Extracts
By A x o l o t l



Extract 01 (A Village In Time) (Early Version)

"At last, a bit of clear road. We can make up some time." Darren put his foot
down and glanced at his watch. "We'll make it by one thirty at this rate."

Kev was frowning over the road atlas. Another signpost flashed past and he
turned the map upside down. It didn't help. "That's all very well, but this
isn't the right road. I think we ought to be further over that way. More to
the south." He waved a hand out across the bare hills on the left.

The car continued to accelerate down the almost empty road. "You said this was
the right way," said Darren.

"No, I said the other way was the wrong way. When we came out of Dulchester?
Where they were digging up the road, and that bloke waved us to turn right?
They've changed the road layout. It's not the same as the map any more."

"You mean you've gone and lost us!"

"I haven't lost us. You should have slowed down while I was trying to find the
right way round the ring road. We're going to have to go back."

"Back? Back into Dul-fucking-chester? You've got to be kidding, pal! This is a
good road, we'll carry on along here. There'll be a turning sometime." Darren
mashed his right foot into the carpet and they surmounted a hilltop at
seventy.

Ahead, the road stretched like a black ribbon to the horizon. Kev rotated the
map again. "There isn't anything, not for ten miles. By then, we'll be forty
miles off course. Look!"

Darren looked. Kev, eyes widening, snatched the map away.

"Look where you're fucking going...!"

"You told me to look at the map!"

"Stop first! Since when did you take any notice of anything I said?" Uneasy
silence fell. The car continued on its course for a further three or four
miles.

Kev shook his head. "It's no good. Pull in here and let's work out where we're
going." There was a parking place by the roadside. Not a sign of life, unless
you counted the sheep, and everyone knew what happened when you counted sheep.
Darren pulled in and turned off the engine. With a superior air, he took the
map.

"Where are we?" he demanded with a sigh.

"Just about here."

"And where should we be?"

"Down there."

"That's fucking miles away!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last twenty minutes."

"We can't waste petrol going back," Darren insisted stubbornly. "What's the
scale of this map?"

"Four miles to the inch."

"There's probably a road we can take. A small one that's too small to show up
on this map. Let's take the next turning on the left, and it will bring us out
down there somewhere."

"We'll be late. Hadn't we better warn the others?"

"We'll catch up once we're on the other road. You've probably only cost us
half an hour or so."

"I've cost us...?"

Darren had already started the engine and they roared out on to the road in a
spurt of gravel. "We can call Chris on his mobile and tell him we've been
delayed. A flat, or something. Or we got held up by an accident. We'll call
from the next garage."

"Garage?" Kev surveyed the landscape. "Where?"

"There's bound to be one. We'll be needing some petrol, anyway."

Kev tried to lean across and see the fuel gauge, without making it too
obvious. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned elaborately. Darren
leaned forward over the wheel and pretended to rub at something on the glass
of the instrument panel.

"How much petrol have we got?"

Darren pretended to glance casually at the instrument panel. "About a quarter
of a tank," he said airily. "Maybe a little less. Next garage, we'll get some
more."

They barrelled on, over another hill. The road, which must have impressed some
Roman Emperor a couple of thousand years ago, kinked to the right and headed
off even further in an even more wrong direction. Both lads decided it would
be safer not to mention the fact.

"Here's a turning coming up," Kev pointed out. "Next on the left, you said."

"Got it. I told you there'd be something. It isn't on the map, is it?"

Kev had already checked. "No. How do we know it goes anywhere?"

"It's got to go somewhere." They had reached the turning. It wasn't a
particularly wide road, but it was broad enough for two cars to pass
comfortably.

"Did you see the signpost? Where did it say it went?" Kev bent over the map
again. According to his calculations, there shouldn't be anything around here,
just open countryside.

"Couldn't see. There was something in the way. A bush or something. Never
mind, it's got to lead us somewhere."

It seemed unlikely. There were no signs of habitation ahead, no houses, no
church steeple. The road trundled on into the wilderness, between high hedges.
It wasn't quite as wide now.

"There'll be a garage soon," Darren announced.

The road had dipped suddenly and begun a winding descent into a valley. The
surface had become pock-marked and pot-holed, and a strip of grass was
starting to appear down the middle, where no wheels ever ran. It was a single
car's width now. If they met anyone coming the opposite way, someone was going
to have to back up half a mile or more.

"What was that?" Kev asked, as the engine gave a splutter before picking up
again.

"Nothing. Just a misfire. Dirty fuel, probably. We'll be okay when we fill up.
There'll be a village down here. Stands to reason."

"It does?"

"We're going down into a valley, right? A road goes down into a valley, there
has to be a river at the bottom of it, so there'll be a bridge - and where
there's a bridge, there's bound to be a village." Darren's Geography teacher
would have had tears of pride in his eyes at this moment.

"If it gets much narrower, we'll get wedged in like a cork." The bushes were
brushing along both sides of the car by now, flicking at the mirrors as the
wheels bounced through deeper and deeper holes.

Then they rounded a bend, and everything opened up.

"See! What did I tell you?" Darren slowed the car to a halt on a patch of
smooth grass bordering a narrow river. Maybe it was a broad stream. Either
way, there was no bridge leading to the village which seemed to be nestling on
the further bank. Instead, the roadway disappeared into the water, its course
marked by two lines of large stones. The stream flowed busily across the gap.
"A ford. It doesn't look too deep, even with the rain we've had this week." He
drove cautiously into the water and they lurched across to the other side. "It
gets into the brakes, you know," Darren explained. "I'll drive for a bit with
my foot on the brake pedal..."

"You won't be driving anywhere," Kev pointed out. "Not until we open that
gate."

It was a big wide five-bar gate, and it was shut. Two stout oak gate posts
looked as if they had been there for centuries, and this damn great gate
completely blocking the way into the village street.

"What's up with them? Have they got a thing against tourists? Nip out and open
it, Kevvo!"

Kev climbed out and examined the gate. It was secured with a fat chain and a
daunting padlock. The whole ensemble was apparently rusted solid. He tugged at
it experimentally for a few seconds, then shook his head. The car engine
stopped. The only sound was the rushing gurgle of the waters, the echoing of
birdsong and the dull rattle of the chain as Kev tried once more. He gave the
gate a kick. It stayed shut. Then came the whinnying of the starter motor as
Darren tried to start the engine again.

"Fucking won't go," he said needlessly after about three minutes. "Must be
water in the ignition."

(The boys explore the village for a while, then meet an attractive woman who
takes them to her cottage)

"Bless you, no! My girls are near enough sixteen, but they carry on their
schooling. They shall stay at school until 'tis their time to do the teaching
themselves. "You'll stay for a bite of dinner? There's bread and honey. Maisie
and Maud shall be home when the church clock strikes twelve. If they don't see
you, they will be so curious my life will not be worth a brass farthing. They
don't see many young men like yourselves, you see."

"I don't know," Darren said slowly. "We ought to be making tracks, if we can
get some petrol."

"But some bread and honey does sound nice," Kev nudged his pal. Mrs Capstick
brightened instantly.

"I'll be getting it ready, then. And we've a pie, if you're famished. No, sit
and finish your drinks, I can talk to you from the kitchen."

She bustled out.

"What are you on about?" Darren demanded in a fierce whisper. "We can't sit
round here all day."

"What else can we do? You won't find any petrol, not here. Besides, I thought
it was water in the ignition."

"Funn-ee."

The church clock began to strike the hour.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve!

"That clock's fast!" Darren shook his watch. "It's not even eleven yet..."

But there was no time for Kev to reply. The back door banged open with a
clatter, and an excited babble of voices sounded from the kitchen. And there,
at the kitchen door, stood the widow Capstick, beaming proudly. "I don't even
know your names yet," she apologised. "But you must meet my little girls..."

"Oh, Mama!"

"Mama! Little?"

"This is my Maisie, and this is my Maud."

Kev and Darren gasped, their mouths remaining open. No words would come out.
They stared at the girls, golden-haired twins, as tall as their mother...

Maud had been right. 'Little' was not the right word. Not the right word at
all.

"We have to get back to our classes," sighed Maisie.

"We'll be home by five," said Maud. "You'll still be here...?"

"We'll be gone by then," Darren shook his head regretfully. "We'll need to
walk to the next village and get a can of juice. Probably have to buy an empty
can, as well."

"Juice?" The twins looked at each other. "Mother can give you some juice.
Apples...?"

"Petrol," Kev said desperately. "You've heard of petrol! Cars run on it. Maybe
the farmer's got some? You could ask the kids from the farm..."

"The kids?" Maud giggled. "You're so funny, Kev!" She still had difficulty
saying the unfamiliar name.

"You aren't really leaving us," said Maisie. "Darren, please stay the night.
Devon will still be there in another week or two." She approached and touched
him under the chin with a delicate finger.

Darren swallowed. Unexpectedly, the girl smelled quite powerfully of sweat.
Not at all what attractive young girls were supposed to smell like. But from
this close, he could study the arousing swell of her bosom inside the bodice
of her blue frock. It was quite simply enormous. Easily twice as big as Emma
Goldthorpe's...

Kev was getting the same view, in pink instead of blue, as Maud, emboldened by
her sister's forwardness, stroked his brow with a slender hand.

Their mother looked on fondly. "Off you go to classes, you two. Perhaps I can
talk to the boys and persuade them to stay a while. They don't make much
sense, to be sure. Off with you!"

The girls tore themselves away unwillingly. Their bosoms were heaving
enormously. The more the boys studied them, the bigger they looked.

"We'll be here this evening," Kev blurted. "If your mum doesn't mind. We're
going to have to see if we can find some petrol this afternoon, but we'll come
back later. Won't we, Dazza?"

On mature reflection, it seemed like a good idea. Darren nodded.

Maisie and Maud clapped their hands and literally jumped for joy. When they
landed again, they unselfconsciously clutched at their breasts to stop them
shuddering and bouncing. The boys had never seen anything quite like it in
their lives. None of the girls of their slender acquaintance would ever behave
in such an uninhibited manner.

But then, they had never met any girls even remotely as well-endowed as Maisie
and Maud.

Yes, they'd be back this evening.

(They go for a walk with the girls. As the girls are twins, there are bound to
be identification problems!)

She seemed to understand, although his 1990's shorthand speech must have been
incomprehensible.

Maisie was getting the hang of undressing a boy from the 1990's. She had his
shoes off, which allowed her to remove his jeans, then being a tidy girl, she
pulled off his socks. Darren wasn't exactly complaining, but there was still a
moment of reckoning to come. Meanwhile, Maisie had stood up and was working on
Darren's upper half. She coo-ed appreciatively as his lithe body came into
view. At last, she was down to his shorts, and paused, evidently leaving the
best until last.

"Now you undress me," she told him formally, presenting herself.

Darren had no option. His hands shook as he untied the ribbons one at a time
until Maisie's blue dress was open down the back just as Maud's had been. She
was less patient than her twin sister, however, especially as Maud was out of
sight round the corner, presumably getting heartily rodgered. Maisie wanted
her share, too. She almost ripped the dress off and stepped out of it, totally
naked before Darren who had sat down on the grass to watch the show. Despite
his apprehensions, his body wasn't letting him down completely. Maisie would
still get the giggles if she got to see it, but perhaps he could find a way of
doing it with the lights out...

Maud had begun to pant like a sheepdog. "Let me feel him," she murmured,
reaching for Kev with a small hand. He still had his boxers on for some
reason, perhaps the feeling that he was in the middle of the crowded English
countryside in the middle of a summer's evening. "You don't need this on," she
nagged. "Take it off!"

Kev took it - or them - off, and if pressed, he would have admitted to a
moment of pride as the girl gasped in delight at the sight of his waving
prong. She kneeled to touch it and giggled up at him as it jerked
automatically out of her way.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand and pulling her up. "Skinny-dipping time!"

Frowning, she followed him to the edge of the water, to stand there with her
toes turned inwards. Even her massive breasts looked apprehensive. "What are
you going to do?"

"We're going in," he said, "come on!" He stepped into the bubbling water.
"Ow-wow. It's freezing! Come in, Maudie!"

"In there? What for?"

He began to splash her with water. She flinched back, although it wasn't as
cold as it had seemed at first plunge.

"Stop it! It's dirty!"

"The water's clean! Come on in!" But he sprang out of the water and ran across
to his bag, unzipping the top and coming out with a huge beach towel and a bar
of soap. This time, he took Maud's hand and ran straight into the river,
taking the vast-breasted young girl with him. She was whimpering and wobbling
around on tiptoe as the water surged around her knees. "Sit down," he ordered,
tossing the towel on to the bank."

Squealing and wriggling, Maud subsided beneath the water, perching her pert
bottom on the smooth rocks. Her breasts looked simply enormous, almost on a
level with the surface, and her nipples were now incredibly extended, the
plump areolae puffed up like halved peaches. He restrained her with a strong
hand on her shoulder. "No! Kev!"

"Yes, Maud!"

"What's that thing? What are you doing?"

"It's called soap. I'm washing you!"

She calmed down a little as his firm hands soaped her back and shoulders,
round and round, working up a rich lather, then advanced to her breasts. Maud
giggled with delight as his soapy hands slithered across her hugely full
globes, flickering across the thrusting nipples.

"You can stand up now." Gently he raised her to her feet and stood behind her,
hugely erect as he worked the soap down her back and sides, down her flat
belly, into the rich tangle of her great bush of pale golden pubic hair, down
her thighs, then back up to her breasts again, into her furry armpits...

"Kev!" she sighed, leaning into him. She investigated the lather with a
finger, sniffed it. "It smells of flowers," she said wonderingly.

"So do you," he told her, and renewed his efforts with the soap.

"What are you doing?" Maisie was standing on the bank, with Darren coming up
behind her in his uncomfortable shorts. He was trying to rearrange things as
he ran.

"What's it called, Kev?" Maud asked.

"Bathing," Kev called. "I'm bathing your sister."

"What for?"

"Come on in and find out."

"But it's wet!"

"That's true!"

"Come in, Maisie. He's right. And it's all soft and smelly. Bring your Dazza
with you."

It looked dangerous, cold and wet, but Maud made bathing sound interesting,
fascinating even. Maisie paused for a moment, then grabbed Darren's hand and
dashed into the frothing water with him, shorts and all.

(And so on. The usual kind of dilemma at the end: will they take them back to
the present, and what will happen if they do? For that matter, what will
happen if they don't?)

Extract 02 (Sir Arthur Saxby's Legacy)

"It was 1960, but I can remember as if it was yesterday". Phillimore puffed at
his pipe, but it had gone out. Another match flared and he held it to the
bowl, sucking and gurgling interminably until a satisfying billow of smoke
finally rose fragrantly past the rows of rusty leather books to the yellowed
ceiling.

"1960. Arthur Saxby sent for me in his office. I was a junior in the Company
then, and of course, all I could think was 'what have I done wrong this time?'
But it seemed I had done nothing. 'Sit down, Phillimore', he said. 'Smoke?'
Well, I didn't in those days, not even a pipe. But old Saxby lit up a cigar
and he told me this story. And it was so strange, that it has been with me
ever since. Not just the story, but his instructions, and most of all, the
legacy." "The legacy? Sir Arthur left you money?"

"Not money, no. Something, in its way, far richer. A secret, certainly. You
know old Saxby's office? I remember the way it looked that morning: the sun
coming in through the windows, beams of sunlight shining through the dust and
cigar smoke. The old boy leaned back in his revolving chair and plonked his
feet on the desk. I remember he asked me if I was comfortable, because it was
going to be a long story."

Phillimore puffed harder on his pipe, which was now going like a bonfire, and
smelling like one, as well. "You comfortable, boy? Let me tell you what he
told me..."

Sir Arthur Saxby's Story

"You remember, back in '25, there was all that fuss in the Company about the
expedition to Periguolo? I was on that expedition, although, mercifully, I
wasn't there for the messy ending. I got away, clean away, on the penultimate
boat to leave the island. The Cassowary it was, Captain Chivers. No questions
asked, I went on board with my boxes and my bearers. The bearers went ashore
and we sailed within the hour on the last day of June, 1925. We docked at
Liverpool six weeks later.

"Some arrangements must have been made to get me and my baggage ashore
quietly. We never even saw a customs officer. We had a reserved carriage on
the sleeper to Euston, and by breakfast time we were on a Great Western train
heading for Cornwall. Marvellous bit of arranging, boy! Like to shake that
man's hand, whoever was responsible. But I digress."

"We fetched up in Falmouth, and there was a boat waiting on the quay.
Everything aboard, and away in ten minutes, not a word to a living soul. We
disembarked on what was virtually a desert island in the river estuary. I
thought, all those thousands of miles across the sea, and here I am, back in
dear old Blighty, on a bloody desert island! "That was when I unpacked
everything for the first time. I'd had the boxes opened secretly on the ship,
of course, but this was the first time the lid had been off the big one, and
the cargo unloaded. It was a bit unpleasant in there, after all that time, but
I got it emptied, and cleaned everything up, then I just stood there and had a
good look at her."

"She'd have been about sixteen, I suppose, although it was impossible to tell,
as they had no idea of age on Periguolo. But she was a perfect example of
everything I had discovered during my research on the expedition. Of course,
that was all that did come off Periguolo, the rest of the party were thrown in
the stewpot, cooked and eaten; at least, they never found hide nor hair."

"I called her Daisy, because the first thing she picked up when I took her
outside was a daisy. Just as well she didn't pick up one of the dog's turds, I
suppose! She was still dressed in her native clobber all the way home, but I'd
had to burn all that stuff when I stripped her down for cleaning, so she was
naked as a jaybird for the whole of that first day, until I sent for some
clothes for her. And what a creature! All their women were like her, of
course. All gone, now, after the army landed on Periguolo later that year.
Wiped the lot out - or all they could find - so Daisy was the last of the
line."

"I just sat and watched her walking around, feeling the strength of her legs
slowly returning after the long weeks cooped up at sea. Her lovely face,
little turned-up nose, black hair, light brown skin, her legs - God, so
powerful - her muscular body. And of course, those bloody tits!"

"Around that time, the twenties, bosoms weren't in fashion. You'd think
women'd never had any, the way they hid the damned things. But not young
Daisy! She couldn't have hidden hers if she'd tried! They were enormous
things. They must've bounced up and down about a foot when she was just
walking, and when she ran, well! Stand well clear!"

"I totally misjudged the size of the clothes she'd need - I hadn't much
experience of that sort of thing - and I had to send out for something much
bigger. But when I finally got her dressed after a couple of days, I found I
couldn't look at her like a bloody native any more. She began to look
wonderful, in her skirt and outsized shirt, blouse, whatever you call the
damned things. And she was so helpful, loyal, devoted. She worshipped the very
ground I trod on. She found out what I liked to eat, and she cooked it, but in
such subtly different ways. I never found out what some of the things were she
used in her cooking. And after dinner, she would come and curl up at my feet
like a dog, and stay there until bedtime."

"Well, I suppose it was just a matter of time. One evening - it was winter,
and bloody cold. Wet snow was sweeping across the estuary. Oh, it wouldn't
stay long once it fell - not that far South, and with the sea so close and
everything - but it could be damned unpleasant while it lasted. And of course,
Daisy had never seen the like of it. She went outside to collect some herbs or
what-not, and she was a long time coming back. It was getting dark when I went
out to look for her, and she'd fallen on a slippery patch and turned her ankle
over."

"Carried her back to the cottage, laid her down on her bed, and the tears
pouring down her little cheeks and all because she wouldn't be able to get her
master's meal. I took her a drink, made her a drop of soup, and she sat up in
bed and cried her eyes out, and I cuddled her, the little mite. And one thing
sort of led to another."

"What a night! I'd known some British girls before I went to Periguolo, and
we'd had some wild times at parties. I ended up in one or two beds, I'll
admit. But Daisy! Just as she'd been inventive with her cooking, she was
inventive in bed as well. I learned more in that first night than in my first
quarter of a bloody century!"

"Needless to say, she never slept in her own bed again after that! The first
baby was born in the following October. A little girl. We had more at regular
intervals from then on. And even though I was travelling to the mainland to
the office in Falmouth, Daisy and the children never left the island. Never
occurred to them. Island people, don't y' know! "When she died, she can only
have been about forty years old. I was shattered by it, I can tell you. Ten
years ago, and still it hits me. I still expect her to come around the corner
of the woods with a couple of young'uns trailing along behind her, and a baby
at her breast. Her breast! They never got any smaller, you know. Bigger, in
fact! And the children, they took after their mother. It's as well I was a
devotee of large bosoms by then! But they didn't survive. There were five
children, three girls then two boys. They reached their twenties but they were
weakening all the time."

"Oldest two daughters, River and Flower, she called them. She loved the sounds
of those words. They fell pregnant. All mine, of course. And when Daisy died,
I decided to uproot myself and get off this God-forsaken island, children and
all. The Company looked after the arrangements again. We settled here, in the
hills, River and Flower with their babies, and they looked after them. Both
girls. They were only about five when their mothers died. That left just
them... and me. Nobody else! "They're fourteen now. And it's time to hand over
to a younger man. That's why I've sent for you, Phillimore. For you to take
over..."

(That's the start, and it goes on in much the same vein)

Extract 03 (A Hormonal Thing)

"That's fine, but will it do what I want it to do?"

Dr Lewis propelled her chair away from her desk and crossed her shapely legs.
There was a faint smile playing around her full lips. Just for a moment, she
allowed her white coat to gape open slightly, revealing a more than
well-filled blouse. Much more than well-filled. Watching her, Lucinda
Bedworthy felt uncomfortable. This was not how doctors were supposed to
behave. Especially female ones. She hunched in her straight-backed chair, her
arms across her chest.

"Look here, old thing," said the doctor. "The drug is highly effective. When
it first became available, it was, if anything, too powerful." She picked up a
leaflet from her desk and adjusted her glasses. "Now, where is it? Can't see
the wood for the trees. Um-um-um-ummm." She brightened and stabbed at the
paper with a fingernail of un-doctorly length and hue. "Right, this bit's from
the manufacturer's press release. '... Pubertophen was originally developed in
Japan where it underwent a rigorous trials program before being made available
to the public.' Jolly reassuring, don't you think? 'It was immediately greeted
with acclaim by thousands of Japanese women who found the drug's absolutely
unique properties more than fulfilled their expectations.' That's a polite way
of putting it. What they are really saying is that the original version was
ten times too strong for the general public, what? It worked too damn well,
and very, very quickly indeed. There were no half measures. You signed up for
a course of Pubertophen and within a matter of days, whammo! - it was working,
ducky. And it didn't rotten-well stop working for bloody weeks after you
stopped taking the jolly old thing."

"You mean women took the drug and their breasts started growing straight away,
and wouldn't stop?"

Dr Lewis looked slightly pained. "I wouldn't put it quite as simply as that,
me old sport, but that's what happened. It cost the drug firm a few hundred
thousand smackers to hush up the cases where the women didn't stop taking the
drug soon enough. Some of us women, it seems, are never satisfied." She
permitted herself a private smirk at Lucinda's chest. "But that was the only
problem with it. It was too bloody effective. There have been no side effects
reported, even from those early users. And of course, after all stocks were
recalled and replaced with a toned-down version - Pubertophen without balls -
there have been no problems with it at all."

"Strange, I've never heard of it."

"It has only been available in the Land of the Jolly Old Rising Sun, you know?
Until now." Dr Lewis tossed the leaflet on to the desk. "But it works, all
right, or it would never have received approval here. Not in America, not yet.
That's probably why it hasn't really made the headlines. If... or when... it
becomes available in America, you can expect demand to go sky-high. There will
be the usual complaints from every lobby you can think of: animal rights,
human rights, women's rights, women's lefts..."

"Why haven't they approved it...?"

"They will, it just takes longer. It's been approved in Europe because
application was made here earlier. It is absolutely one hundred and ten per
cent safe. All it does is to mimic a number of the changes whch occur in a
girl's body during puberty. Not all of them, thank the Lord, just a selected
few. The most important and noticeable of these is that the breasts are
encouraged to develop. It's been proven in trials to work in 90% of cases. And
it happens extraordinarily quickly."

"Quickly?"

"Given the nature of breasts, very rapid growth is always possible. You should
notice a marked effect within a matter of days."

"Days? Sounds ideal for me. But I'm a little concerned..."

"About the other effects of Pubertophen? That's understandable. Even at your
age... thirty-two...? you are young enough to remember some of the things that
happened to you at puberty. As well as some of the things that didn't, in your
case, what? Haw, haw, haw! But as I say, the effects are largely limited to
breast development. That is the way it was designed, for Japanese women, some
of whom would prefer to be more... how shall we put it... stacked."

Lucinda nodded. "Please! I'll give it a try. I mean, if it doesn't work..."

"I can say with some certainty that Pubertophen will not be ineffective in
your case, Miss Bedworthy. It is Miss? I can't read what it says on your
notes, it's been crossed out..."

"Miss. I was divorced, and reverted to my maiden name."

"Excellent! First rate!" The doctor stood up for the first time. Lucinda
couldn't help staring at her. She was endlessly tall, with enormously long
legs sheathed in black nylon, disappearing mysteriously into a thigh-length
white lab coat. Was she wearing anything underneath? She was certainly wearing
a blouse, Lucinda could see clearly, as the doctor's white coat was buttoned
up only as far as her waist. Above the waist, it seemed that there could be no
chance of her fastening the buttons at all. In fact, there was no way the two
edges of the overloaded garment could ever be brought together. The doctor's
bust, in a word, was immense. She moved sensuously across to a metal cabinet,
her thighs rubbing silkily together, her broad hips twitching, her rotund
buttocks moving hypnotically beneath the smooth white cotton. She fumbled with
the lock for a moment before swinging open the door of the cabinet and bending
to examine the lower shelf. Yes, Lucinda realised, Dr Lewis was wearing
something under her lab coat. The outline of a pair of exceptionally brief
panties was clearly visible. Lucinda swallowed, her throat constricting. There
was no corresponding outline to suggest that the doctor was wearing a bra.
Surely she must be, with such vast breasts? It must be a very special bra
indeed to hold up a pair like that. She wondered how she would look with
breasts even a quarter that size. After all these years with nothing at all...

"Here you are, Miss Bedworthy. Just read the label, it's quite
straightforward. Any ill effects, just call me..."

(That's the start of it. Here's a bit more, from some days later...)

Lucinda picked up the phone at eight on Monday morning, and called Dr Lewis's
number. The receptionist tried to offer her an appointment for sometime in the
middle of next week.

"It's very urgent, and she told me to call her this morning if there was any
trouble with my treatment. And there is!"

"We can't fit everyone in at a moment's notice, you know," the receptionist
sniffed. There was a long silence. "The doctor's here. She says she's doing
her rounds this morning and she could drop in on you. But it's highly
irregular." Obviously, the receptionist was going to have Dr Lewis struck off
the register for this malpractice. "Ten fifteen, she says."

"Excellent. Thank you so much!" Miserable moo-bag. Just time to nip down to
the shops and get a new bra, the right size.

Easier said than done.

She handed over the two unworn bras to the assistant, who held them up and
inspected them minutely. "They're too small," Lucinda explained.

"That's obvious," said the assistant with something akin to a sneer. "They're
only B cups. You're much larger than that."

That was the understatement of the year so far. Lucinda felt like a badly
wrapped parcel, or a trussed chicken. She had forced her way into her one
remaining bra and covered the tragic sight with a large sweater, but even a
large sweater wasn't enough to disguise the aggressive thrust of her bosom.
The assistant was talking to her as if she had learning difficulties. "Try
these for size. If you need any help, you may ring the bell."

Her face scarlet, Lucinda took two bras and hurried away into the fitting
cubicle. Only when she had closed the door did she look at the sizes. The
damned woman had given her a 34D and a 36D.

They didn't fit.

There was a blessed relief at getting the too-small bra off and letting her
breasts hang on her chest. The mirror showed a remarkably big-breasted woman
looking back at her. All this in four days? It was ridiculous! The 34D was too
small in the cups. It wasn't as bad as the original smaller bra had been
yesterday morning, but it wasn't far off. She estimated in her inexperienced
way that she needed one size larger, maybe more. The 36D felt totally wrong.
It went round her, but the cups were simply not big enough and the body band
only fitted where it touched. Round the back and sides, in other words.

Useless! She was about to put her sweater back on, bra-less; then she thought,
what the heck, and touched the bell button with a tentative fingertip. It went
off like a fire alarm out in the shop. They would certainly have heard that.
Feeling the need to make herself decent, Lucinda put the larger bra on again,
hopelessly prodding her curves to make them disappear into the cups. A couple
of minutes passed, then there was a knock on the door. "Does madam require
assistance?"

"Please!" It wasn't the same assistant. It was a tall, gaunt woman with her
hair scraped severely back from her face.

"Madam is wearing the wrong size," the woman pointed out with a heavy sigh.
"Completely the wrong size. Take it off."

Lucinda blushed and complied. The woman permitted herself a raised eyebrow.

"I shall bring madam something more suitable." She gave one more lingering
glance before disappearing.

"One day, I'll laugh at all this," said Lucinda, wetting a finger and rubbing
it round one nipple. It sprang into appalling prominence. She had to do the
same to the other one so they would match. "God, I'm enormous!" She blushed
all over.

The woman was back. Empty-handed. "This is most regrettable. Madam is an
unfortunate size. We will have to place a special order. You have, of course,
your credit note for the two garments you returned." In other words, just you
dare going anywhere else.

And so it was that when Dr Lewis arrived and set her doctor's bag down on the
kitchen counter, Lucinda wasn't wearing a bra - only jeans and her largest
sweater, which thrust out in front as if she had a couple of melons in there.

"Hey, all right!" said the doctor. "May I?" and without waiting for further
permission, she placed her hands beneath the tautly swollen globes, hefting
their weight. "Jolly impressive! These are the best results I've ever seen
from Pubertophen!"

"You don't think they're a little large, doctor?"

"Of course they're only a little large. Don't worry, though. It's only been a
few days. Give them a couple more weeks and by then you'll be really satisfied
with them, I can assure you!"

"You mean, they're going to get even bigger?"

Extract 04 (The Power Of Prayer)

Del and Shel Murchison were twins. They were born in that order, Adele seven
minutes before Rochelle. Adele never let her sister forget it, either, even as
they were growing up identically, with identical long dark - almost black -
hair, dressed in identical dresses, or identical jeans and T-shirts, with
identical shoes or sandals.

Everybody said how identical - and how beautiful - they were. They probably
meant how beautifully dressed. The girls were certainly identical, but beauty
wasn't really an appropriate word. Their looks were striking rather than
beautiful, their mouths a little too wide, their noses slightly too Roman,
their eyes just a bit too close-set. It didn't matter, the twins were so
lively, so vivacious, no one really remarked on their looks. Not often.
Anyway, opinion had it, they were young; they would grow into their looks
later.

And it started happening, as these things do. As they approached their tenth
birthday, the twins were experiencing a growth spurt. In a matter of weeks,
they had grown out of all their jeans and shoes. Twice. They were suddenly and
dramatically six inches taller. They had legs right down to the ground and
right up to their armpits. They looked like a pair of young racehorses,
striding leggily around in the slightly ungainly fashion of colts.

They were taking after their parents in that respect. Their mother was almost
six feet tall, their father and elder brother were six feet three. The twins
were beginning to resemble their mother in another way, too. She was a
statuesque woman with broad hips, powerful thighs and a notably prominent
bosom. Although Del and Shel didn't yet have the bosom, they were very quickly
getting the family backside.

"You'll have bosoms soon enough, girls," Mrs Murchison reassured them one day
when the girls expressed dissatisfaction with the way things were going.
"You're only just ten."

"We're only just ten," Shel agreed, "so why have we got the biggest bottoms in
the whole school?"

"Speak for yourself, little sis," said Del. "You have the biggest bottom in
the whole school."

"It's only that much bigger," Shel held her fingers a couple of inches apart.

"How do you know?" The twins' mother was aghast.

"We measured each other with your tape measure," said Del.

"And you cheated," muttered Shel.

"Now, that's enough, both of you! You're both taller than the other girls in
your class, so it's only right and proper that you should have the biggest
bottoms."

"And the longest legs?" said Shel. "Why couldn't some of this growth have gone
to our chests? The other girls in our class have got busts already."

"Not all of them, dear," said Mrs Murchison firmly.

"Two of them have," insisted Del, exaggerating only slightly. By a factor of
100%, in fact. One other girl in the twins' class did have a bosom worthy of
note. A dozen or so of the others had little bee-stings in their blouses, but
Emily Thorpe was spectacular by any standard. She had shown the label of her
bra to anyone in the class who was interested. 34DD, it said. Nobody knew
quite what it meant, but it sounded mighty impressive. As, for that matter,
was Emily. Her tits stuck out about a mile and a half in front of her. She
bumped into things. They knocked books off desks. No doubt she would get used
to them in time.

Del and Shel wanted some. Not necessarily as big as Emily's - the twins were
well brought-up and not greedy - just as long as they were big ones.
Preferably within the next few weeks.

Their mother hugged her big-bottomed girls to her. "You'll get breasts, don't
worry!" The girls squirmed and blushed at the word. "You'll just have to ask
God to send you some, won't you?"

"And He will?"

"Did you pray for yours, Mummy?"

"Of course. All little girls do."

Emily Thorpe must have prayed really hard, the twins thought. Well, if that
was all they had to do, they would do it. Being nicely brought-up children,
they knelt by their beds and asked God to send them some really big titties.
Or boobs. They didn't want to use the word breasts in case God got
embarrassed.

And lo, the Lord heard their prayers. Perhaps it was because they were
identical twins and their prayers were thus twice as powerful as all the other
little girls praying for bosoms. Whatever the reason, He heard, and He
listened.

Maybe He didn't listen hard enough. Perhaps He had other things on His mind.
Being God is one Hell of a job, even when You are One in Three and Three in
One. Anyway, He screwed up, bigtime. Okay, to be fair, maybe it was one of His
angels who couldn't read the instructions. It was perhaps an unusual request:
two identical sets of those DD's, please, like Emily Thorpe's. You know Emily
Thorpe, Lord?

The Lord knew Emily Thorpe, all right. He had made her in His image, after
all. Emily's dimensions were quite fresh in His mind. So was the total weight
of her breast flesh. There had been a bit of a row about it, He remembered.

"What's all this, Lord?" It was one of the managing angels from Main Stores -
Body Parts (Puberty) Division.

"All what, Gabriel?" saith the Lord, somewhat testily, for verily it had been
a long day. All He needed was a militant angel shouting his mouth off.

"You've given one ten-year-old girl - Emily Thorpe - four girls' share of
breast."

"So what? There's no Holy Law that says all girls have to have tits the same
size."

"I know, but for Chrissakes, look! Four times as much as she ought to have!
This you call fair? Jee-zus!"

"I didn't get where I am today by being fair, Gabriel. I've signed the
requisition, just pick the parts and get them out, okay?"

And so it was done. Emily Thorpe's mother was bewildered. Emily was ecstatic.

But now, six weeks later, here was a repeat order for two identical sets, from
the same school. "Sod this," snorted Gabriel, crashing away at the keys of his
computer. "Who do they think I am, the Tit Fairy?" It had been bad enough
issuing one huge set to this Thorpe girl, without this additional blow to his
stock control. "They can have one set, and they can think themselves lucky
they're getting that." He hit Enter, logged off and grabbed the phone to
castigate the suppliers of pubic hair. That latest batch had been almost
straight. He'd be able to use some of it in Japan, but only the black...

The order for the Murchison twins' tits was the last one to come down to the
Puberty Warehouse that afternoon. "What the fuck's this, at four o' clock on a
Friday?" demanded Barnett, the stacker truck driver, who already had his coat
on, ready to leave. He snatched the requisition and ran a grimy finger down
the list of items. "Breasts, female. Extra large. One pair." Despite his
anxiety to get back to his cloud before it started raining for the weekend,
the warehouseman was a conscientious angel. He checked the overall consignment
weight as listed. It was a curiously high figure, even for a pair of extra
large breasts. These things happened. Sometimes God got confused between
pounds and kilograms. Better check it out with Gabriel, just to cover my ass.
And he picked up the phone.

Busy.

"Shit! Fucking Gabriel chatting up his lady friend again. You can never get
through to him." Barnett slammed down the phone and picked up the requisition
form again. It was stamped 'URGENT' across the top. Obviously a prayer
request, with authority right from the Top. He hesitated for just a moment,
then climbed aboard his stacker truck and whirred off between the racks.

(The story was written as a two-parter, although I will stick the two halves
together if they aren't being posted on the net as short stories. Later,
Gabriel comes down to Earth: he is the only angel allowed to do so under his
contract of employment. No doubt some people will be offended by the concept
of the Lord and His angels talking colloquial English in this way, but in the
absence of any evidence as to what language they use up there, we have
translated freely.)

(Here's a bit from part II, four year later.)

"I know you've been here a long time, Gabriel, but Heaven has to move with the
times." God looked somewhat uncomfortable, despite lounging in His executive
chair with His feet on the desk. He stubbed out His cigar in the ashtray. "You
may refer to it as a campaign to get rid of you personally, but you're seeing
it from a very narrow perspective. Actually, We're getting rid of a lot of
people, and you're only one of them. It's called de-layering."

The Angel Gabriel bristled. "You can call it what You like. It's legalised
robbery, that's what it is. I'm going to have words with some very important
angels. My dad..."

"Gabriel, it's no good bringing the Archangel Gabriel into this. He's got
plenty on his own plate these days since we promoted him sideways to look
after Sex n' Drugs n' Rock n' Roll, whatever that is. You'll get an excellent
redundancy package, five millenia's salary - the legal maximum - you can keep
your cloud and your company car..."

"A Ford Mondeo!"

"It's the top of the range model, and you chose it yourself. Air conditioning,
alloys, twelve-speaker stereo. It's only two years old. See the accounts
manager on your way out about your pension..."

"What about Puberty?" Gabriel grated as soon as he could get a word in.

"Puberty will look after itself," said God. "We're promoting Barnett to
Warehouse Manager and introducing a new computer system. Bill and Jesus are
looking after that aspect of it. There have been so many problems in that
area, we're starting again with a clean sheet of paper. For a start, a long
overdue division into Male Puberty and Female Puberty. Thanks in no small part
to your lack of organisational ability, boys have been steadily slipping
further and further behind in development for some years now. Young girls are
increasingly being forced to turn to older men. That's all going to change.
Any boys who fall short of the full pubertal development package by the age of
thirteen will from now on be entitled to claim compensation."

"Money? It will never work. The budget won't stand it.

"We're not talking about money. We're talking cock. Serious cock. Compensation
will be paid on a sliding scale, extending up to thirty inches. Or is that
centimetres...?"

Gabriel spluttered indignantly. "You can't go giving boys of thirteen cocks
that size! The whole structure of society as we know it would crumble to
dust."

"The whole point is, We won't need to hand out cocks of that size. The system
will run so smoothly, it won't be necessary to compensate anyone at all.
They'll all be perfectly happy running around with five inches each."

Gabriel opened his mouth again.

"We're standardising on five inches. Or is it five centimetres?" God tapped a
few figures into a calculator. "Inches. I knew I was right. I'm getting the
hang of this metric stuff now. The World Standard Penis. It will be issued to
boys on their twelfth birthday, and will remain..."

"Is that hard or soft?"

"What?" God looked puzzled.

"Is that five inches when it's hard, or when it's soft? Surely, Lord... surely
you know... penises, penes, aren't always the same size all the time."

"You mean they grow? Of course they do. Babies have little teensy-weensy ones.
Grown-ups have bigger ones. Teddy bears have none at all. That's another
thing..."

"Never mind about teddy bears. Cocks don't stay the same size all the time.
Surely You know that, even if You have led a sheltered life?" God looked
blankly at Gabriel. "Look." Gabriel fumbled beneath his robe, then swept a
clear space on the desk and carefully laid his cock on the polished mahogany.

"Where did you get that?"

"It's mine," said Gabriel modestly.

"Shit, it's enormous!"

"As Senior Manager of the Puberty Division, I was entitled to certain perks.
But that's not the point. Watch." Gabriel pulled God's keyboard towards him,
tapped a few words into it and hit Enter. An image of a particularly well
endowed young lady appeared on the screen. You're still watching?" said
Gabriel. "Not her! This!"

"It's getting even bigger!"

"I know. It's called an erection. Men get them. So do boys." A coffee cup slid
off the edge of the desk with a crash.

"Stop it! It's wrecking the place!"

"I can't stop it. That's the whole point!"

"We'll see about that," said God. "Nurse!"

"Rochelle, come on, love, it's time for school."

"Has she gone yet?"

"That's no way to speak of your twin sister, dear." Mother came into the
bedroom, absently picking up magazines and clothes. "Adele caught the earlier
bus. The one that's always full of boys from Marleigh. Come on, darling. It's
a lovely morning." She flung open the window and grinned at her daughter.
"Come on, get your arse out of bed!"

It wasn't the most diplomatic thing to say.

Rochelle began to cry.

"Sweetie, I'm sorry!" The statuesque and extremely bosomy woman hugged her
younger daughter - her younger daughter by seven minutes - stroking her
lustrous waist-length black hair.

"Sorry, Mummy. It's just... even after all these years. I've never stopped
praying, you know. Not since I was ten. Nor has Del. But sometimes I've
wondered if we're both praying for the same things."

Her mother couldn't answer. Her voice was too choked up. She rocked the girl
gently in her arms, then leaned back and looked into her face. The twins had
really become quite handsome girls in these five years since their dramatic
introduction to puberty. It was such a pity really that poor Rochelle's bosom
had never grown to more than a couple of tiny bumps. Adele had received far
more than twice her share, it seemed, and far more than twice Rochelle's share
as well. All Rochelle could claim as sign of her maturity was a considerably
more than generous backside. Even the fact that the twins were five feet ten
inches tall wasn't enough to compensate for Rochelle's 44-inch hips
measurement.

"You'll miss the bus, darling. Don't worry. I've got to go into town this
morning. I'll give you a ride to school."

The double-decker bus rocked along the twisting road to town. It was a Friday,
so the kids were in fine high spirits. The presence of Adele Murchison in the
upstairs compartment added to the atmosphere of celebration. On Fridays, the
school allowed students to dress as they liked, within reason. Adele liked to
push the envelope of reasonableness. Her jeans were dangerously tight,
stretched over the globes of her broad and swelling bottom. She was four
inches smaller than her twin around the hips, but north of the equator the
difference was rather more marked. Adele was so much larger than Rochelle, she
was almost out of sight. The boys gaped at the incredibly busty girl who had
chosen a blue denim shirt. On her, it looked more sexy than if she had
appeared on the school bus in a skimpy bikini. Her breasts thrust out more
than twelve inches in front of her chest. Nobody knew what her bust
measurement was, although there were many wild estimates.

The twins' classmate, Emily Thorpe, had been taken by her mother to see about
appearing as a Page Three girl. According to Emily, the photographer had been
startled by her bust size, but had taken a few hundred test shots and made a
booking for Emily to come back in nine months' time, on her sixteenth
birthday. Meanwhile, he had placed the test shots in his files, for use later.

Emily Thorpe's measurements were 45-22-35. Even so, Adele's bust was so much
bigger than Emily's, it was quite impossible to guess its true dimensions. The
one person who would be certain of the magical number was Veronica Twizzell,
who managed a custom bra franchise in the town. She made Emily Thorpe's bras
as well, as it happened, but for Veronica, a woman's bust measurement was a
secret between her and her corsetiere. She disapproved of Emily's boasting
around the school that she wore a size 34K cup.

"Whaddya doin' at the weekend, Del?" one of the bolder boys asked, leaning
over the back of his seat and gawping at Adele's improbably straining shirt.

Del bit her lower lip and fluttered her eyelashes. "I have to get ready for
summer. I need to do my legs and thighs."

"Do them? Howja mean?"

"Mum's got some special stuff to remove hair. You wouldn't believe how hairy I
get. You should just see the state of my bikini line!"

The boy's mouth fell open. "Oh!" he said, and slowly subsided into his seat.

(And so, Gabrielle comes down to Earth...)

"Still growing, I see, Adele."

"Yes, Miss Twizzell," said Adele proudly.

"You can call me Veronica, you know. You're not a kid any more."

"I suppose I'm not," said Adele, raising an arm and peering at herself in the
mirror. "Shel said I didn't need to shave under my arms. Maybe I should,
really. I'm like an ape under there. You should have seen how much I shaved
off my inner thighs..."

"Golly! Really!" Veronica went slightly pale at the thought. She flourished
her tape measure. "Waist still the same?"

"Twenty-five," said Adele.

"Check. Twenty-five. Hips, forty?"

"I'm afraid so. Still, that's better than forty-four, like my sister."

"Chest under the bust, thirty-two, as usual." Veronica tapped on her teeth
with her pencil, then tugged experimentally at Adele's well-laden bra. "This
one's holding up well."

"Two months old, this one," Adele confirmed.

"Let's go for it, then. Hold still." The tape went round the girl's bust.
"Hmm-mmm. You're an inch or so bigger than a month ago, but that's neither
here nor there, given how big you are. Take your bra off, and I'll measure you
in all the other directions." She watched critically as Adele unhooked and
unloaded herself, carefully lowering her breasts to their full length. They
rested low down on her stomach, wobbling softly. "You can choose your material
after I've done this. I've got some new stretchy shiny stuff that looks rather
nice in larger sizes. And you're certainly one of those. I wouldn't swear to
it, but this is probably the biggest bikini I've ever made."

"I shall disguise myself, of course," Gabriel announced loftily. "Angels
aren't a common sight around high schools. I'll have a word with
Transformations and see if they have anything my size."

"Can they do anything about your nose?" asked Jesus.

"He could go as a scaly anteater," suggested God.

"It's not a fancy dress ball," Gabriel complained. "This is a serious mission.
Apart from anything else, it will show You the folly of your dispensing with
the services of valuable members of Your organisation. What about cash?"

"Cash? Angels don't need money."

"This one does. I'll be disguised as a mere mortal. A school student. I will
need lots of pocket money for Coke, magazines, Chinese take-aways, CD's,
tampons..."

"Tampons? You're going as a girl?"

"Of course. How else can I get close enough to the objects of my scrutiny. I
need to get right into their changing rooms, their bedrooms..."

"Give him fifty, Jesus..."

"Fifty won't keep me going for more than a couple of days. Make it two
hundred."

"One hundred."

"One seventy-five."

"One fifty."

Gabriel grumbled as he counted the grubby notes before tucking them under his
left wing. "I'll see You next week sometime."

"There's a new girl starting in our class today. I just saw her in the
office." Adele was chirping with excitement.

"Funny time to start school," said Rochelle. "We go on holiday in three
weeks."

"She must have just moved into the town."

"What's she look like?" Emily Thorpe wanted to know.

"I didn't get much of a look at her. Blonde, a big nose..."

"What about her figure, Adele?" Emily drawled. "Another skinny lizzie, or has
she got a body, like us?"

Adele looked the Page Three Star up and down. "Like yours, you mean, or like
mine?"

"How big are her boobs?"

"I couldn't see them," Adele admitted. "I was only passing the door. Miss
Ambrose said she was in our class and we'd be meeting her at ten o' clock."

"Another half an hour," said Rochelle, and added under her breath, "I hope
she's got a huge arse."

At that moment, Gabrielle was completing the formalities. "Mother's maiden
name was Gates," she improvised. "Pearl E Gates."

"Pearly Gates?" said the school secretary. "And you're Gabrielle Angelo? How
heavenly!"

"I suppose it is," admitted Gabrielle, who hadn't heard that one for at least
fifty years. "I hadn't thought of it before."

"No doubt your new classmates will enjoy the joke. Your classroom is 14E, over
in the next block. Miss Ambrose is your Form Teacher." She watched as
Gabrielle stood up, rather unsteady on her two-inch heels. The unaccustomed
footwear caused Gabrielle to stick out her generous rump in one direction and
her much more than generous bosom in another. "Golly," said the secretary.
"You've got a pair there! You don't get many of them to the pound. Are they
real?"

Gabrielle suspected she had overdone things a little in the voluptuousness
stakes. She'd asked Puberty for a decent set of breasts, and hadn't really
thought too much about it when she'd tried them on in the low-G conditions up
in Heaven. Down here, she realised, carrying a pair of melons like these was
no joke. They wobbled all over the place. She'd kill that Barnett when she got
back home. He'd insisted these were the standard breast equipment for a
fifteen-year-old English schoolgirl. They were at least three times as big as
any others she had seen in her first half hour at the school, and they were
infinitely bigger than the school secretary's. But then, Gabrielle reflected,
it was variety such as this that made life so interesting. When the management
had its way, all girls would be the same size. Like identical twins. Well,
like some identical twins.

She found the classroom and paused outside the door. This was a new experience
for her, meeting a bunch of mortals for the first time. She looked down at
herself. Barnett had definitely overdone the breasts. A group of boys had
passed her in the corridor and their eyes had nearly popped out of their
heads. The school uniform consisted of an appallingly tight blouse, what
seemed to be a quarter-cup platform bra, a pair of panties that were doing
their best to crawl into every fundamental orifice she possessed and - just
about concealing them - a navy blue pleated skirt apparently tailored for a
girl no more than four feet tall.

And surely, Transformations hadn't got the footwear right. These heeled shoes
were designed to cripple her, and as for these black stockings with that
elaborate device to hold them up...

She was on the point of fleeing to call Heaven and get transformed into
something else when the classroom door opened.

"Ah, you must be Gabrielle! Come in and meet your new friends." There was no
escape. Gabrielle followed the teacher into the room, where a sudden stunned
silence turned into a succession of gasps, cries of astonishment, whistles and
catcalls. Not all of these came from the boys. She stood at the front of the
class looking round helplessly. The rest of the girls seemed far less
overdressed. Mystifyingly, they wore their shirts outside their skirts. Most
of them seemed to be wearing flat shoes and white ankle socks, although one
girl in the front row had black stockings on. She also had a very large bust,
which was a slight comfort to Gabrielle, but not much; despite being very
large, it wasn't remotely near as big as hers.

"Hi," the girl said languidly, "my name's Emily Thorpe. Are those things
real?"

Gabrielle was puzzled. How could they not be real? But this was God's
favourite, Emily Thorpe! He'd done a good job, Gabrielle had to admit. But
where were those twins? She looked further back in the classroom. Ah, there,
at the back. Two identical faces, framed by dark hair. Gabrielle recalled the
dark hair clearly. It had been an ideal opportunity to shift that surplus
straight black pubic hair that had been hanging around the warehouse for
months. And it wasn't completely out of order. The twins were, after all,
praying for secondary sexual characteristics. That included pubic hair.

"There's a spare seat at the back, Gabrielle," said the teacher. "Next to
Rochelle Murchison. Rochelle's the dark haired girl on the left."

Another disturbing thought occurred to Gabrielle. As Gabriel, he hadn't been
unduly concerned when Transformations had told him that there were lots and
lots of Asian families in England. He would blend in quite nicely, they said.
Now, confronted by this class of determinedly Anglo-Saxon youth, Gabrielle
wondered exactly where Transformations got their data. Gabrielle's appearance
was certainly Asian, but she clearly wasn't from the Indian sub-continent. She
was unarguably Japanese.

No wonder the class seemed surprised when this admittedly beautiful but
staggeringly well-developed Japanese girl suddenly appeared in their midst. A
blonde Japanese girl, too. Most remarkable.

Gabrielle sat down at the vacant desk. She was going to have some explaining
to do. So whose brilliant idea had this been?

Extract 05 (Encounter At Brownwater Sands)

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.

This year, Emma's father had been promoted in his job. He was now in charge of
a whole office. He had a square of carpet in front of his desk. Emma's mother
used 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 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 army-issue shorts, his sandals flapping in the
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 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 had missed out a vital stage somewhere. She had progressed from being an
attractive little girl to being an attractive big girl. 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 mind, 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. 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 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.

Her friend Zoe's tent was just across the way. Emma had befriended Zoe on the
first afternoon. 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 look which suggested that she had just been fucked
to within an inch of her life. Emma chose Zoe partly to shock her parents, and
partly because Zoe's bust was was no more than a B cup.

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 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.

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 intruding. 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 two girls go down to the beach, hoping to get laid. Meeting a crowd of
boys playing soccer, they introduce themselves and suggest a game of rugby,
just for a change. The girls are made team captains, and take tunrs in
choosing their players. The game commences...)

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.

"That's five points for a try. 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 forty-two 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 at sixty-three 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 field, where the ball had never 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. "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 feet of the boys. 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 tits
had grown. As a lifestyle decision, she realised, it 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. 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 caught 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 her offered to rub some cream on her. Perhaps on her back or something.
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 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, but 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 score sixty-three 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 in a
state of almost unbearable arousal.

"Who's got some sun cream?" she asked desperately.

(Emma needs to visit the toilet, which turns out to be one of those temporary
things in a portable building...)

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, were 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 take her back and get the other one, Miss..."

"Of course you can't take her back!" The little men cringed. "Once we've
abducted a victim, that's it. We can't take 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 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 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 swiveled 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 paneling. 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.

"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 calipers 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 mix-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 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."

"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... 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?"

(Et cetera!)