Encounter at Brownwater Sands
a fantasy by
A x o l o t l
with illustration by
Paul Forrest
� 2002 Axolotl
IT WASN'T TURNING OUT to be as bad as Emma thought it was going to be. To be fair, the summer holidays never did. As long as Emma could remember, the highlight of the summer had been a trip in a baking hot car, in the company of a billion other baking hot cars, to an obscure patch of dusty ground somewhere near the sea. There, her parents went through the ritual of setting up a tent — a tent, of all things — which became the family home for the next two weeks.
It was a holiday for Emma's mother, liberated from the hot kitchen stove to prepare three square meals a day for a family of four, using nothing more elaborate than a two-ring gas cooker, two saucepans and a frying pan. Emma's mother relished a challenge.
This year, Emma's father had been promoted in his job. He was now in charge of an entire office. He had a token oblong of carpet in front of his desk. Emma's mother borrowed some of his money and bought him a brand new suit. In celebration, the summer torment had been extended to three weeks.
At least, this time, Emma had a tent of her own. It was only right and proper that a teenage girl should have her own space, away from her wretched little brother. A proper little tent-shaped tent it was, too. She sat cross-legged in her own small pointed doorway, brushing her long dark hair and looking out across the camp site. The door of Emma's tent faced away from her parents' elaborate affair of fluttering awnings and fancy floral curtains. Her dad was checking his guy ropes, plodding round in his government-surplus army-issue khaki shorts, his sandals flapping in the morning-dewy grass. From time to time, he would bang away at a tent-peg with his wooden mallet, sending not entirely unpleasant tremors through Emma's nicely-rounded bottom. In a short while, her father would stub his toe on some obstruction and retire, cursing politely but fluently, to have twenty minutes of post-breakfast sex with Emma's mother. Or so Emma dreamed.
She dreamed about sex most of the time, these days.
She dreamed about sex at school.
She dreamed about sex on the way home from school.
She dreamed about sex while doing her homework.
She dreamed about sex — inevitably — in bed.
She dreamed about sex when she got up in the morning, in the bathroom, on the school bus, then she dreamed about sex at school all over again.
Now, she sat in the doorway of her own little tent, and dreamed about sex. Once the morning mist cleared, it would be a scorching hot day again. She'd grab Zoe and they'd hit the beach. Then she'd be able to sit on the beach, turning slowly brown while dreaming about sex.
Imaginary sex was big in Emma's life. It was the only sort she'd ever had. Not that she wasn't attractive. On the contrary, Emma was an extraordinarily pretty girl, and her figure was little short of staggering. Somehow, though, she seemed to have missed out a vital stage somewhere along the line. She had progressed from being an attractive little girl to being an attractive big girl. But meanwhile, the less attractive big girls — and some of the less attractive little girls, too — were all doing it. They were at it like rabbits, day and night. Every morning, the girls would gather round in the locker room and discuss the boys they had got off with, how much they'd enjoyed it and how inept the boys had been.
Emma took no part in all this stuff. What was the use of having the best looks in the whole school, and unquestionably by far the biggest bust, if it didn't lead to a constant stream of sexual relationships? Poor Emma had no way of recognising that most of her schoolmates' sex-lives were played out in fantasy. They did it, certainly, but not very well and not all that often. There were always unscheduled interruptions, and lumpy ground to lie on, and premature ejaculations.
Emma's dreamings contained none of those things. In her imaginings, she mated efficiently and speedily with ideal young men, in hygienic surroundings without fuss, mess or unseemly noise. In her dreams, they worshipped her long, silken hair, her slender, not-too-tall figure and most of all, her startlingly large bosom.
She'd had mixed feelings about her breasts when they'd first made their appearance. It had been a couple of years ago. They'd grown so fast she could almost stand there and watch them get bigger. Between October and May, they'd blossomed from nothing to a ripe D-cup, and they hadn't stopped growing and filling out in the subsequent two years. She was used to them by now; the feel of them perpetually bouncing inside her bras, shirts and sweaters; the weight of them on long hot days making her back, her thighs and her calves ache; the embarrassing erection of her nipples. Those nipples were the bane of Emma's young life. They stuck out at the most inconvenient times, and in the most noticeable place. They were huge. Which was only right and proper, as Emma's breasts were huge, too.
Zoe's tent was just across the way. Emma had befriended Zoe on the first afternoon of the holiday. Her parents had misgivings when Emma introduced Zoe as her new friend. Zoe was tall, about five foot nine, and a whole year older than Emma, with dirty blonde hair hanging in a cultivated tangle down to the middle of her back. She also had a sleepy-eyed, languid look which suggested that she had just been fucked to within an inch of her life. Bedroom eyes, some people might have called it, except that Zoe was not the kind of girl who confined her activities to bedrooms — hers or anyone else's. Zoe had pitched her personal two-person tent as far as possible from her parents', an arrangement which suited both parties as it avoided embarrassment.
Emma chose Zoe as her friend partly to shock her parents, and partly because Zoe's bust was was no more than a pair of boys' handfuls.
The two girls had arranged to go down to the beach this morning. Zoe knew the best place to go, where the best boys hung out. Something about the way she said it was more convincing than the boastings of the girls at school. If Zoe said the best boys were at her beach, that's where the best boys would be.
It was almost ten o' clock. Zoe's tent flap bulged briefly, then the zipper came down with a rude noise. She emerged, blinking, into the daylight, poking her head and shoulders outside. Then, obviously bursting for a pee, she scrambled to her feet, dragged a towel out of the murky interior, and loped easily off in the direction of the toilet facilities block. Her long legs were brown and muscular beneath her thigh-length lilac T-shirt.
Then, to Emma's amazement, a second face appeared at the doorway of Zoe's tent. A rat-like little face. A boy, Emma's age but only about five feet two, clambered out, pulling up his jeans. He was skinny and had spots on his bluish-white back. With a furtive glance around the camp site, he scampered off between the tents, leaving a trail through the dewy grass.
Zoe had been doing it! With that boy! Emma suppressed a shudder. How could anyone do it with a little rat of a boy like that? She backed into her tent and let the flap fall closed. Lying back on her sighing inflatable mattress, she tried to imagine a bit of good clean sex, but an image of Rat-Face kept intruding. It was hopeless. How could a girl have a decent fantasy when unprepossessing characters like that kept getting in the way? Emma stared upwards at the orange walls, then down between her breasts, swelling skywards in her T-shirt. Damn! Her nipples were getting huge again. She couldn't go anywhere looking like this.
The warble of the mobile phone dragged Emma back into this world. She fumbled for it under a gritty pile of clothes, guided by the ringing tone getting louder as she came closer to unearthing the thing.
"What kept you?" It was Zoe's complaining drawl. "You playing with yourself in there?"
Emma felt herself turning scarlet. "I couldn't find the phone. It was buried under my stuff."
"Yeah? I'll believe you. You coming down the beach, or what? I need a man!"
Emma asked why the wretched girl couldn't just come over and ask her? Her tent was only like ten yards away.
"I'm on the fucking toilet, that's why!" Zoe's voice rose to a petulant whine. There was an echo, and a number of other confirmatory sound effects.
"Sorry!" Emma whispered as if her friend was at her devotions in St Paul's cathedral.
"That's all right." Zoe was bellowing into her handset. Every other occupant of the ladies' conveniences must have been hanging on her every word. "I'm horny as shit, though, Em. Let's get down there as soon as I've finished in here. Load your big tits into that bikini. I'll be ready in five." There was the sound of gushing water. Emma wasn't sure if it was Zoe or the plumbing, or even a woman in the next cubicle. Zoe cleared up the question. "Listen to that noisy bitch pissing like a horse," she hollered. "It's too damn public in here! See ya, beautiful!"
Emma tossed down the phone, peeled off her sweaty bra and moist-crotched panties and tugged the two halves of her skimpy bikini from her bag. Well, only the lower half of the bikini was skimpy, the top was cut on more generous lines. Her father had disapproved strongly of it but her mother, somewhat surprisingly, had come out with a vote of confidence. Emma wasn't too sure about the impact of the thing herself. Now that the time had come to wear it in public, it seemed perhaps just a little excessive. It was made of shiny yellow stretchy stuff, like a footballer's shirt. Emma had an attack of stage-fright as she squatted on her haunches in the tent and handled the smooth material. "I can't wear this," she mumbled to herself. "I'll get arrested!"
Outside, she heard Zoe's rude tent-zipper and realised she had no alternative. It was the only bikini she had. Quickly, she sat down and pulled the panties up her sleek legs. Right up. Then on to her knees to load her tits into the bra. "God! Why did Mum let me choose this?" She tried to tuck more of herself away out of sight, but her breasts were far too big to conceal, even in these large cups. They were cut so low in front and they squeezed her boobs upwards and inwards, giving her a bottomless cleavage. "I must have grown since I tried this on in the shop. It never showed as much as this before."
"Em, you ready?" Zoe was outside, her nails scratching at the tent flap. It was a wonder she hadn't used her phone again. No escape.
"Nearly!" Emma bit her lip, and steeled herself. She crawled out into the daylight on hands and knees.
"Wowee!" Zoe staggered back in mock amazement. Or perhaps only partly mock amazement. "How am I supposed to compete with those!"
She was doing her best, Emma thought. Zoe's bikini was practically postage-stamp sized. Those triangular stamps collectors pay so much for. Three miniscule black scraps of material were strategically placed at the essential areas of Zoe's rangy frame. They were held together by spaghetti-thin strings, tied behind her neck and back, and at the sides of the bottom half. She'd be able to have sex without taking it off, Emma thought, and blushed. She probably had!
A piping just-about-male voice chirruped at her. "Wow, Sis! You ain't going out like that?" Emma's little brother!
"I'm warning you, Gordon. One more word and I'm telling Dad..."
"It's all right, Sis," her brother said reverently. "You just look beautiful, that's all. And your thingies are hee-yuge!"
"That does it!" But Emma hesitated. If she complained to her father, he might stop her going down to the beach at all. She half wished he would, in a way.
Zoe intervened. "Come on, Em. The boy's only human. You can't blame him for getting a hard-on when he sees his great big sister hanging out of a bikini for the first time. They'll all be creaming themselves down on the beach." Gordon had quickly disappeared in the direction of the toilets. Emma was confused. Gordon? Her own little brother? He was a year younger than her. He couldn't feel that way about her, could he? Was he even old enough to get a hard-on? Emma didn't know enough about the mechanical aspects of little brothers, or boys in general.
Zoe was looking her up and down. "The top's fantastic, but the pants are a bit brief," she observed. "You're showing a few curls of your crowning glory. It's okay," she said hastily as Emma clamped her knees together and grabbed at her crotch with both hands. "Stand up straight. There you go!"
Emma gulped and swallowed. Zoe had simply tucked the offending strands of pubic hair away out of sight, just like that! "Is it all right now? I ought to do something about it before..."
"You look great! You can shave your bikini line later. I'll give you a hand, if you like! Not now, though. Let's go, before the locals grab all the best talent."
Brownwater Sands, despite its discouraging name, was a delightful half-moon shaped beach with pale golden sands leading down from a range of sheltering dunes to a gently lapping sea. You didn't get any surf, but there was a broad expanse of sand for sun-bathing. And ball games.
"If that ball comes over here again, I'm going to burst it," Emma threatened. The ball had just smacked her on the bum as she lay face down on her towel. A boy of about sixteen came to collect it.
"He's all right," whispered Zoe. "He's dishy. He'll do for me. Which of his mates do you fancy?"
"None of them," grumbled Emma without looking. "They're all horrible. And loud."
"They're only showing off, trying to impress us. That's why they keep letting the ball come over here. Let's go and play with them." Zoe sounded wistful.
"We can't play football!" Emma was scandalised. "How can I run around with these..." She indicated her bosom, which she was keeping reasonably well hidden, lying on her tummy.
"They won't fall out if you're careful. B'sides, you can't lie on your front all day. You'll end up with a two-tone tan."
"I can't lie on my back with that crowd playing ten yards away. They're animals."
"They're only boys. Some nice ones too. Come on, Em! I'll rub some more cream on you, then I'm going to play. They won't mind if we ask..."
"I'm not begging to play with them! Listen to them!"
"They can't help it if they come from Swindon, Em. Everbody talks like that in Swindon but that doesn't mean they're all thick as two short planks. Not all of them anyway. I bet they're nice as pie when you get to know them. Talking of pie..."
Emma stiffened at the touch of Zoe's fingers between her upper thighs. "What are you doing...?"
"Just a couple of bits of fur sticking out. There, all gone. Maybe you could use a bit of a trim if you're going to insist on wearing those pants. Don't worry! Only joking! Here, have a dob of factor ninety-three on your back."
The cream was cool and Zoe's long fingers spread it slickly and evenly across Emma's back, and down the sides to the soft mounds of her buttocks. Zoe seemed to be lingering down there, then she set off further south anointing the calves and feet before working her way up to the thighs.
"Feel good?"
"Mmmm, yes! Thanks."
"You'll need to turn over so I can do your front."
"It's okay, I can do the front myself..."
"I can do it better. You always miss bits if you do it yourself. Come on. The boys won't see anything if I stay between them and us."
Emma allowed herself to be persuaded. She rolled over, shading her eyes. Zoe moved to cut out the direct rays of the sun. Her silhouette moved gently as she concentrated on her work, dropping a dribble of cream into her palm, applying it to Emma's body, smoothing it in.
"I could get to enjoy this," Emma murmured, and Zoe giggled softly, feeling her friend relax.
Then the ball arrived again, splattering sand and bouncing aggressively up to Emma, cannoning off her leg.
"Ouch!" She sat up, and clutched in panic at her bra as her tits almost bounced out of the cups.
"Woooh, Missus!" cried a harsh voice. "Oi'll rub that cream on for you, f'you loike!"
"Fuck off," snapped Zoe. "And mind what you're doing with that fucking ball! You hurt my friend." She picked up the ball and hurled it with surprising force. It bounced off towards the sea. The boys cheered, but the rude one who had come to collect the ball stayed a moment longer.
"Sorry," he said, more quietly. "The wind keeps blowing it up this way. Oi'll try to keep it under control. I'm the goalkeeper," he added unnecessarily.
"You couldn't even control your bladder," Zoe commented. "Piss off!"
The boy laughed and went away.
"I thought you said he was dishy," Emma sneered. "Is that what dishy means? He's just a fat slob."
"He's all right," said Zoe, stroking Emma's shoulders. "Lie back. I reckon he fancied you, though. I might have to choose one of the others. Put your knee down!" Emma's knee had come up in self-defence at the thought of that appalling youth fancying her. It took several minutes of gentle massage before she dared put it down again. "That's better, Em." Zoe creamed away lazily with both hands, getting closer to Emma's inner thighs. "You know what I fancy? An ice-cream."
Emma wanted one, too. "What sort? Where can we get them?"
"Up by the road, there's a van. Let's go!" She was so restless. "You don't need your money. I'll get them." And she stood up and offered a strong hand to pull Emma to her feet. The footballers went quiet as the girls began the walk across the deep sand, holding hands. Zoe laughed softly and placed a hand gently on Emma's taut but not too small bottom. Her strong fingers gave the yielding flesh a squeeze. "I bet they think we're a pair of lezzies."
"What? That's horrible!"
"What's horrible about it? Some men like the idea of watching girls doing it. And it feels excellent." They had reached the ice cream van and Zoe bought two large cornets with chocolate flake and raspberry syrup. They concentrated on eating as they plodded back down the beach again.
"Have you ever done things ... with a girl?" Emma asked at length. Zoe seemed surprised as if she had long forgotten the topic.
"What? You still thinking about that? Yeah, I've done it with girls. It's great. I like boys better, though. They're a good laugh."
"I haven't done it."
"Not at all? Not even boys?"
"No."
"That's okay. You're only young. Boys are nothing to be scared of. In fact, with the kind of bod you've got, they're more scared of you than you are of them. A pair like yours scares them off. They look at them and they go, 'she's bound to have had so many blokes, we'll never stand a chance.' They shout about it a lot, but most of them are virgins, too."
Emma licked at a stray trickle of ice cream that had dropped on to her hand. The boys' game was progressing in their direction again, with most of the boys spending much of the time glancing over their shoulders at the two girls who were settling down on their towels to finish off their ice cream.
"Tell you what," said Zoe. "Let's go and play with them after we've eaten these things. You can have the nicest one, whichever one you want, and I'll have one of the others. You can have your pick of them, with your tits. You don't have to do anything with them. We'll have a good laugh."
"I dunno, Zo. You go and play with them. I'll just watch for a while."
"I'm not going without you. You don't want them thinking you're a lezzie, do you?"
Emma didn't. Although the thought of letting Zoe do things to her was vaguely exciting, she was uneasy about the idea. Her Mum wouldn't like it. And her Dad certainly wouldn't. She got up reluctantly, brushed the sand from the cheeks of her bum, surreptitiously inspected the pubic hair situation and followed Zoe down to the firm sand where the boys had stuck two sticks up to form a goal. The loud boy from ten minutes before was standing between the sticks bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Ahead of him, the game progressed with suddenly renewed vigour, noise and showiness.
"You sure you don't want this one?" Zoe whispered.
"He's not really my type."
"What is your type, then?"
Trapped, Emma had to decide. The boys were by now whirling all over the place like a troupe of performing seals. They tried ever more outrageous tricks with the ball, mostly ending in disaster and catcalls. Finally, they all ended in a giggling heap. Children, Emma thought, although they were all older than her, every one of them.
"You decided yet?"
"That one's not too bad," Emma said desperately, pointing at a boy with close-cropped fair hair. He seemed to be making less noise than the others.
"Yeah, not bad. Nice package in his shorts!"
"I wasn't looking at that," Emma protested, reddening.
"No, of course you weren't. And he wasn't goggling at your tits, either."
"Was he?" Yes, he was. The fair haired boy kept glancing at her, and looking away in embarrassment.
"Suit yourself, then. I'll have this one. Fat ones can't run away so fast. Hello," Zoe addressed the goalkeeper.
"'Lo yourself!"
"I'm Zoe, and this is my friend Emma."
The goalkeeper looked at them as if for the first time. His eyes widened at this close view of Emma's astounding bosom. The ball shot past him for a goal. The scorer wheeled away and performed a not entirely successful cartwheel.
The goalkeeper's fists were on his hips. "Now look what you made me do."
"It wasn't our fault," Zoe laughed. "You only missed it 'cos you were staring at Emma's big breasts."
A hush fell at the mention of the explicit word.
"I couldn' elp it," the boy said.
"Can we play?" Zoe said. She hopped up and down a few times on the spot, causing a certain amount of jiggle in places.
"Ain't a proper game," admitted the goalkeeper. "We're just playin' around."
"We could pick sides," suggested another boy. "'Ave one of the girls each."
"They can't kick the ball," said the goalkeeper. "They ain't got no shoes. They'd break their toes."
"We'll play rugby, then," the other boy shrugged. "Then they don't need to kick it if they don't wannoo."
"I got a rugby ball in me dad's van." It was the quiet boy with the close cropped hair. "Sh'll I fetch it?"
"Yeah, go on. We'll pick sides."
"Right," said Zoe firmly, taking the boys by surprise. "We'll be captains, me and Emma! Who's got a coin to toss up? Heads I have first pick..."
"But I don't know how to play rugby," Emma protested feebly.
"We'll show you," said half a dozen brave voices. There was safety in numbers. "You just pick the teams."
The coin came down heads. Zoe looked around the assembled boys. She was as tall as half of them. Emma had a sudden idea that Zoe might turn out to be a world champeen women's rugby player or something. "I'll have him," she pointed at the ex-goalkeeper. "What's your name?"
"Paul." The boy looked disappointed at not being on Emma's team, then brightened at the thought that the opportunity might arise to tackle her. Every dark cloud has a silver lining. Similar thoughts were already occurring to the others. Boys started edging behind each other so as not to be selected by Emma.
"I'll have him," Emma said, as her boy with the rugby ball came panting back to the group.
"I brought a whistle, too," he puffed.
"You're with Emma, Pooch!"
Pooch blushed slightly and stood close behind Emma. She could feel him looking at her bust from behind.
"I'll have that one," said Zoe, not wasting any time.
"We're gonna wipe the floor with you lot," announced the chosen boy, taking his place beside his captain. Emma chose another, a tall lanky youth who had failed to hide quickly enough. Suddenly bold, she reached out and hauled him to her side by his wrist. The selection process went on, until the girls had four boys each.
One boy was left over, a short fat creature in pale pink. "I s'pose I'll be referee again," he sighed.
Two boys were despatched to find sticks for another goal, and a lot of important-looking pacing-out of the playing area went on, with the two teams goading each other, regaining their voices in the presence of the two girls. Testosterone hung heavy in the atmosphere.
"I don't know the rules," Emma admitted. How had she got herself into this terrible situation?
"I'll teach you," Pooch offered. "There's two teams, see, and we have to get the ball and touch it down behind their line, and they have to touch it down behind ours. We can kick the ball as long as there's nobody in front of us and we can only pass the ball backwards."
"Why?"
Pooch looked puzzled. It was in the rules. You didn't question the rules. "I don't know. That's just the way it is."
"No proper tackling," said another boy. "Just touch-rugby, like we play at school." The others all stared at him. "It was only an idea," he said, subsiding.
"Any more stupid suggestions, Fothergill?"
"It was only an idea! We don't want the girls to get hurt, do we?"
"What's tackling?" said Emma.
Two boys willingly demonstrated for her. It looked horribly intimate.
"We had first pick," said Zoe. "You can kick off."
"Watch the offside," the referee insisted, exercising his brief authority. "Stay back until the ball is kicked."
"Shut your face, Arnold!"
"I'm ref. I can send any man off for foul play. Or any girl," he added with a blush. He tested his whistle. "Right, let's go!"
Zoe had played before. She was lithe and extremely fit, and her long legs carried her across the line for a try almost from the kick off. "Five nil," she announced, not breathing heavily at all.
"Five? But you only scored once." Emma placed her hands on her hips and confronted her opposing captain.
"It's five points for a try. That's how many it is. It's in the rules. Now we get to kick at goal. If it goes over the crossbar, it will be two more."
"There isn't a crossbar," one of the boys pointed out reasonably.
"That's all right," said Zoe. "I scored between the posts, so it's two extra points. If you don't touch down between the posts, it's only five."
Grumbling broke out. The wretched girl was making the rules up as she went along.
"Seven nil. You kick off again."
Ten minutes later, it was seventy-five nil, all scored by Zoe. The boys were stunned. The girl was invincible. She shrugged off tackles as if swatting flies. Zoe's own team were embarrassed by her overwhelming proficiency. A number of shamefaced semi-erections were making themselves evident.
Emma's team were outraged. They were on their way to utter humiliation. It was all very well having a captain whose tits were bigger than any two Page Three girls put together, but if all she did was hop around on the outskirts of the game making little squeaking noises, it wasn't going to save their faces.
The game was fifteen minutes old before the first scrum occurred. With the score standing at ninety-seven nil to Zoe, a lousy pass was floated out to the wing, where the tireless Zoe was scampering across the wet sand at the very edge of the water. She tried to gather it, swooping low, but at that moment, Pooch had gone across to try and tackle her. He dived, making contact with the girl's bare ankle; she staggered, regained her balance by a miracle, but sent the ball scuttling forward, bouncing awkwardly into the sea.
The whistle gave a long blast.
Both teams spun round ready to dispute the referee's decision, whatever it might be.
"Foul!"
"In touch!"
"Knock-on," panted the referee, waving an arm in various directions. He dug a heel into the sand. "Scrum down, just here, Emma's put-in."
"My what?" said Emma.
"You put it in," said Pooch. "You can be scrum half." Things broke down while a number of players tried to explain the rules to Emma.
"But what happens when you lot all bend down and push against each other?"
"The ball comes out at the back. Then you pick it up."
"I pick it up? The ball? Me?"
"Of course. Then you run and put it down up at that end of the field."
They all looked at that end of the beach, where the ball had never yet been. It was a long way away.
"Where will Zoe be all this time?" It was a good question. The best player on the beach by a considerable margin was not likely to stand around admiring the view once Emma got the ball in her hands.
"I'll be trying to catch you, Em," Zoe told her. "So you'll need to run really fast!"
"You can pass it to one of us," said Pooch. "As long as you don't pass it forwards." Emma gave up.
The whistle sounded, and the two packs of boys bent over and thumped together with a massed grunt. "Put it in, Em," came a strangled cry from the heaving mass of boys. Emma picked up the ball with some distaste, and deposited it between the flailing feet of the scrum. A cacophany of grunting broke out, during which the ball emerged, bobbling, from the back of the pack on Emma's side. She wobbled across, bent and picked it up.
"Run!" shouted the referee. "Run for the line!"
It was miles away. She tucked the bizarrely-shaped ball under one arm and set off, her breasts somehow staying inside her bra despite bouncing fearsomely. Just behind her, she could hear Zoe giggling, easily keeping pace with her. In the distance, the squeaks and grunts of the boys carried faintly to her ears. A small fight had broken out. There was no Pooch to pass the ball to, forwards or backwards.
"Twenty more yards, Em," shouted Zoe encouragingly. "Keep going!"
She plodded on, her breath roaring in her ears. Emma hadn't run since her bust had passed the forty-inch mark, and that had been years ago. As a lifestyle decision, she realised, giving up running had made perfect sense.
Crash! "Got ya!"
Something hit her at the back of the knees with enormous force. She went down in a heap, mostly of breast. A whistle shrilled. Someone was lying on top of her, someone undeniably female and moist with honest sweat. Zoe's body felt hard and muscular, yet soft and flexible. There were probably worse ways to die, Emma thought.
Somehow, Zoe had rolled her on to her back. Was this in the rules? The opposing captain's mouth was wide open, her tongue probing deeply as it clamped itself to Emma's. This certainly wasn't in the rules! "Hello, baby!" Zoe murmured, coming up briefly for air.
Then the rest of the two teams arrived at a gallop and piled themselves on top.
That was in the rules.
They sat around in a companionable circle, eating ice cream. Earlier, Zoe had helped Emma put her bra back on, and had flung various boys in various directions until the pile-up of players had sorted itself out. Several boys were nursing injured groins. Zoe had taken a number of them out with an accurately clutching fist. If any of them had been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Emma's naked breasts, they weren't saying anything.
Pooch sat next to Emma, sharing her beach towel. He was wondering if he dared pluck up the courage to even begin thinking about asking her if she might mind if he offered to rub some cream on her. Perhaps just on her back or somewhere safe like that.
Emma was wishing someone would offer to rub some cream on her back. Or even her front. Having Zoe lying on top of her had caused her a certain amount of arousal. Piling eight small but sturdy boys on top of Zoe had only increased the intimacy of the contact. The referee had stayed on the fringes, blowing his whistle at intervals, trying to restore order.
Now, Emma's wariness around the boys had diminished. They were pleasant enough company, although not very stimulating. Pooch was the pick of the bunch as far as she was concerned, but he was painfully shy. Zoe, meanwhile, was having to work hard to make any progress at all. Paul was chatting to her in a subdued way. A girl who could single-handedly score more than a hundred points in a quarter of a game of beach rugby was far beyond his scope. He was out of his depth with this creature. He couldn't even begin to think of making it with her. The thought that she might deign to cancel his virginity never entered his head. Poor Zoe was becoming itchy. She hadn't had any serious action since nine o' clock that morning, and the contact with Emma's luscious young body in the meantime had left her almost unbearably turned on.
"Who's got some sun cream?" she asked desperately.
"I've got some in my dad's van," Pooch offered.
"No, you don't want to run all the way up there again. I've got some in my beach bag. You stay and talk to Emma..." Zoe got to her feet like a colt and loped off, leaving Emma and Pooch going scarlet in front of the rest of the boys.
She was back, unselfconsciously adjusting the crotch of her bikini. "Who's going to rub this on for me?" Nobody dared volunteer. She tossed the bottle at Paul, and casually untied the strings of her bra. Folding her limbs, she lay on her tummy beside him and closed her eyes. Her panties were becoming extremely moist. Fortunately, being shiny and black, they didn't show. "Come on, then!" She opened one eye and flapped a hand at the unwilling boy. He squeezed a tiny drop of cream on to his hand, and began rubbing it in the small of Zoe's back. The others studiously avoided watching, and Paul refused to let his hand stray either up towards Zoe's bare back or down to where her bikini disappeared as a slender black thread between her brown buttocks. She was effectively naked.
A cloud passed over the sun and Emma shivered. "I'd better get my shirt," she said. "I mustn't get too much sun..."
"I'll get it," Pooch offered, but she gently pushed his hand aside. "I'll go to the loo and have a pee while I'm up there." He turned crimson.
She threaded her way between the sunbathers who watched her with mixed idleness and lust. Her breasts felt sore after the rugby game, and immensely full and heavy in her bikini bra. Her pants were trying to crawl into the moist crack of her bottom. With a sudden shock, she realised she was probably displaying a tangle of pubic hair around the crotch of her inadequate briefs. She needed to get away to the toilet to make herself decent.
Another cloud passed over as she plucked her T-shirt from her beach bag and continued up the slope, making heavy weather of the dry sand.
"That's strange," she mused. "I'm sure the loos were up here near the ice cream van."
The toilets at Brownwater Sands were a substantial Victorian brick-built edifice on the far side of the sand-blown road. Emma made her way across to the door, and found a huge padlock in place with a large sign indicating that the amenity was under repair and directing her towards the town centre. Feeling decidedly grumpy and by now in urgent need she set off down the street, tramping a hundred yards before she came to the temporary toilets, in a trailer. You had to go up four steps to get inside, and the whole thing rocked as if it were in an earthquake. Mercifully, the trailer was free of ladies as Emma locked herself in and sat down, puffing out her cheeks. What a day!
Yes, she confirmed, she was showing about an acre and a half of dark brown pubes. None of the boys had mentioned it, although they must have been deeply shocked. At least, she'd be able to tuck it away out of sight when she dressed again. And the T-shirt in her beach bag would come down to her thighs. If she could get into it, that was. Her breasts felt so full, she was beginning to have serious doubts whether the extra large shirt would go over them. With a sigh, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. It must be the heat: her head was spinning.
Somebody must be coming up the steps into the trailer. The thing was rocking like a boat on a stormy sea. A woman's voice was going on and on in an irritated tone.
"You've done it again! You can't get anything right. I can't trust you to do the simplest task, can I? Now what are we going to do?" The trailer gave a lurch. Was the wind getting up? It felt as if the toilet was going to blow away.
Emma opened her eyes and blinked. She cried out in alarm. The door of her cubicle was wide open! Correction: there was no door to her cubicle. The trailer was now one single medium-sized room, still with pale green metal sides, but brightly lit from some hidden light source.
The nagging voice went on and on, although there was no sign of the woman anywhere. Instead, to Emma's alarm, there were two other occupants of the toilet trailer. She stared. There were two small figures standing with their backs to her. They appeared to be boys, which was distinctly worrying. Boys, or men, even, as they were bald as eggs. Not very tall, though. They seemed to be no more than four feet tall, and were dressed in shiny silver one-piece suits. They were standing to attention, facing the wall, where Emma could now see a number of lights flashing randomly in red, green and yellow. The female harangue had been going on all this time. She must be their mother...
"You screw up time and again! You are without doubt the most incompetent pair I have ever encountered. Fuck knows how we're going to straighten out this mess. I have to bail you out of trouble time and again. Well?" The Voice waited for an answer. On second thoughts, not their mother, using language like that.
"Yes, Miss," said the little men in unison.
"Yes, Miss? That's all you can say? Yes, Miss?"
"Yes, Miss." Their sloping shoulders drooped in their identical silver suits. They must be plastic, they didn't show any creases.
"What's your explanation, then?"
"Mistaken identity, Miss."
"They all look the same to us, Miss."
"We can send her back and get the other one, Miss..."
"Of course you can't send her back!" The little men cringed. "Once we've abducted a victim, that's it. We can't send her back without paying her. It's in the Rules of Abduction. We choose our victim, we examine her, we pay her and we let her go as long as she promises not to tell anyone what we've done."
"Yes, Miss. We could still take her back and swap her for the other one..."
"You can't! We've got this one now. We've got to examine her and pay her."
"We could pay her a little bit more, Miss, to make up for the inconvenience."
"Are you crazy, or what? Have you looked at this girl since you abducted her? Have you even looked at her? Did you even look at her before you took her? Your orders were to take the blonde one. The one with the small tits. And what did you do? Precisely the opposite! You take the dark-haired one with the enormous tits. Are you blind?"
"No, Miss."
"And now you suggest we pay her a bit more! She's already got a pair of melons in that bra of hers, but you suggest we give her a little extra, on top of the amount we're going to have to give her as the routine abduction payment. The poor kid's hardly going to be able to walk as it is! Look at her!"
The two little bald men obediently turned and looked straight at Emma. She shrank back on the toilet seat. Their eyes seemed to have light coming out of them. They looked at her with their heads tilted to one side. Two sides, actually, their heads were tilted towards one another. They swivelled back to look at the wall as the Voice went on.
"Get on with it, then, and let's get out of this place. Bring her over here."
Emma whimpered. The toilet was gliding across the floor, jolting slightly as it bumped over the joins in the panelling. She looked helplessly at the bland faces of the two beings, which were exactly on her level.
"On the table, please, Emma," said the Voice. "We won't harm you. In fact, you will probably find it quite pleasant."
Emma got off the toilet seat. One of the little men put the seat up, while the other handed her a wad of toilet paper. Embarrassed, she took it from him and wiped herself briefly. The man took it from her, sniffed it without emotion and tossed it into the toilet. The first man flushed it away. A nice trick if you can do it, Emma thought, the toilet no longer being attached to any plumbing.
"Lie back and let the men undress you. It won't take long." It didn't. The men took half the bikini each and removed it. They sniffed the components and laid them reverently on a side table. "Go ahead, then," commanded the Voice.
One of the little men produced a syringe with an enormously long needle. Emma closed her eyes.
It had been quite pleasant, as the Voice had told her. But had it really happened? It was a ridiculous thought. How could have just lain there while those two little men, urged on by a disembodied female Voice, had given her such a thorough physical examination, feeling her muscles, probing her genitalia, fondling her breasts? Indeed, they had paid enormous attention to her breasts, as if they had never seen anything quite like them before. They measured them with callipers and warm plastic tape measures, squeezed them and bounced them from side to side, and as a finale, dunked them in a large plastic bath of warm water, exclaiming at the quantity displaced. It had all felt most surprisingly pleasant.
The Voice had kept nagging on at the little men the whole time. Emma wondered how they managed to put up with it. Her last memory of the whole incident was of the Voice addressing her.
"Thank you, Emma. We're sorry about the fuck-up. We were supposed to abduct your friend. Normally, as you know, whenever anyone is abducted, we are obliged to warn them not to tell of their experiences. We are also obliged to pay you a token sum of money. Unfortunately, where we come from, we don't use money. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, as we make our payment in the form of enhanced breast development. In your case, sadly, this is going to be rather embarrassing for both of us, but we'll give you the absolute minimum increase. Ninety-nine per cent."
"Ninety-nine per cent of what?" Emma was surprised to find her voice working.
"Of your previous breast size, of course. That's ninety-nine per cent by volume. It's going to make you rather large, I'm afraid..."
"It going to make me gigantic," Emma protested.
"I suppose so," said the Voice doubtfully. "But you'll be okay, you're young and fit. How old are you, by the way?"
Emma told her.
"Bloody hell," the Voice gasped. "Is that all? You're fucking enormous!"
"Tell me about it!"
"What are your measurements? What size bra do you wear? Can you buy them ready-made? When did your breasts start developing? Are they very sensitive? How do the other kids at school treat you?"
Emma sighed. "I started a couple of years ago. They grew three cup sizes one winter, and they've carried on growing ever since. My bra-lady — Veronica Twizzell — says I'm about a 32L now. I'm 46-23-35."
There was a lengthy pause as if the Voice were writing it all down. "You didn't answer all the questions," she said peevishly.
"Sorry, there were so many..."
"Never mind. We'll make up the answers ourselves. Nice bikini, Emma. I suppose Miss Twizzell made it? The top's fine, but did you know you've got a whole bunch of curls hanging out of your pants. It doesn't matter," the Voice carried on, "you'll need a new one tomorrow anyway. That one will be too small by half. Almost exactly half, in fact."
"But Mum will go ape-shit! This cost thirty quid and I've only worn it once. It will take weeks to pay for that out of my pocket money and I won't start work for five years at least!"
"C'est la vie. Win some, lose some. Look, I am really sorry about this. We don't normally abduct anyone under sixteen. That's because the guys like to have sexual intercourse with them."
Emma paled. "Sex? With them?"
"People expect it these days, so we provide a service. I can't think why — it's a vastly overrated pastime in my opinion. You can't be ... oh, Deity, you're not still a virgin, are you?"
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am."
"Gosh! But this is England, isn't it?"
"Of course. It's Brownwater Sands."
"That's what I thought, but still... Look, Emma, you do look much older, you know, which is probably why the lads got the wrong victim. They never expected to find such a very young girl with such an enormous bust. They're totally devoid of imagination. They will be ... disciplined, later. Oh, yes! I'm getting wet just thinking about it. Anyway, as a gesture of good faith, we'll drop you back at the camp site, since we're flying over that way. It's the least we can do. And I'll have a word with your Twizzell woman, and we'll see about negotiating a discount on your bras and stuff. We do have a certain influence. I'll send the Girls in Black round to see her, and we can almost certainly put a bit of extra business her way. Now remember, hon, you mustn't tell a soul. If this ever got out, we'd be overwhelmed with requests..."
Travelling in a flying public toilet was a not unpleasant sensation, Emma decided. The trailer settled comfortably on the grass in the campsite, right beside Emma's tent, where it appeared to blend in with the scenery as if it had always been there. The Voice wished her good luck and a happy holiday.
"When's your period due, by the way?" it enquired.
Emma paused halfway down the steps, wondering whether she ought to tell the Voice to go take a running jump. "A couple of weeks," she said.
"Oh, shit! That's a bugger. That is a serious bugger. Do your boobs normally get much fuller when you're about due?"
Emma blushed. "Yes, as a matter of fact, my bras usually feel really tight for a few days."
"Hmmm. You'll have a bit of a problem, in that case. Maybe your bra woman can get some extra stretchy material or something. You may find you're a few sizes bigger at that time of the month."
"A few sizes bigger? God, how many?"
"Oh, you know ... just a few. Six inches or so. Maybe eight. Not as much as ten. At least, I don't think so. It's not as bad as it sounds, actually. You'll be so big that an extra eight or ten inches won't really show too badly. Ten inches or a foot..."
"A foot bigger than I am now? Fifty-eight inches? That's obscene!"
"Oh, no!" said the Voice, in shocked tones. "You'll be much bigger than that! To start with, your breasts will be twice as big as they are now, and then when your time of the month is coming round, you'll be a foot or so bigger. Not much more than that; our biggest ever increase was a woman in Manchester who used to grow eighteen inches bigger every month."
Emma gasped. "In Manchester?" she quavered, although that wasn't really what she meant to say at all. She tried to imagine her breasts at double their present size, and failed. She absolutely refused to try and think of them growing as much as that and then swelling a further foot. Or eighteen inches."
"You may not have to wait a couple of weeks to find out," the Voice comforted her. "If you get horny, you'll find they grow a few sizes bigger, so that will give you an idea of what it will be like."
"Oh yeah?" Emma said scornfully. "So if I should just happen to get horny — as you so crudely call it — when I'm about to start my period, I'll be twice as big as I am now, plus another foot or eighteen inches, plus a few extra sizes for the horniness?"
The Voice thought about it for a while. "Yeah, that sounds about right. You're really going to be the envy of all your friends at school. You're a very lucky girl!"
Emma lay on her mattress and opened her eyes. It was just breaking daylight outside, and the birds were waking up. Her breasts still ached from the rugby yesterday. It had been only yesterday? What a crazy dream that was! Wait until I tell Zoe and the boys. The boys!
Funny, she thought, she didn't remember coming home from the beach last night. She seemed to have undressed and crawled into her sleeping bag naked. How sexy, she thought, and she touched herself between her legs, which was the natural thing to do as she had fallen asleep with one hand down there as usual. Mmmm, nice and moist and so slippery! Feeling strangely contented, she drifted back off to sleep.
Her mobile phone was ringing. As usual, it took her ages to find it. It took even longer this time. Her breasts throbbed and tingled so much, she had to roll on to her back again to recover. But oddly enough, when she flung her arm out to one side, she found the phone right under her hand.
"Hello?"
"Oh, you're alive, then? I was just going to send a search party. I've got a couple in my tent, here. Paulie and Poochie. What happened to you yesterday, then?"
"Yesterday? Nothing. I went to the loo. I think ... I must have fallen asleep in there. I don't know how I got back here. Heat exhaustion, or something."
"Bollocks! You chickened out." Zoe lowered her voice. "And you dropped me right in the shit. I wanted to get Paul into bed, but I had eight others to get rid of first. I managed to lose them all except Pooch. He wanted to know where you'd gone. I didn't know you'd come back to the camp site, did I? Anyway, he followed us up here. I couldn't send him away, so I let him in here as well. They're both out cold, still. They did all right, for virgins. Lots of enthusiasm, but no staying power. Your Poochie showed promise. Eight out of ten. B-Plus."
Emma was slowly coming back to her senses. With Zoe's description of the last night's events, she was becoming excited, her free hand straying in search of her already moist slit. She sat up to try and disentangle the bed covers. Her sleeping bag was tangled around her backside and thighs. She tried to sit up. Strange. Sit up, Em!
No good.
She couldn't sit up. It was as if there was someone pushing her back down. Someone pushing her chest. Her chest!
A hand shot up to her left breast, jerked away as if stung, then crept back to explore.
"Em? Emma? Talk to me!"
"Sorry? Look, Zoe, something's come up. I need both hands free..."
Zoe snorted and giggled. "You've got a boy in there, you filthy little slut! What's he like? Hang on, I'll come over..."
"No! Stay there. Look, Zo, I'll see you later, when I can get up. When I get up, I mean. Half an hour, okay?"
"Just don't send him home until I've seen him, right! See ya, kid!"
Emma put the phone down and raised a hand to her chest. What a huge, stiff nipple! And when she pulled it like that, it felt so wonderful! Down between her legs and everywhere...
Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
"I need a pee," she announced to herself decisively. She lay there for three more minutes before deciding that if she needed a pee no one else could help her. She'd have to get up and trudge through the dewy grass to the bathroom. "Oh, fuck it, I'm not going all the way over there," she decided. After two more minutes of debate she was nearly bursting. She rolled over on to her side, then on to her hands and knees. Her breasts swung heavily beneath her chest. "God, I feel absolutely enormous!"
She had to think about this problem. It was probably something to do with playing rugby on the beach yesterday. Her boobs must have kind of stretched, somehow. Strange coincidence about that dream with the Voice and everything, but that was probably because her boobs were full and sore, which was why she'd dreamed about them. They did get sore at that time of the month...
"That's still two weeks away!" she said to herself. "They can't be getting big already! Can they?"
They obviously could, and they had. She unzipped the sleeping bag and wriggled free, then rummaged in the corner of the tent for her blanket. Shuffling round to face the doorway she crawled to the flap and unzipped it as slowly and as quietly as she dared. She poked her head outside. All quiet. It was still early. Go for it, Em!
Out of the tent, dragging the blanket after her, wrapping it around her shoulders, standing up, staggering a few paces ... "I'm so jiggly!"
Head down, she was off through the trees in the direction of the bathroom hut, pulling her blanket tighter around her chest which was wobbling like Mrs Carter's at school only more so. She'd have a look at herself in the big mirror when she got to the bathroom. There'd be nothing to see, it was just because her boobs were so sore that they felt so much bigger than usual.
"D'uh? How did that get there?" She hadn't covered more than half the distance to the bathroom hut yet here was this trailer with a Ladies Toilet sign on the door. It was disturbingly familiar. It was the trailer from her dream, and it had also been down on the promenade at Brownwater Sands. What was more, it was a totally real trailer. And whoever had brought it here, for whatever reason, Emma needed a pee, like right now.
She clattered up the steps, dragged open a cubicle door and sat down. Not a moment too soon.
"About time," said a Voice. "What kept you?"
Ice water ran through Emma's veins. "Hello?" she ventured. She determined that as soon as she'd finished this pee — which unfortunately felt as if it might take another twenty minutes — she would be out of here.
So much for that idea. The cubicle door had vanished and the toilet glided slowly out into the all-too-familiar room. One of the two little bald men was polishing the wall with a duster, carefully working his way between the flashing lights; the other was filling his syringe, the one with the enormously long needle.
"Sorry about this," said the Voice cheerfully. "I forgot to ask you yesterday which option you wanted."
"Option?" Emma groaned. The details of her 'dream' came flooding back. Either she was dreaming again or the whole experience had actually taken place.
"Let's see them, then!" the Voice continued. "Stand up properly so we can have a good look."
Emma rose to her feet, still hugging herself in the blanket. One of the men was about to wipe her bottom for her but she slapped his hand away and took the wad of tissue. It proved impossible to wipe herself without losing her grip on the blanket. The trailer rocked on its wheels as she planted her feet apart, performed her duty and handed the paper back to the little man. He sniffed it before flushing it away. Meanwhile, the blanket had fallen off her shoulders. Emma stood up straight.
"Oh, yes! Very nice! Coming on beautifully. I must confess, I do worry sometimes, especially in the larger sizes. But yours are excellent."
Emma could only see them from above but there was no doubt at all that her breasts were far, far bigger than ever before.
"What have they reached, Tharg, please?"
"About fifty per cent," the man with the needle said with a sniff. "A bit slow."
"They're always slow when we give them the minimum dose," said the other man, the toilet tissue connoisseur.
"Give her time," the Voice said reassuringly. "That's a lot of tissue to grow overnight. She's done tremendously well to get so big in just ... sixteen hours. What size was she before?"
"32L-cup," said Emma and Tharg simultaneously. "Forty-six inches." The little man laid down his syringe and produced a tape measure. "Come on, Blorp," he said. His colleague brightened visibly.
"I'll hold it on the nipples, you go round the back."
They busied themselves, carefully wiping the tape measure from end to end before declaring themselves ready with a crescendo of throat-clearing and clapping of hands.
"Method?" said Blorp.
"Naked?" Tharg intoned as if reading from a manual. "Young teen subject, good to excellent firmness. Short procedure, bust circumference only, no waist or hips. Half dangle."
Blorp placed a hand on Emma's belly and another on her back, round about where her bra strap would normally have been, then applied gentle pressure and bent her forwards at around forty-five degrees. Her breasts swayed, bumping heavily together.
"Hurry up," the Voice urged. "Don't keep the poor girl hanging about all morning!"
The men ignored her, busy with their duties.
They took about a minute and a half, at the end of which Emma felt as if her boobs must be reaching all the way down to the floor.
"Ready?" said Blorp.
"Ready," came the reply from behind her. "And ... wait for it ... mark!"
There was a communal sigh of relief and Emma was allowed to stand upstraight again. Her nipples felt like red-hot pokers.
"Well?"
"Fifty-six!"
"What will that be when she's up to ninety-nine per cent?" the Voice demanded. Was it Emma's imagination or was it breathing heavily?
"Sixty-something. Eight or nine."
"Is that standard or aroused?"
"Standard, of course!" Tharg sounded mildly scandalised at the question.
"Her nipples are a bit big," said the Voice huskily. "Is she ... moist?"
Blorp was on hand with the toilet tissue, to Emma's embarrassed disbelief. "She's not moist, she's wet," he reported.
"Wet?"
"Sopping!"
"Gushing," Tharg added.
"Drenched," Blorp confirmed.
"Have you been playing with yourself this morning, Emma?" the Voice asked sternly.
The correct answer would have been to tell her to mind her own business. "I always do in the mornings," Emma admitted sheepishly. "Just with my fingers."
"How many?"
Emma bit her lower lip. "Four."
Tharg did the necessary with another handful of tissue.
"Gosh, you young English girls!" the Voice sighed, exasperated. "How can we get accurate bust measurements if you can't leave your pussies alone for five minutes?"
"We've got Normal English Schoolgirl arousal programmed in," said Tharg. "She'll probably level off at around seventy inches. Maybe eighty."
Emma couldn't believe her own ears. "Eighty? You mean eighty inches?"
"Sounds about right," said the Voice. "Bigger at that special time of the month, of course."
"Oh, of course! You fucking interfering bastards! How dare you...?"
Emma stormed up and down the trailer, her feet thumping on the hollow floor, her massive breasts almost swinging her off her feet at every turn. The two little men backed away nervously, looking at the wall for guidance.
The Voice seemed unfazed by it all. "I didn't mention your options. That's why we've brought you back in."
Emma stopped pacing. "Options? You mean I don't have to have a pair of tits like a dairy cow after all?"
"Of course you do, and I just know you're going to just simply love having them! But you do have two options."
"What are they?"
The Voice ticked them off on her unseen fingers. "One. You can try to explain how you've suddenly turned up with giant tits. We can give you a list of suggested causes which you are free to use: pregnancy, lactation, insect bite, eating mysterious blue fruit, magic spell, mysterious little shop in a mall, abduction by aliens — quite a clever idea, that one — you don't have any older sisters, by any chance...?"
"No, only a younger brother."
"Pity. Did I mention pregnancy?"
"Yes."
"We can do pregnancy," Blorp offered without much hope.
"Piss off."
"The only problem is that no one will believe you," said the Voice. "Especially the aliens thing. It's amazing, the level of scepticism about aliens in this country. Naturally, you have to choose a story and stick to it. It's no good telling all your classmates you're under a magic spell then changing your mind and saying a bug bit you on the tits. One bite on each side. In fact, that's why we recommend the other option, Option Two."
"What's that?" said Emma dully. Her boobs positively ached and her back was hurting.
"They've always been like it," the Voice said. "And since you've always had them, nobody sees anything unusual. Apart from their vast size, that is."
"Always? You mean I've always had huge boobs?"
"Of course. Why not?"
"Always? You mean I was born with the things?"
"Silly!" The Voice rolled her eyes, as did her two little men, who rolled them in opposite directions but otherwise in perfect sync. "They grew at the normal time. Yours just grew more than other girls, that's all! Right, then, we just need to get the story straight. When did they start growing? How old were you?"
Emma shook her head. "Eight."
"Eight? You can't have..."
"I did! They weren't huge, but they were there. They only grew really big a couple of years ago."
"Yeah, but ... eight? Emma!"
"It's not my fault! I couldn't help it."
The Voice sighed. "Okay, sorry. We do need the data so we can punch it into the machine. So, how big were they before they got bigger a couple of years ago?"
"They were still kind of growing all the time, just not as fast."
"We know all that. Girls' tits are our business, Emma. It's what we do! So will you kindly answer the question? What size?"
"In inches? I don't know. I wasn't old enough to know about inches and things..."
"Forget the inches. What about your cup size?"
"You mean like fruit and sports equipment and stuff, or in letters...?" Emma paused, sensing that the Voice was getting near the end of her patience. "Okay. I know I was wearing a D-cup when I was nine..."
"Fucking hell, Emma!" the Voice spluttered. "And you were still growing?"
"Of course I was. Like I told you I was still growing until I started really getting bigger, then I grew three cup sizes in..."
"We've got all that. Three cup sizes in one winter. Right, that will have to become six cup sizes in ... let's see ... does four months sound realistic, Tharg?"
"Not really. In fact, it sounds ridiculous."
"We can't help that. It won't matter anyway. Once we've entered the data it becomes fact. If we decide that Emma grew six cup sizes in four months, then she grew six cup sizes in four months. All we need to decide how big she was before she started that little growth spurt. Okay, she's an X-cup now..."
Emma gulped. "What? I'm an X-cup? An X?"
"Don't worry," said the Voice. "It's only for a couple of days."
"And then I'll be even bigger!"
"She's an X-cup now," the Voice persisted. "So if we make her a P-cup before she grew, so we could let her grow four more sizes between last winter and now, then in that case we could let her get away with being as small as a J-cup when she was nine years old..."
"Oh, come on!" Emma protested.
"What's the matter?"
"Who ever heard of a nine-year-old girl wearing a J-cup bra?"
"Tharg?"
Tharg opened a large leather-bound ledger and ran a finger down the columns of figures. "A girl, yes," he concluded. "We don't have any nine-year-old boys on the list at all."
"But J-cups...?" Emma craned across to see the book but Tharg covered it up with both hands. "Let me see!"
"Let her see, Tharg. Don't be tiresome!"
Emma scanned the neatly written page. "These girls are all nine?"
Tharg pointed unhappily at his precious records. "Eight, nine, ten..." He turned the page. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Fourteen, fif..."
"Okay, she gets the picture. Right, Emma, you're going for Option Two, I take it?"
"I suppose I'll have to. It's terrible!"
"It won't be too bad, love! Remember, all the girls at school, all your family, everybody will know you've always had huge tits, so it won't be anything new. All your clothes, your bras, everything will fit perfectly. Trust me, I'm an alien."
"What about sex, Miss?" Blurp asked.
"No, I've already told him. I am not doing it with him!"
"That's not what I meant," said Tharg. "I mean, how can she still be a virgin when she goes back to school with a bust measurement of eighty-something inches?"
"Or ninety-something..." said the Voice.
"I mean, she's an English schoolgirl, she shouldn't still be a virgin at her age anyway, especially with a pair of tits like she had until yesterday. If they're three times as big as that..." His words died away.
"I am not doing it with him," Emma insisted.
"He's right, though. With your figure you can't be a virgin. I'll tell you what we'll do. When we let you go, you can have two days to get laid. The programming will say that you lost your virginity at eleven..."
"That's disgusting!"
"It's only a statistic! It doesn't matter! I mean, if you're going to have lost it, you might as well go away and get laid and have the fun of doing it for real. You might even get to like it."
"She'll like it with me..." said Blorp, falling silent as Emma raised a fist.
"Program it," said the Voice. "We can't mess around any more. All right, Emma? You go off now and find a nice boy to fuck. Your tits will carry on growing for a day or two. Or maybe three. Certainly no more than a week. But everyone will accept that you've always had huge ones. Okay? It's been lovely to meet you. Bayeeee!"
Tharg was holding up his huge syringe. Emma backed away to the door.
"No, Tharg," said the Voice. "We've already done her."
"But we're not allowed to let them go without a minimum dose!" He squeezed the plunger and a dribble of something trickled on to his finger. "Please! It will only make her twice as big..."
"No. Not this time. Look, we've got another girl coming up in five minutes and this place looks like a bomb's gone off in here. Off you go, Emma!"
Emma wrapped the blanket round her and escaped down the steps. Her nipples were poking holes in the rough material. She stood in the wet grass for a moment before making her way toward her tent.
"I've been calling you, Titty-girl!" exclaimed Zoe's voice. "Why can't you take your phone with you when you go for a shit?"
"I only went for a pee..."
"You've been gone twenty minutes. You can't have come all the way over here just to play with yourself, not when you've got a perfectly serviceable boyfriend waiting for you with a hard-on up to his eyebrows. Anyway, Pooch was pining for the Girl with the Biggest Titties on the Planet, so I've put him in your tent and told him not to go away until he's given you a good seeing-to. I know you're gagging for it, your nips are sticking out like chapel hatpegs and you've got love-juice running down past your knees."
Zoe smirked at her and started up the steps of the trailer. Emma blushed. She did feel horny, and her boobs felt quite simply massive. "I'll be getting back, then," she heard herself say. "I think I want Pooch deep inside me!"
"Good on ya," Zoe laughed. "I'll see you this afternoon sometime, after you've finished." She continued up the steps into the toilet trailer.
Emma, fingering herself intimately, was halfway to her tent when she felt a chill run down her back. She turned round. "Zoe? Zoe! You can't go in there!"
The End