[censored]in awe. she'd never seen anyone squirt like that, not twice in five seconds. she couldn't even produce that much juice herself. perhaps she could use a[censored]like this down in the kitchens. some clients liked a squirter. she made a mental note to come back and examine the[censored]later, when she was the right way up.
     "i'll give you a clue," said the second nurse. she had been silent for quite a few seconds and she had to remove the boy from between her ruby lips before she could speak. "you could try the shrubbery. he's been spending a lot of time in there lately. comes back covered in dirt every night. crusted in it. you get mud mixed with cum, you should try washing that off. it sticks like shit to a blanket and sets like cement. i had to chip it off him with a chisel last time."
     sharon crept in the direction of the door as the nurse engulfed the boy again. "shrubbery, right! the front one?"
     "usually. depends who gets in there. he might go round the kitchen garden. basically, he just likes doing it on the ground outside at the moment."
     "it's just a phase he's going through," said sharon. "thanks!"
     "good luck! enjoy! he's a bit thick..."
     "piss off!" sharon retorted cordially. she loped off, down the back stairs and outside into the kitchen garden, peering between the lines of runner beans and espaliered fruit trees. she was rewarded almost instantly, slightly to her own surprise.
     "hello, randy!"
     "hello!"
     "no, finish what you're doing. you've got to come with me afterwards, though. a nice lady wants to fuck you."
     "can't she come down here?" the boy asked plaintively through a mouthful of hothouse nectarine. he adjusted his fit in the anonymous teenager who knelt before him in the popular doggy fashion, and thrust with renewed energy. quot;anyway, what about the others?"
     "what others?"
     randy jerked his head in the direction of the greenhouse and raised his piping voice above the suddenly intense howling of his lover. "they're waiting in there in case it rains. girls are no good if they get wet. on the outside, i mean."
     sharon pushed through the plant-life aside and peered through the steamy windows of the hothouse. a number of cousins, ranging upwards from perhaps nine years old, stood patiently in line. at the back, with every prospect of having to wait until late afternoon, the last half dozen girls sat in a circle on the floor playing peacefully with a pile of plastic building bricks.
     "i'm sorry, they're going to be out of luck," sharon told him, making her way back to the young lovers. the girl had apparently finished but she had finished on her own. randy continued his steady plunging.
     "their mums will be mad. they're fertile. if they have to wait another month, there'll be even more of a queue. it builds up all the time. this is a full-time job."
     "can't you keep still while i'm talking to you? you're making me giddy."
     "i can't stop until i've finished."
     "we can soon see about that!" and sharon swung her leg over the backs of the mounted couple, facing away from the action. she licked her middle finger. seconds later, randy screamed and instantly finished what he was doing.
     the girl was crawling away into the undergrowth. randy sat up, blinking. "her mum will go mad if she tells her she only had twenty minutes."
     "i think she's probably satisfied," said sharon, as the girl dragged herself to her feet, gathered up her clothes and her breasts in one armful and limped off with her legs a yard apart. sharon grabbed randy by one ear and hauled him upright. "you make yourself presentable and come with me." she raised her voice and yelled at the anxious faces pressed up against the inside of the hothouse windows. "party's over, girls! you can go and play for the rest of the day."
     there were few voices of dissent. the group happily dispersed. size really didn't matter, it seemed.
     "now, you ready? put your shirt on and hold that thing up out of the dirt. you're going to impregnate her ladyship, and i'm staying to see you do it."

end of part xiii

XIV

Later That Evening

 

Hemmings had finished. Mrs McGonagall shuffled in from the kitchen and whisked away his empty soup dish. "Ye'll no be wanting more soup?" she warned him.
     Oh? Oh, all right, Mrs Mac. It was lovely. Just like yourself."
     Wheesht! Enough o' that smooth southern talk, Mr Hemmings. Ye'll no charm your way intae ma bed." She inspected the bulging front of her tattered dressing gown and adjusted it to optimise the view. Mrs McGonagall was a rarity. She had been one of the handful of the extended Smellinghurst family to escape from the Big House, spirited away at dead of night, forty years ago. Her captor and co-elopist, a first cousin called Bolobec, eight years her senior, had been most surprised to find that he was not permitted to marry his ten-year-old bride on the blacksmith's anvil at Gretna Green.
     If they don't want our money," Bolobec had told her, "that's their problem. We'll carry on doing exactly what we've been doing at home these last three years." So they had. They had hitched a ride further north, finally coming to a halt in a remote village, little more than a cluster of stone houses round a secluded loch. There, it transpired, the inhabitants were perfectly happy to accept the Smellinghurst money young Bolobec had liberated from his parents. They gladly sold him a ramshackle cottage on a steeply sloping hillside, then finding that there was still plenty more cash where that came from, they kindly rebuilt it, redecorated it, planted Brussels sprouts and potatoes in the garden and even sold him half a dozen sheep to graze the rough grass around the cottage. The animals spent most of their time slithering down to the bottom of the hill and scrambling back up again.
        Bolobec was now long gone, a victim of his own and his partner's rampant insatiability, but over the fifteen years before his untimely yet long overdue demise he had discovered something alien to every Smellinghurst both before or since. It was something called work.
        Maybe it was as a result of all the work they were doing around the cottage that the McGonagalls remained [CENSORED]less for so long. It was just as well: if they had bred as often as they mated they would have repopulated the Highlands in no time. Ironically, their union was blessed with issue only after Bolobec had popped his clogs one Christmas Eve; which was a shame, as they had bought two extra pork chops at great expense from the butcher's van just that very morning.
        Mrs McGonagall had buried her non-husband with all due haste and got on with her life, which became a matter of some considerable interest to the local males. The sudden availability in their midst of a staggeringly voluptuous twenty-five-year-old widow brought them back from their habitual incestuous relationships and into the path of the Lord, several times a night until — and for some time after — the widow found herself great with [CENSORED].
        It caused a measure of panic, but Mrs MacGonagall knew in her heart that this was God's gift; a baby from her Bolobec. It turned out to be twins, which was nice; twin red-haired girls, which was even nicer, especially when they took after their mother at a sinfully early age. The girls were the scandal of the local academy, to which they travelled daily on the school bus, earning a more than healthy living by flashing their fat young breasts at ten pence a time, fifteen pence for both, maximum of ten seconds and no touching. This was their mother's ruling.
     Ye can let them touch your titties when you're ten years old and no' a day earlier!" she warned them, and the twins gloomily settled down to two more years of earning their pocket money in pennies instead of the pounds that their older (and smaller) schoolmates were earning for similar services to the community.
        Time passed, as it inevitably will, and the twins more than made up for their earlier disappointments, becoming accomplished whores by the age of fifteen; at which age their mother convinced them that they could not leave home to become strippers in Glasgow.
     Ah've seen pictures of yon lassies," she had told them without revealing where and when, "and youse're far too big in the chest for that job!"
        Mrs Mac would have to get the chauffeur out of the way before the girls came down from the hills, horny after a day's work with the livestock.
     Where are the girls?" Hemmings asked, reading her thoughts.
     What d'ye want wi' 'em?" Mrs Mac asked sharply.
     I was wondering about Mister Miles and Mister Stirling, that's all. They're not used to sleeping alone."
     They're bein' weel looked after. Now, if ye've finished wi' your hot chocolate, ye've a lang, lang drive aheid of ye the morrrnin'." And with a seductive leer she led him out into the yard, opened a stable door and ushered him inside. "Porridge at five sharp!" she cackled, slamming the bolt across and hurrying indoors.
     Fionualla! Ishbel! Get yersels in here this minute!"
     Must you yell at us like a fishwife, mother?" The girls edged sideways through the kitchen door, looking hopefully round for guests.
     Where are they?" Ishbel demanded.
     I've locked the driver in the barn. The wee laddies are in their room. They've had their soup and a slice of bread."
     Growing boys need more than a bowl of soup, mother," said Fionualla.
     They're already grown. They'll no' be growing nae mair."
     Can't we just see them? A wee peepie roon' the door?"
     Ishbel McGonagall! The very thought! These boys are our guests. Ye'll no' be treating them like paying customers."
     Oooh, absolutely not, mother!"
     Mind ye dinnae. Richt, I'm awa tae ma bed. It's a mortal sin, wasting electricity sitting around like this half the nicht."
     It's eight o' clock, mother."
     Aye."
     Good night, mother."
     Hrummph."
        Meanwhile, not a thousand miles away to the South at the Big House, Sharon listened anxiously from beneath Lady Harriet's four-poster. Above her head, matters seemed to be progressing noisily and satisfactorily. Lady Harriet was getting it hot and strong.
     If you shout like that, Auntie Harriet, I'll cum in you."
     Woooh, Randy!"
     There, I told you!"
     You haven't? Not already? Not yet? You inconsiderate little bastard!"
        Sharon winced, then recovered herself. The boy would be ready again in ten minutes or so.
     You little shit! You fraud! You were supposed to be the dog's bollocks, not an adolescent squirt who spends his seed in seven seconds!"
        Sharon listened for sounds from Randy suggesting that he was approaching erection once more. Nothing came. In fact, something could be heard; the gentle sound of youthful snoring.
        And not a thousand miles away to the North, all that could be heard was the gentle sound of youthful snoring.
        Fionualla listened carefully at the thick pine bedroom door. "What do you think, Ishbel?"
     Why not, Fionualla? The wee laddies will be so cold and lonely on their own."

End of Part XIV

xv

the following morning

 

"how was yours, stirling?"
     not bad. not bad at all. the sweetest little face, and really tight."
     so was mine," said miles. "wet, too. a bit noisy. did it keep you awake?"
     no, mine was just as bad, i think. imagine, we're in scotland; a foreign country!"
     yeah. och aye the noo."
     the language isn't a problem at all."
        the twins lay in their beds. things weren't too comfortable.
     what are we doing up here?" said stirling after twenty minutes or so.
     holiday, i suppose."
     how can you have holidays if you don't work?"
     oh, i don't know. must be possible."
        silence was resumed, punctuated by grunts and heavy breathing.
     these two are a bit smelly," said stirling.
     yeah, should we ring for a servant and get them thrown out?"
     good idea. damn. no bell."
     there must be a bell! whoever heard of a bedroom with no bell?"
     i'm getting up. i need a shit anyway. shall i throw yours out, too?"
     thanks. good man."
        stirling got out of bed and stood shivering on the bare wooden floor. "come on, you! out!"
        'baaaaa.'
     she won't go."
     try mine. don't they always follow each other?" but miles's companion was too comfortably settled in the bed.
        'baaaaa.'
     try opening the door and see if they'll go out. they might have a dog or something to round them up."
     oh, fuck! it's locked. we're locked in, miles."
     locked in our bedroom with two sheep? what's the time?"
     does it matter?"
     they'll be wanting to give them their breakfast or something."
     i think they just eat grass. probably explains why they shit those little balls."
     all over the bed! the filthy little bastards. even the twins don't shit the bed." miles rolled away to the edge of his bed. the ewe stretched happily and rolled on to her back with her hooves waving in the air. "the damned thing thinks she owns the place. get out, you shitty cow."
        the sheep made no comment.
     we can't stay in here all morning," stirling decided. he began pounding on the door with his fist, and when that began to hurt he picked up a shoe and carried on banging with that. after what seemed like hours there was a clanking noise and a sound of heavy boots outside. the door lock rattled and the heavy door swung inwards. stirling's jaw dropped. "gosh! who are you?"
     i'm ishbel. what's all this noise?" she was holding a stainless steel bucket of milk in one hand and a black and white dog stood by her side gazing into her eyes in utter adoration. "shep, come by," she ordered sharply and the dog shot happily into the bedroom, its belly low to the ground like a rat. ishbel stood aside as the sheep scrambled off the beds and clattered away out of the door into the farmyard.
     we were locked in. we need to go to the loo."
     och, the loooo, is it?" ishbel threw back her head and laughed.
     you've got big tits," stirling told her. "let's have a look." he pawed at the bulging front of her shirt.
     get off! ye're covered in sheep-shit!" but she looked him up and down with frank appraisal, admiring the well-toned upper body in the only slightly sheep-shitty t-shirt, and the throbbing immensity in his silk boxers. "which one are you?"
     i'm stirling."
     is your brother's as big?" ishbel put down her milk bucket, then reached out and grasped the object of her desire with a small but horny hand. her nipples instantly hardened into lengthy spikes.
     mine's bigger," miles affirmed from his stinking bed. "and straighter, too."
        the girl picked up her bucket and came into the room, her eyes widening as she saw miles flat on his back masturbating furiously. "dinnae waste it!" she cried. "och, it's a mortal sin!"
        too late. a spurt of semen arced into the fetid bedroom air and descended on to miles's stomach. he bent the softening object backwards and licked the end of it.
     ugh! shit! it tastes of sheep!"
     ye'll both be needing a bath," ishbel said. "be in the kitchen at five, that's in..." — she cocked an ear and listened until a cockerel crowed somewhere outside — "...ten minutes, and my sister will help clean you up. ye'll need a shit first. there's a bog on the other side of the yard. and dinnae use all the paper." she backed out, finally letting go of stirling's cock with an expression of regret. her bucket clanked as her broad-hipped and serviceable figure retreated across the still almost-dark farmyard and disappeared into the house.
     god, the tits on her!" stirling sighed.
     and the bum. god, she must be even wider than young charmaine. how old, do you think?"
     always hard to say with these older women. thirteen, fourteen, maybe?"
     she's got a sister, too. one each! maybe scotland isn't such a bad place after all." miles rolled out of bed and reached for his shoes. ten minutes, and they'd be getting themselves soaped down by two lovely nubile wenches...
     ye'll no be wantin' porridge?" mrs mcgonagall jabbed at the contents of the pot on the stove with a wooden spoon. it remained standing vertically while globs of steam rose into the smoky murk.
     no, thank you," said stirling politely. "perhaps just some bacon and eggs. scrambled would be nice."
     aye, it would be. ye'll have the porridge or naethin'. and get yersels dressed."
        stirling hugged his blanket tighter round his shoulders. "ishbel said we had to come in here for a bath."
     och, did she now? weel, we shall see about that." mrs mcgonagall stared narrowly at the front of stirling's blanket, then took a look at his brother's too. "when did she tell you this?"
     a little while ago, in our bedroom."
     ishbel was in your bedroom?"
     i was knocking on the door and she came and opened it. we were locked in."
     and she saw you in your ... without any...?"
        the memory of it was clearly affecting the brothers. mrs mcgonagall's eyes grew like saucers. but her scrutiny was interrupted as the girls came bustling in. ishbel carried a zinc bath which she set down on the floor in front of the stove; fionualla had a bucket and an assorted armful of scrubbing brushes.
     wha...?"
     we're bathing the wee boys, mother," said ishbel. she lugged a big pan of water off the top of the stove and sloshed it into the bath. "who's first?" her nipples were so elongated it seemed she was smuggling a couple of pork sausages under her shirt. not to mention a pair of watermelons.
     i cannae stand here and allow you to..." mrs mcgonagall spluttered.
     there won't be room, mother. awa' ye go and finish the milking. we'll look after these two wee laddies. they need a bath, sleepin' wi' the sheep all nicht!"
        the woman hurried out, trying not to trip over the doorstep as she stared at the boys' blanket-shrouded erections. she stood in the farmyard, undecided, then scurried away through the mud to the door of the stable.
     right, get rid of those blankets, you two." ishbel's eyes were alight with lust. "we'll just slip out of our jeans and shirts. i've a feeling we're all going to get very wet."
        the boys watched in awed silence as the nubile mcgonagall sisters got themselves naked in less than ten seconds. massive thighs and calves, brawny shoulders developed by carrying sheep down from the hillsides, freckled heavy breasts easily as big as young charmaine's, enormous backsides and spreading tangled forests of bright red pubic hair. freed from their shirts, their nipples lengthened and thickened to a staggering size, and their surrounds became plumped up like dark pink halved grapefruit.
        miles and stirling had a feeling they had probably scored here.
     eeeeeeek!" stirling found himself being dumped into the bath of water. "it's too hot!"
     dinnae be sich a big babbie!" howled ishbel, joyfully scrubbing away at his tool with a stiff brush. "gie us some mair watter, ula, dear!"
     coming up, sis!" and fionualla delivered a bucket of icy water over stirling's head before grabbing a scrubbing brush and getting to work on the screaming youth.
        miles pulled his blanket round him and tried to edge away.
     ye stay there!" fionualla commanded without turning round. from behind, she presented a vision of earth-motherliness, kneeling before the tin bath, her almost monstrous buttocks spreading like sacks of flour, her wet breasts squishing out far beyond the width of her broad, muscular back. "we're coming to you in a minute!"
     run for it!" stirling advised his brother. "fetch help. find hemmings!"
     mr hemmings will be nae use to you at the moment," the girl laughed. "mother had that look in her eye." she scrubbed with peculiar intensity at some part of stirling's anatomy, causing him such acute discomfort that his eyes glazed over with shock. "shall we rinse him off the noo, ishbel?"
     aye. ye can manage yon brither on your ain?"
     och, it'll be a pleasure! awa' ye go and play wi' this yin!"
     yee-hee!" ishbel howled and lugged stirling out of the tub, then began sandpapering his body with a coarse towel.
     ouch, no! ishbel, please!"
     ye're a soft southern babbie!" but she tenderly wrapped him in a clean blanket and to his surprise picked him up with ease and flung him across her shoulders.
     where are you taking me? i want to go home! hemmings!"
        the despairing cries died away as ishbel bore stirling away up the stone stairs.
        fionualla crooked her finger and beckoned to miles. "now, come here, little boy! now my sister's out of the way, we can get on with business. do you want a bath before, or afterwards?"
     before or after what?"
        he found out five seconds later, as his towel was whisked away and he spun helplessly into the arms and all-encompassing bosom of this girl who smelled of a surprising number of things, including sheep and sex. her idea of foreplay was fairly primitive. it involved slamming him down in the tin bath of water and lowering her already gushing sex over his mainmast. then she began to have orgasms, or maybe it was all just one long one. as the process was more or less continuous it probably didn't matter all that much.
        by the time she'd finished with miles it was broad daylight outside and the water was almost freezing cold. and miles couldn't get it up any more.
     you've broken it!"
     ye' did better than i thought ye would, ye soft southern babbie." she applied her lips tenderly to the injured organ. if anything, it got even softer. "come awa' to ma bed, babbie," fionualla sighed, picking him up by an arm and a leg. heedless of the silvery snail-trail of her juices on the tiled floor, she carried him off to her lair.
        out in the stables, hemmings groaned and tried to hump the weight of mrs mcgonagall off his stomach. it served only to excite the woman all the more. she snatched off her bonnet and waved it above her head, whooping as she plunged up and down. obviously, she watched too many westerns.
        inevitably, he bucked upwards once too often just as she was descending from a particularly high peak. the crunching sound could probably have been heard in inverness.
        mrs mcgonagall picked herself out of the wreckage of her lover's erection and limped out into the farmyard, pulling up her ex-women's land army war surplus khaki undies.
        hemmings wept for the first time in several years.
        six hours or so later, the twins were crying, too, just as bitterly as their younger half-sisters ever had. "married?" miles protested. "we can't marry your daughters, mrs mcgonagall. they're not legally old enough."
     how old are ye?"
     seventeen."
     the girls are twenty-one. all the other girls they knew in school were married long since. they'll no' find husbands the noo, not now ye've ravished them."
     we ravished them?" stirling gaped at her. "they raped us. my cock's red raw."
     enough of your filthy sassenach language! i'm awa' tae see the minister. ye can be married next week."
     so soon? it hardly gives us a chance to invite any guests."
     ye'll no be needin' guests. we'll send your wee driver awa' haeme wi' yon fancy motor car. he can tell your mother. the duchess, or whatever she is."
     you know our mother?"
     i'm acquainted wi' the family. ye're marrying my daughters will no' be a problem. a little more in-breeding'll no harm anyone. it'll be a simple ceremony. a double wedding. and a double honeymoon here on the farm. now, away and get yersels dressed. ye cannae hang around the hoose like that, ye'll be scaring the sheep. mind, i've got ten minutes before your mister hemmings drives me up to the manse. i'll have you first!" she seized miles by the tool and dragged him towards the kitchen table, shucking off her semen-crusted khaki undies without using her hands. "and don't you go sneaking off," she told stirling as he tiptoed to the door. "ye're next."
        a million miles away to the south, sharon sat half a dozen of the smellinghurst cousins on the edge of the kitchen table. they were naked, and to the practised eye these were [CENSORED] of the east wing. they gazed trustingly at the huge domestic servant as she strode along the line, inspecting a nipple here, a cock there.
     now, listen, kids, this is important." the [CENSORED] screwed up their small faces with concentration. big sharon was going to tell them something important. that probably meant it involved sex. most things did, after all. "now, this first bit is for the girls." the [CENSORED] inspected their bodies, and three of them correctly identified themselves as female. it wasn't difficult, or it shouldn't have been. any three girl [CENSORED] chosen at random from the east wing were likely to exhibit alarmingly advanced secondary sexual characteristics — and these three had not been chosen at random. "you three boys, get off the table and wait over there." all six of the [CENSORED] inspected themselves again, and most of them came to the same conclusion as last time. four would-be boys climbed obediently down from the table and stood in a group looking at each other's genitalia. three of them realised that they had cocks and the other one didn't, so they all tried to get back on to the table again.
        sharon sighed heavily and dragged them down. "you're boys," she told them firmly as she hoisted the third girl back into her place. then she cursed fluently and scooped up the three girls in a wriggling armful and dumped them on the floor. "look at this mess!" she grabbed a damp cloth and wiped up the three bottom-sized puddles of girl-juice, then looked around the kitchen for a tablecloth, spread it on the table and replaced the girls on it. they sat glumly in a row, their fat breasts resting on their skinny thighs.
     how old are you?" three blank looks greeted the question. "oh, never mind, it doesn't matter. have you had any babies yet?"
        the girls shook their heads. they would have remembered having babies if they'd had any.
     good. you're not virgins but you're the nearest thing to it round here. now lean backwards and hold your tits up out of the way so i can look at your front bottoms. your cunnies? cunts? thingies?"
        'thingies' seemed to do the trick. the girls rolled on to their backs, heaved their bosoms out of the way and wrapped their legs around their ears. trickles and occasional spurts of juice issued from between their gaping, fat, wrinkled, purple labia. three clitores waved feebly in the air.
     thank you. you can get down now. go and get yourselves a drink of milk."
        giggling happily, the girls hopped down from the kitchen table, formed a little triangle and grabbing each other's breasts, began suckling. there was a problem, they were all different heights. the tallest was perhaps four feet three or so, with almost spherical tits that stuck out straight in front of her. they were just about the right height for the shortest girl, who was a foot shorter. the difficulty arose because the shortest girl had a ridiculously huge pair that descended to her thighs, so her nipples were no more than fifteen inches from the floor. the middle-sized girl, who was equally pendulous but nowhere near as full-breasted, got down on her knees and grabbed one of these pontoons with both hands. sadly, the tallest girl had nothing to suck on. the girls rearranged each other aimlessly in many different ways without approaching a solution, until sharon pulled them all apart from each other and told them to suck their own tits. the only unlucky one was the shortest, who couldn't lift her breast to her lips, even with both arms. to be fair, she'd have had difficulty even if she'd had a mobile crane.
        sharon turned away from the distressing scene. "how old are you boys?"
        the boys had no idea. they looked at one another, shrugged their narrow shoulders and finding themselves with nothing to do and time on their hands, began wanking. the girls put down their nipples and watched with interest. with the instinct of east wing [CENSORED] they immediately bent over backwards, spreading their thighs and steadying themselves with their hands on the floor behind them. three improbably large cunnies gaped and drooled. the shortest girl overbalanced and tumbled to the floor in a spray of musky juices.
        the pheromones must have alerted the boys, causing them to release their throbbing organs and advance on their cousins. there was no doubt, the girls were so wet and ready that despite their fearsome girth the boys would have slid in without touching the sides.
     stop!" sharon dragged them back and grabbed a mixing bowl from the table. "do it in here." she had to grab one boy by his hips and unplug him with a sucking sound from the tallest girl. there was just time to aim him into the bowl before he came with staggering force and copiousness. he was still humping, grunting and spurting as sharon rounded up the other two, one in each hand, and pumped them into the bowl as well. a satisfying quantity of semen swilled around in the bowl like the contents of a spittoon.
        the girls, without missing a beat, took over the boys' unfinished business, their hands slithering wetly in and out — the middle-sized girl adding a personal variation by stuffing both her nipples into her thingie at the same time.
        these[censored]would do, sharon decided. with attractions like these, she could easily charge an extra tenner on top of what the punters would already be paying for their entertainment. this funeral could be the most memorable ever. "off you go, kids," she told them, picking up the half-full mixing bowl and fighting back the urge to drink it. she wasn't that thirsty, and once she'd started, there would be no way of stopping.

end of part xv

XVI

Three Days Later

 

Mr Blenkinsop's face was grave as he faced his mistress in the library. Draped over one of the leather settees, young Randy was noisily restoring his fluid levels with a litre bottle of fizzy water.
    "It's true, what I hinted on the phone, Harriet. It is truly terrible news. He was so young, too, only..."
    "You're sure he's snuffed it?"
    "I've seen the cor ... His Lordship's body, Harriet. It was undeniably him. Perhaps you would care to make a formal identification, when you feel up to it?"
    "How long was his cock?"
    "Surprisingly small, Harriet. Although it is rather cold in the pantry..."
    "No, that's him. Perhaps you can see why I seek satisfaction elsewhere."
    "Indeed! Although maybe we...?" He winked and nodded his head in the direction of Randy, and continued nodding and winking for several seconds.
    "What's the matter, man? Have you developed a twitch? You look like Mad Uncle Sebastian."
    "Perhaps a word ... alone? In private?"
    "We are in private." Lady Harriet glanced at Randy and laughed. "He's nothing to worry about. He doesn't understand words of more than one syllable."
    "Even so, Harriet..."
    "If you insist," she sighed. "Randy, darling. Run along and play for a while. When the clock strikes eleven, come back here, understand?"
    The boy looked blank. "Eleven?"
    "Get one of your cousins to count for you."
    "Okay." Randy gathered himself up and tucked his penis under one arm. "See ya later."
    "Dreadful [CENSORED]," Lady Harriet tutted. Just what you'd expect of one of Vagina's brats."
    "That's what I wanted to mention. The boy is one of your own first cousin's sons. Should you really be mating with him like this?"
    "Why on earth not? It's not as if Vagina and I have the same father or anything. And I think Randy's father is Vagina's eldest son by our uncle Percival, who is also the boy's great-grandad. Possibly. We're hardly related at all."
    "But you've seen some of those ... freaks in the east wing?"
    "Some very attractive [CENSORED], Blenkinsop. Perhaps a little overdeveloped, certainly, but that's not a bad thing in itself. If our next son grows up with a prick only two-thirds the size of Randy's, I'll be well satisfied. Many, many times, I hope!"
    Mr Blenkinsop hid his face in his hands. Then he emerged. "What about the funeral, Your Ladyship?" he asked her formally.
    "Get Cook to arrange it, will you? What's her name, Anderson ... Morrison? Not Armathwaite, she's the [CENSORED]'s bra woman. Or was it Armitage? Or Armentières?"
    "Mrs Anderson is no longer with us. The cook's daughter looks after most of the domestic arrangements below stairs. An admirable young lady with a flair for organisation..."
    "Really? What's her name?"
    "Sharon, Your Ladyship."
    "Sharon? What is she? Not Jewish?"
    "Not noticeably, Your Ladyship. In fact, you may be familiar with her. A tall, strapping girl. Wears a lot of kinky rubber stuff."
    "Is she the one who ... she was serving at dinner and she broke wind before she went out? I sent word to the housekeeper to have her dismissed. Is she still here?"
    "She is the housekeeper. She's also the one who discovered your husband's body, Your Ladyship. It seems, apparently he had been prowling around the kitchens at dead of night in search of ... love. If Sharon were to find herself out of a job, there could be some unpleasantness ... the newspapers, television..."
    "Where is this girl? I can't call her by that name. I shall address her as Jane. Or, better still, as 'girl'."
    "She is outside, Your Ladyship. Well, not outside, she is in the next room."
    "You'd better show her in, I suppose."
    The door opened and Sharon glided into the library, overwhelmingly tall in scarlet patent leather high-heeled shoes and black stockings with their tops visible beneath the lower edge of her skirt. She was staggeringly well-developed for a common serving wench. Her starchy black and white uniform was crafted from scarlet latex, stretched obscenely across her lush curves. It consisted only of an agonisingly tight skirt and a pinafore, out of the sides of which bulged the lavish curves of a matronly bust. The nipples were just about covered, although their presence was indisputable. Her hair was tied in a blonde pony-tail which brushed the backs of her knees.
    "You rang, ma'am?"
    "Did I?"
    "You were just going to."
    "Was I? Was I, Blenkinsop?"
    "I believe so, Your Ladyship. In connection with the funeral arrangements."
    "Perhaps I was. Is your uniform provided free, girl?"
    "No, ma'am. I buy my own clothes out of proceeds. I'm a whore, ma'am, in my spare time."
    "I can see that," said Harriet, looking the maid up and down. "Is it rubber of some sort?"
    "Have a feel." Sharon approached her employer's chair. "You may need to stand up if you want to feel my breasts."
    "No, there's more than enough to look at down here. You may leave us, Blenkinsop. That will be all for now."
    The family adviser withdrew with a polite inclination of the head. He might have been in time to see the lady of the manor slide her hands up inside the front of the serving girl's skirt, but if he had, he would instantly have dismissed the memory from his mind.
    "I could take it off, ma'am, if you'd prefer..."
    "Not just yet, girl. Now, about this funeral..." She slid four slender aristocratic fingers into Sharon without noticeable resistance.
    Sharon parted her resounding thighs and thought she felt Her Ladyship's entire hand disappear into her up to the wrist. "Most of the arrangements are done, ma'am." Sharon ticked off the points on her fingers. "Mother thought ten whole salmon ought to do it, the butcher's slaughtering a couple of cows and there'll be all the usual venison, game and stuff. The marquees and flags are booked, the brewery are delivering on Thursday, we've arranged with the bishop and the undertaker, Hemmings is back from Scotland and he's having the family vault cleaned out and painted. You're sure you can get at me all right with this skirt on?"
    "Perhaps it would be easier with it off. Let me get my arm out of your cunt first. What was that about Hemmings?" Harriet watched fascinated as Sharon stepped out of the skirt. All she now wore was the scarlet latex pinafore and a pair of strangely voluminous silk crotchless panties. A wave of rubbery musk filled the library. "Why do you wear rubber clothes, girl?"
    "The punters like it, of course. But really because it's so easy to clean. Just a quick wipe over with a damp cloth and I'm ready for the next client. Hemmings has been to Scotland, ma'am, but he's back now. Should I take this top off, too, so you can see my tits? They're tremendously big for a working-class girl."
    "If you insist. Why Scotland? Who sent him up there?"
    "He took the boys, ma'am. Mr Miles and Mr Stirling. They're getting married. Probably round about now."
    "Married? My baby boys? To whom? Not to each other? No, not Miles and Stirling. Is it anyone we know?"
    "A pair of twins, ma'am, name of McGonagall. They are vaguely related to the family."
    The name of McGonagall made Lady Harriet's hair stand on end. "Isn't this rather sudden? When are they coming home?"
    "They are at home. They're going to live in Scotland, and work on the farm. Sheep and things."
    "Work? Fucking hell, girl!" Sharon had removed her pinafore. "Are you sure you're working class? You must have blue blood in your veins with tits like those!"
    "I've always been big, ma'am. Six feet two, and nearly a sixty-two inch bust, Mrs Armathwaite says. Do you want to suck them? There's no milk or anything..." Glugging, slobbering sounds immediately filled the air. "And you can shove your arm back up inside me, too. That's right!"
    Somewhere, a clock began chiming, and on the eleventh stroke the library door burst open with a babble of girlish voices, and Randy was thrust into the room. He was already naked apart from a flimsy kind of undervest, and fearsomely erect, perhaps from the attentions of his cousins.
    "Hello, Auntie Sharon!"
    "Over here, Randy. Her Ladyship seems to be wet and ready."
    And leaving her mistress lowing like a cow in time to the pumping motion of Randy's mighty engine, Sharon gathered up her simple working wardrobe and escaped to the kitchen to finalise the funeral arrangements. As family funerals went, this one was going to be a doozie. Until that time, few of the Smellinghurst family christenings and not one of the family funerals had made a profit. This one was going to be different. The third marquee — the one on the back lawn, the one not mentioned by Sharon to her mistress — had already been erected and its grand opening night was tonight, with guests expected from miles around. A small fleet of buses would bring them in at hourly intervals and would operate a shuttle service, taking exhausted punters back to town and dropping them at the pubs where they could sit with glazed expressions wondering if what had just happened to them had really just happened. They would be paying £100 each (booze extra) for their two hours' entertainment — the cash would be collected by the bus driver — and the choice was entirely their own whether they spent their time with one girl or several. There was no shortage of girls, but guests had been encouraged to pay in advance by the promise of the girl of their choice from a luridly descriptive catalogue prepared using confidential data and certified measurements from Mrs Armathwaite's own private notebooks.
    The third marquee was really more of a play area than a brothel. At one end, the men could enjoy a pint or two of beer while waiting for their date to show up and escort them to one of the thirty bedrooms in the east wing which had been cleared of their occupants for the occasion. The lovers would carry out their business under the blank gaze of the boy band posters on the bedroom walls.
    Meanwhile, at the other end of the marquee, the evicted [CENSORED] could play happily on the floor, toys of all kinds as well as generous supplies of batteries being provided by the organisers.
    Sharon herself had arranged things so she could sit back and supervise operations from the kitchens. She anticipated a quiet day. The only complaints were likely to come from squeamish johns who didn't fancy the idea of doing it with kids, and she had a supply of girls of thirteen-years-old and upward whom she could press into service to deal with that problem. Most of the punters only wanted one thing — or three, if you included a whopping pair of tits — and there wasn't a girl of any age at all anywhere in the east wing who didn't more than fill that particular bill.
    Yes, a doozie. No detail had escaped Sharon's organisation. She had even laid on a girl for the Chief Constable, until she discovered that his preference was for fair-haired little boys with extremely big bottoms. There were a number of those in the east wing, so she took the sensible precaution of reserving the nicest of them for the Chief Constable. The Bishop would have to make do with what he was given.

End of Part XVI

XVI

Three Days Later

 

Mr Blenkinsop's face was grave as he faced his mistress in the library. Draped over one of the leather settees, young Randy was noisily restoring his fluid levels with a litre bottle of fizzy water.
    "It's true, what I hinted on the phone, Harriet. It is truly terrible news. He was so young, too, only..."
    "You're sure he's snuffed it?"
    "I've seen the cor ... His Lordship's body, Harriet. It was undeniably him. Perhaps you would care to make a formal identification, when you feel up to it?"
    "How long was his cock?"
    "Surprisingly small, Harriet. Although it is rather cold in the pantry..."
    "No, that's him. Perhaps you can see why I seek satisfaction elsewhere."
    "Indeed! Although maybe we...?" He winked and nodded his head in the direction of Randy, and continued nodding and winking for several seconds.
    "What's the matter, man? Have you developed a twitch? You look like Mad Uncle Sebastian."
    "Perhaps a word ... alone? In private?"
    "We are in private." Lady Harriet glanced at Randy and laughed. "He's nothing to worry about. He doesn't understand words of more than one syllable."
    "Even so, Harriet..."
    "If you insist," she sighed. "Randy, darling. Run along and play for a while. When the clock strikes eleven, come back here, understand?"
    The boy looked blank. "Eleven?"
    "Get one of your cousins to count for you."
    "Okay." Randy gathered himself up and tucked his penis under one arm. "See ya later."
    "Dreadful [CENSORED]," Lady Harriet tutted. Just what you'd expect of one of Vagina's brats."
    "That's what I wanted to mention. The boy is one of your own first cousin's sons. Should you really be mating with him like this?"
    "Why on earth not? It's not as if Vagina and I have the same father or anything. And I think Randy's father is Vagina's eldest son by our uncle Percival, who is also the boy's great-grandad. Possibly. We're hardly related at all."
    "But you've seen some of those ... freaks in the east wing?"
    "Some very attractive [CENSORED], Blenkinsop. Perhaps a little overdeveloped, certainly, but that's not a bad thing in itself. If our next son grows up with a prick only two-thirds the size of Randy's, I'll be well satisfied. Many, many times, I hope!"
    Mr Blenkinsop hid his face in his hands. Then he emerged. "What about the funeral, Your Ladyship?" he asked her formally.
    "Get Cook to arrange it, will you? What's her name, Anderson ... Morrison? Not Armathwaite, she's the [CENSORED]'s bra woman. Or was it Armitage? Or Armentières?"
    "Mrs Anderson is no longer with us. The cook's daughter looks after most of the domestic arrangements below stairs. An admirable young lady with a flair for organisation..."
    "Really? What's her name?"
    "Sharon, Your Ladyship."
    "Sharon? What is she? Not Jewish?"
    "Not noticeably, Your Ladyship. In fact, you may be familiar with her. A tall, strapping girl. Wears a lot of kinky rubber stuff."
    "Is she the one who ... she was serving at dinner and she broke wind before she went out? I sent word to the housekeeper to have her dismissed. Is she still here?"
    "She is the housekeeper. She's also the one who discovered your husband's body, Your Ladyship. It seems, apparently he had been prowling around the kitchens at dead of night in search of ... love. If Sharon were to find herself out of a job, there could be some unpleasantness ... the newspapers, television..."
    "Where is this girl? I can't call her by that name. I shall address her as Jane. Or, better still, as 'girl'."
    "She is outside, Your Ladyship. Well, not outside, she is in the next room."
    "You'd better show her in, I suppose."
    The door opened and Sharon glided into the library, overwhelmingly tall in scarlet patent leather high-heeled shoes and black stockings with their tops visible beneath the lower edge of her skirt. She was staggeringly well-developed for a common serving wench. Her starchy black and white uniform was crafted from scarlet latex, stretched obscenely across her lush curves. It consisted only of an agonisingly tight skirt and a pinafore, out of the sides of which bulged the lavish curves of a matronly bust. The nipples were just about covered, although their presence was indisputable. Her hair was tied in a blonde pony-tail which brushed the backs of her knees.
    "You rang, ma'am?"
    "Did I?"
    "You were just going to."
    "Was I? Was I, Blenkinsop?"
    "I believe so, Your Ladyship. In connection with the funeral arrangements."
    "Perhaps I was. Is your uniform provided free, girl?"
    "No, ma'am. I buy my own clothes out of proceeds. I'm a whore, ma'am, in my spare time."
    "I can see that," said Harriet, looking the maid up and down. "Is it rubber of some sort?"
    "Have a feel." Sharon approached her employer's chair. "You may need to stand up if you want to feel my breasts."
    "No, there's more than enough to look at down here. You may leave us, Blenkinsop. That will be all for now."
    The family adviser withdrew with a polite inclination of the head. He might have been in time to see the lady of the manor slide her hands up inside the front of the serving girl's skirt, but if he had, he would instantly have dismissed the memory from his mind.
    "I could take it off, ma'am, if you'd prefer..."
    "Not just yet, girl. Now, about this funeral..." She slid four slender aristocratic fingers into Sharon without noticeable resistance.
    Sharon parted her resounding thighs and thought she felt Her Ladyship's entire hand disappear into her up to the wrist. "Most of the arrangements are done, ma'am." Sharon ticked off the points on her fingers. "Mother thought ten whole salmon ought to do it, the butcher's slaughtering a couple of cows and there'll be all the usual venison, game and stuff. The marquees and flags are booked, the brewery are delivering on Thursday, we've arranged with the bishop and the undertaker, Hemmings is back from Scotland and he's having the family vault cleaned out and painted. You're sure you can get at me all right with this skirt on?"
    "Perhaps it would be easier with it off. Let me get my arm out of your cunt first. What was that about Hemmings?" Harriet watched fascinated as Sharon stepped out of the skirt. All she now wore was the scarlet latex pinafore and a pair of strangely voluminous silk crotchless panties. A wave of rubbery musk filled the library. "Why do you wear rubber clothes, girl?"
    "The punters like it, of course. But really because it's so easy to clean. Just a quick wipe over with a damp cloth and I'm ready for the next client. Hemmings has been to Scotland, ma'am, but he's back now. Should I take this top off, too, so you can see my tits? They're tremendously big for a working-class girl."
    "If you insist. Why Scotland? Who sent him up there?"
    "He took the boys, ma'am. Mr Miles and Mr Stirling. They're getting married. Probably round about now."
    "Married? My baby boys? To whom? Not to each other? No, not Miles and Stirling. Is it anyone we know?"
    "A pair of twins, ma'am, name of McGonagall. They are vaguely related to the family."
    The name of McGonagall made Lady Harriet's hair stand on end. "Isn't this rather sudden? When are they coming home?"
    "They are at home. They're going to live in Scotland, and work on the farm. Sheep and things."
    "Work? Fucking hell, girl!" Sharon had removed her pinafore. "Are you sure you're working class? You must have blue blood in your veins with tits like those!"
    "I've always been big, ma'am. Six feet two, and nearly a sixty-two inch bust, Mrs Armathwaite says. Do you want to suck them? There's no milk or anything..." Glugging, slobbering sounds immediately filled the air. "And you can shove your arm back up inside me, too. That's right!"
    Somewhere, a clock began chiming, and on the eleventh stroke the library door burst open with a babble of girlish voices, and Randy was thrust into the room. He was already naked apart from a flimsy kind of undervest, and fearsomely erect, perhaps from the attentions of his cousins.
    "Hello, Auntie Sharon!"
    "Over here, Randy. Her Ladyship seems to be wet and ready."
    And leaving her mistress lowing like a cow in time to the pumping motion of Randy's mighty engine, Sharon gathered up her simple working wardrobe and escaped to the kitchen to finalise the funeral arrangements. As family funerals went, this one was going to be a doozie. Until that time, few of the Smellinghurst family christenings and not one of the family funerals had made a profit. This one was going to be different. The third marquee — the one on the back lawn, the one not mentioned by Sharon to her mistress — had already been erected and its grand opening night was tonight, with guests expected from miles around. A small fleet of buses would bring them in at hourly intervals and would operate a shuttle service, taking exhausted punters back to town and dropping them at the pubs where they could sit with glazed expressions wondering if what had just happened to them had really just happened. They would be paying £100 each (booze extra) for their two hours' entertainment — the cash would be collected by the bus driver — and the choice was entirely their own whether they spent their time with one girl or several. There was no shortage of girls, but guests had been encouraged to pay in advance by the promise of the girl of their choice from a luridly descriptive catalogue prepared using confidential data and certified measurements from Mrs Armathwaite's own private notebooks.
    The third marquee was really more of a play area than a brothel. At one end, the men could enjoy a pint or two of beer while waiting for their date to show up and escort them to one of the thirty bedrooms in the east wing which had been cleared of their occupants for the occasion. The lovers would carry out their business under the blank gaze of the boy band posters on the bedroom walls.
    Meanwhile, at the other end of the marquee, the evicted [CENSORED] could play happily on the floor, toys of all kinds as well as generous supplies of batteries being provided by the organisers.
    Sharon herself had arranged things so she could sit back and supervise operations from the kitchens. She anticipated a quiet day. The only complaints were likely to come from squeamish johns who didn't fancy the idea of doing it with kids, and she had a supply of girls of thirteen-years-old and upward whom she could press into service to deal with that problem. Most of the punters only wanted one thing — or three, if you included a whopping pair of tits — and there wasn't a girl of any age at all anywhere in the east wing who didn't more than fill that particular bill.
    Yes, a doozie. No detail had escaped Sharon's organisation. She had even laid on a girl for the Chief Constable, until she discovered that his preference was for fair-haired little boys with extremely big bottoms. There were a number of those in the east wing, so she took the sensible precaution of reserving the nicest of them for the Chief Constable. The Bishop would have to make do with what he was given.

End of Part XVI


-This is as far as it goes, unless someone has more.. if so, then please post it.-