Generation Game

by

Axolotl

A popular fantasy involves getting off with your girlfriend's mother. That's what happens here. There are some extremely large breasts involved. The story is in two parts, known for accounting purposes as Part One and Part Two. As indicated immediately below, this is Part Two
© 1999 Axolotl

Part Two

 

"Forty-what?"

"Forty-four! I couldn't believe it myself. I knew this new bra felt tight, considering it's not two weeks old yet, but forty-four! I'm bigger than Mary O'Donnel. Of course, I'm much bigger than her, but you know what I mean. Let's get this bra off. Wow, that's so much better!"
She looked down at herself with evident pride and a certain amount of concern. You could see how much bigger they were, Tommy gasped. They were now — although he couldn't really think of a way to introduce the fact into conversation — bigger than her mother's. Unsupported, they rested heavily on her rib-cage, their bulbous tips just below the level of the top of her grey pleated skirt. "Do they hurt?" he asked caringly.
"Hurt? Why should tits hurt? They only hurt when they bounce too much. I've had a bra on, so they only bounce the usual amount, same as other girls. Or maybe a bit more."
"I thought you were going to give up games. That was why you wanted to get bigger. What's the point of being measured for a new hockey shirt if you're trying to give it up?"
She gnawed her lip. "I thought I might carry on for a little while longer. I know I bounce ever such a lot, but when I tried the hockey shirt on and looked in the mirror, I looked so sexy! I stick out miles! So I thought maybe I could play until the Easter hols, then give up."
Tommy gave up. Playing hockey either hurt her breasts or it didn't. Now, she liked the look of herself in a tight shirt, so she didn't want to stop playing games any more. He wondered if the boys watched the girls playing hockey.
"We've got a game next Saturday morning," she said. "Not this Saturday, next week. Come along if you'd like to watch. You won't be the only boy there. Loads of the boys from our school come and cheer us on." There's your answer, Tommy thought. Psychic Tracy strikes again.
"What time is the game?"
"Half past ten. Of course, I'll have to have a new bra before then, but I'm getting so simply enormous now, I don't know where I'll find one to fit me. It might have to be altered to fit, or even made specially. Forty-four! I must be a thirty-two KK-cup or something like that. I wish you could come to the bra shop with me instead of Mum, but I don't suppose they'd like having boys in there."
"No, I don't think they would."
"Were you fucking Mum when I came in?"
The question was totally unexpected. Tracy had a habit of doing that.
"Me?"
"Who else could have been? Only there was this huge smell of cum in the front room, and Mum sort of standing there like she didn't know what to do with herself and her sweater on back to front, and you doing up your zip. I thought, hello! Dirty work afoot."
"I wasn't!"
"Okay, I'll put it another way. Was Mum fucking you?" He shook his head. "Giving you a wank?" Another shake. "Sucking you off? Ah, that explains why she sounded a bit strange. She had a mouth full of jizz. I don't think I'd like it very much. Sylvia Duncombe says it tastes funny. I could do it for you, if you want, but I'd prefer not to. Is Mum any good at it? Candi Caldicot's best at our school, they reckon. She sucks everybody. She even does girls! I wonder what girls taste like? I've tried licking my finger afterwards, but it doesn't seem to taste of much. Boys always say it tastes of fish. Do you want a taste?"
She was already pushing her skirt down across her narrow hips, her breasts lolloping happily and bouncing off each other.
Tommy didn't really want to, but didn't want to seem impolite. Her white panties came into view, slightly translucent, showing the outline of an extensive clump of dark hair at the front. It seemed much darker than the hair on her head.
"You don't have to," she said, seeing his haunted expression. "We can do it some other time, when I teach you how to fuck. Or you can try a little taste." Obligingly, she dipped a finger out of sight, stirred it around with an expression of concentration, then brought it out, glistening wet.
Actually, Tommy thought as he sucked on the girl's little wriggling finger, it did taste a little bit like fish, but it wasn't at all nasty fish. And it semed to taste of lots of other interesting things besides.

 

 

She'd told him to watch out for her on the hockey field. "I'll be the one with a number eleven on my back," she'd whispered seductively into the phone. "That's a quarter of my bust measurement!"

"Four times eleven?"
"Yeah, although I've gone up to forty-five! Mum says she didn't reach that until she was fifteen. Jealous old cow. I gotta go! Teacher's coming. Not literally, though. Love ya!"
Now, as the teams trotted out and lined up, Tommy realised how utterly superfluous had been her advice. Although the whole team had something sticking out under their bright yellow shirts, Tracy's breasts stuck out three times as far as anyone else's. And they bounced so much he could almost feel it himself. She didn't seem to be in any discomfort, though. On the contrary, she spent a lot of time taking extremely deep breaths while standing sideways to the crowd, which seemed to consist almost entirely of boys. Tracy was the most popular player in the history of the game.
But at half-time, she came over to him, dropped her hockey-stick and flung her arms around his neck, doing her best to stick her tongue down his throat. "I've been nearly flooding my pants, seeing you watching my tits bounce," she breathed throatily. "I am sopping wet! Here, have a feel..."
"Trace! Not here!"
"It's all right," she said, quickly hiking up her brief skirt. "There," she said, producing a wet finger for him to suck. In fact, it was two wet fingers and a wet thumb. There was a great deal more sweat than usual in the mix, but it was still unmistakeably Tracy-juice. "You didn't think I meant you to put four fingers into my pussy, did you? Although they'd certainly slip right in there, the way I feel. Hey, I gotta go and play again. You don't have to watch the second half, if you want to get away. But later on, I feel like teaching you how to fuck, okay? Love ya!"
She bounced back on to the field, and the curious eyes of the boys in the crowd burned into him like laser torches. He turned and melted away, the hoots and catcalls of the crowd in his ears.
Forty-five inches! Tracy! When was she going to stop growing? Or was she going to stop at all? An image came to him of Tracy wheeling a pair of monster breasts around the hockey field on a wheelbarrow, stopping at intervals to take her stick and score a stunning goal. Forty-five! From what he knew of bra sizes, she had to be a custom size now. She couldn't manage any more by wearing the wrong size bra with the band shortened to fit. Mrs Tucker knew a woman who did alterations and made bras. What did she call her? Swizzle? Twizzle, or something. Not her real name, obviously. It would be fun to watch. He could fuck Tracy while Twizzle did the measuring...
Stop it, Tommy! You'll have another accident in your pants. Your mother might get suspicious if you keep on washing all your own clothes.
In fact, he had been doing his own washing early on a Sunday morning these last few weeks. Apart from the sheets from his bed, there were all those pairs of crisp n' dry underpants, his school trousers, and Tracy's bra. Not that it was any use to Tracy any more. It was far too small, and far too big for any other girl. Its only purpose now was to wank into, and this he did several times a day. It was a pity to waste all that good sperm, but Mrs Tucker was only sucking him off three times a week at the most, and Tracy seemed to be able to take it or leave it, although she had given him one extremely painful wank. She didn't seem to have the technique quite worked out yet. Why did she have to squeeze it so hard, and why did she push instead of pulling? She'd said that Sylvia Duncombe had taught her how to do it to a courgette, but it was a case of too much theory and not enough practice. And he was sure a courgette could feel no pain.
Although he was now seeing Mrs Tucker on most Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, she wouldn't suck him more than once in a session. "We have to leave some juice for my Tracy, darling, don't we?"
"But we don't..."
"Don't argue, boy! She's a growing girl, and she needs plenty of come to keep her strength up!"
It was a pity, as not only was Mrs Tucker craving it, Tommy was fast becoming hooked on the attentions of the older woman as well. She knew what she was doing, all right. And one Tuesday morning, when Tommy watched Tracy wobble precariously off to the bus stop, before knocking on Mrs Tucker's front door, she weakened in her resolve. After all, the boy had all day to recover his strength.
"You're very naughty," she told him indistinctly round a mouthful of organ. "Bunking off school."
"It's only algebra," he explained as he exploded in her mouth with a pent-up load that had been simmering away for about ten hours. Her will-power dwindled away to nothing and she permitted him to come between her tits twenty minutes later. Once started on the slippery slope, there is often no climbing back up, and Mrs Tucker's slopes were by then as slippery as her love-tunnel. After a refreshing cup of tea, she guided him between her legs and into what she coyly referred to as her secret garden. It could have done with a half hour or so with the lawn mower, but the digging was easy, and having already performed twice that morning already, Tommy found no difficulty in making proceedings last almost half an hour. In fact, he was beginning to worry that he might never come again. Mrs Tucker had no problem with it at all, as she practically howled the bedroom down in her first proper orgasm in ten years.
"What's the matter, Mrs Tucker?" he asked, concerned.
"Nothing, nothing, nothing!" And whoosh, she did it again just to prove it. And again.
So Tommy missed algebra. Mrs Tucker phoned the school and explained that her 'son' had gone down with something. He stayed until just before three thirty, as she didn't really want him to bump into Tracy as she got off the bus.
Tommy thus missed far more than just algebra.
So, unfortunately, did Mrs Tucker.

 

 

"Of course I'm sure," she hissed into the phone. "I've just done a test. You buy them at the chemists'. It's positive."

Tommy's heart went pit-a-pat. He had an idea Mr Tucker wasn't going to be best pleased about this latest development. Not that the husband knew that his daughter's boyfriend had been pumping sac-loads of sperm into his wife's receptive cunny ten or eleven times a week for six weeks.
Tracy probably knew, Tommy thought. Tracy seemed to know everything. Even so, she wasn't too curious about Tommy's relationship with her mother. She was more concerned with the size of her bust over the past six weeks. After a tearful evening when she had gone down almost to forty-four inches again, she had since more than compensated for that by adding a bewildering four inches.
"I'm miles bigger than Linzi Dawn McKenzie now," she had pointed out, lifting her breasts from their resting place just below her navel.
Which was patently obvious to anyone.
Tommy tore his wandering mind back to the matter in hand. It was half an hour later and he was missing Geography. "Aren't you on the pill?" he asked Mrs Tucker, reasonably enough.
"Of course not!" she wailed. "I came off it after Tracy was born and my tits got so huge that Mr Tucker didn't fancy me any more. Besides, it was making my breasts even bigger. Same as it's doing to Tracy."
"Oh, you noticed."
"You could hardly miss it. She must be getting on for fifty inches now."
"Forty-eight and a quarter," said Tommy, "as of last night."
"There you are, then. We're allergic to it, or something."
"You ought to let her stop taking it, before she explodes or something."
"Girls don't explode. Besides, she'd get pregnant. One pregnant woman in the family is probably enough."
"But we don't..."
"Don't start that again, young Thomas. Tracy can have a new bra for her birthday."
"If she carries on putting on four inches every month until her birthday, you'll be buying her next bra from the garden centre."
"It's an idea. Still, she said she didn’t mind if she got bigger tits. The problem at the moment is that she's going to have a little sister. What are we going to do?"
"We?"
"Us."
"Oh."
"I'll end up in jail for seducing a minor. And my husband will end up in jail for murdering one."
"You'll have to get him to fuck you again, quickly."
"That's the only way he knows. But even so, he doesn't like it any more. It must be the male menopause. He hates my useless great tits, so he won't come near me."
Tommy grunted and deposited his seed. He and Mrs Tucker were living proof that sex wasn't ruining the art of conversation.

 

 

"They can't still be only forty-nine and a half," Tracy complained.

Tommy sighed. "We'll they're definitely bigger. Last week, when I measured round the fattest part of one, it was twenty-two inches. It's twenty-three now. It must be because they're getting so big and heavy, they hang down lower and they don't stick out as much."
"How can I explain that to the girls in my class?" she whined petulantly. "They're taking bets on how much bigger I am at the end of each week. They can see just by looking at me I'm getting bigger, but if the measurement stays the same someone's going to accuse someone of cheating. I've been forty-nine and a half for a fortnight, now!"
Tommy frowned. "Taking bets? How does it work?"
"I dunno. I can't do that sort of maths. Candi Caldicot's running it. We reckon she's pregnant, by the way!"
Tommy choked on his can of Coke. It came down his nose. He looked forlornly up at Tracy, who was trying not to laugh. "I wish you wouldn't do that!" he coughed, and took another cautious sip.
"What did I say? About Candi being pregnant? That's nothing to get excited about. She's fourteen. Mum's different, though. She's ancient, but she says she's pregnant too! Good old Dad! I bet he's pleased! Look, are you going to drink that Coke properly, or spend all night blowing bubbles down your nose with it?" He handed her the can. "Hey, tell you what! I've had this brilliant idea. Instead of me teaching you how to fuck, Mum could do it! Now she's pregnant, you could do it with her as much as you liked, and it wouldn't matter!" She raised the can to her lips in self-congratulation, then put it down in a hurry. "This Coke's all full of snot."

 

 

"It's all right, it's good news!" Tracy sounded so overjoyed on the phone, Tommy was beginning to wonder if she'd been overdue as well as her mother.

"What's good news?"
"Candi Caldicot was getting complaints from some of the boys about their bets, so she got some of the girls to measure me at lunch time, behind the bike sheds. You must have been doing it all wrong. I'm fifty-three inches now."
"Fifty-three?" Tommy looked round in panic in case his mother was listening outside the bedroom door. "Fifty-three?" he continued more quietly. "Wow!" He hadn't seen Tracy for nearly a week. She must be twice as big as Linzi Dawn McKenzie by now. He pulled open his drawer and removed the folder marked MATHS PROBLEMS from beneath his socks. There, arranged in descending order of bust size, were his dog-eared pictures of girls. His Tracy was miles bigger than any of the ones with real tits. Fifty-three inches! She must be as big now as some of those inflatable strippers with stupid names. He looked for the bra. It wasn't in its usual place.
"What are you doing?" she asked him. He'd almost forgotten he was supposed to be still talking to her on the phone.
"Just looking for something in my drawer."
"Your picture collection? Or is it something to remind you of me?" His blood ran cold again.
"No, something to do with homework."
"It's not very respectful, thinking about homework when you're supposed to be talking to the girl you love. When can I see you?"
"I dunno. Tomorrow?" He was seeing Mrs Tucker first thing in the morning.
"Why not tonight?"
"Tonight? It's Tuesday!"
"So, what's special about Tuesdays? Come round. No, I can come round to your house. I'll get Dad to bring me over. No, I'll catch the bus, it will be quicker. See ya in half an hour..."
"Trace...!"
Nothing. Just a telephone noise. Well, if she was coming round, he'd better start clearing up the mess in his bedroom.
She was there in twenty-one minutes. He tumbled precipitously down the stairs when the front doorbell rang, but his mother happened to be passing the door and opened it. He found her staring open-mouthed at Tracy on the doorstep. Tommy wondered if it might perhaps have been less of a shock for his mother if Tracy had worn her school uniform, then he realised that Tracy would have looked just as disturbing if she had worn a potato sack. As it was, she was wearing a sort of quilted jacket on top of the rest of her clothes. It was new, and for it to be big enough to fit her around the bust, it was too long in the body, coming about one third of the way down her hockey-player's thighs. To Tommy's mother, the jacket seemed to be all the girl was wearing.
"Yes?"
"Hello Mrs Mountshaft, I'm Tracy!"
"She's my girlfriend, Mum," panted Tommy, arriving on the scene.
Tommy's mother sniffed. So this was the creature who called at such inconvenient times presumably to talk about filth and sex with her only son. "I suppose you'd better come in."
"She's come to help me with her homework," Tommy explained.
"No, I've come for you to help me with yours," Tracy giggled, coming inside.
"It's upstairs," said Tommy, leading the way. His mother's eyes were starting to pop in outrage. A girl! In his bedroom! Whatever next?
"Is the loo upstairs, too? I'm bursting!"
With the loudest sniff of all time, Tommy's mother retreated to the kitchen. This strumpet, this young slut, was going to be using her bathroom, probably bleeding all over the place and leaving unmentionable objects floating in the toilet. And someone was going to have to explain to her Thomas what these appalling things were for.
"Wow, what's eating her?" Tracy followed him up the stairs.
"Shh-hh, she hears everything."
They closed the bedroom door behind them, and Tracy immediately tore off her jacket and attacked Tommy with ferocious single-mindedness, bearing him to the bed with a crash and a great noise of springs. She came up for air after what seemed like twenty minutes. "Shit, I've been thinking about that all the way over here on the bus!"
"I thought you wanted to go to the bathroom." Tommy sat up, breathing raggedly. His lips felt bruised. She had sucked his tongue almost down to the bone.
"Good idea, before I burst. Where is it?"
She was gone nearly ten minutes.
"I couldn't get rid of it," she snorted, giggling into a hankie.
"Get rid of what?" Tommy felt a sense of disappointment mingled with anxiety. If this was the wrong week for Tracy, not only would he not be able to do things with her, he faced the prospect of having to explain to his mother the presence of alien items in the toilet. He was sure his mother was ignorant of such matters. His mother would surely have found an alternative to menstruation.
Tracy's reply was even more hair-raising. "A log," she laughed at his horrified expression. "One of my super-poos. I'm famous for them at home. A Titanic Tracy-turd. An enormous great long floater. I told you I was bursting."
"It's not still..." Tommy's face was on fire with shame.
"Of course not!" She examined her face in the mirror. "I took it out and put it in the rubbish bin!"
"Aaargh! Trace!" He was already halfway to the bathroom. She hauled him back.
"Silly! Of course it's gone. I had to flush the bog three times before it went, but it's gone now. Your mum wouldn't mind, would she? Doesn't she do things like shitting?"
"I don't think she does. If she does, she does it in a ladylike fashion. You sure it's okay in there?"
"Course it is! I opened the window. You'd never know I'd been in there. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Your Mum would think it was one of yours. She'd never believe a girl could do one as big as that. I wish you could have seen it now." She was holding her hands an improbable distance apart. Tommy went pale. She perched on the bed and beckoned to him. God, her bust was immense! She was wearing her baggy sweater dress, and it was dangerously tight. "Love you," she murmured softly into his ear, then disengaged herself and lay back on the bed. Her breasts seemed about a foot high. "Come on," she sighed, squirming her lovely bottom and spreading her legs. "Let's do it!"
"We can't! Not here!"
She propped herself up on an elbow and looked around the cluttered bedroom. "Looks as good a place as any," she said, and began peeling off her panties in a businesslike way. "I want you. I want your babies!"
"I haven't got any..." he began. Tracy was at her ease, flat on her back, legs wide apart and knees drawn up. She was very much on display, and obviously ready for him. She was glistening with moisture. It seemed to be trickling down in a steady stream. It was probably making a puddle on the bed. Panic.
"What are you doing?"
"Lift your bum while I put this towel under you!"
She laughed. "You'll have to wash the towel yourself afterwards. You daren't let your mum see." Right as usual, Tracy.
"We'll have to be ever so quiet," Tommy whispered.
"I'll be quiet as a mouse," she promised, then when he approached and lowered his weight on to her, "Squeak, squeak!"
But she was as good as her word, saying not a word as Tommy lay between her thighs and she found him and guided him into her. She felt altogether different from her mother, tighter but wetter. As soon as he was inside her, she began an unnervingly well-practised rhythm. Bloody hell! He was going to last about ten seconds!
"Not yet," she implored. "This feels so nice." Tracy wasn't usually much of a one for such understatement.
"I'm going to come," he croaked, unable to help himself.
"No!" Tracy panted, but she kept up her plunging motion nevertheless. "Not yet, Tommy. Not yet! Do it! No-ooo! Yessss!" She exercised a woman's prerogative of changing her mind.
The cry rang out, echoing off the walls. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the twanging of bedsprings and the sound of enormous heaving bosoms.
"Do you think she heard?"
"She was probably listening. She'll be up in a minute."
Tracy pulled him down. "If she heard, she heard. I am pretty loud when I come, I suppose. No point in pretending any more. Give us a kiss! Wow! You're pretty good!"
"So are you."
"I beg your pardon, Tommy Mountshaft! I am not 'pretty good', I am the best! What am I?"
"The best, Trace."
"How best am I?"
"The very best, Trace!"
"Quite right, too, and don't you forget it. And I've got a fifty-three inch bust."

 

 

"She can't have heard us," Tracy said. "Let's do it again!"

"Trace! We can't. She's probably listening outside the bedroom door."
"We'll give her something to listen to, then. Woooh, Tommy! You've got an enormous whopper!"
"Tracy, please! I can't do it yet, anyway. It takes time to get ready again."
"You've had nearly ten minutes. How long do you need?" She lay on her back contentedly, squeezing her mounded breasts together in the middle, then letting them sag to overflow the sides of her chest. Her hands almost disappeared into the billowing flesh each time. "My tits are bigger than Tina Small's were when she was thirteen," she said at length.
"Yours are bigger than anyone's at your age. Is she at your school as well?"
"Silly. Danny Baxter brought some pictures of her into school. She ended up with an eighty-four inch bust. I wonder how big I'll get to, if I'm bigger than she was. Her bust was only fifty-one. She had to wear a blazer for school, and it was so big, the sleeves came right down and nearly covered her hands. I bet if I had to wear a blazer, mine would, too. And she got to be famous."
"Famous? What for?"
"For having big tits. I bet if the papers and everything knew about me, I'd be famous, too. I am really huge," she added with charming modesty. She bounced them around a few more times. "Are you ready yet?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't know? Let me play with it. I'll make it ready."
"I don't think we ought to, Trace. Dad will be home in a minute."
"Wow! What's he like? Is he as big as my dad?"
"No, he's only little, and skinny."
"How big's his willie?"
"Tracy!"
She rolled over on to her side, giggling helplessly. Her breasts were piled up like two big bags of flour.
"Haven't you seen it?"
"Of course not!" Tommy heard a car and went to the window. "He's here."
"Oh, good. I'll be able to find out for myself." She pouted. "Don't you want to do me again?"
"Of course I do. But we can't do it now. Put your sweater back on. Please, Trace!"
"S'not a sweater. It's a dress. I don't want to put it on. I'm not cold. In fact, I'm really hot!"
"You've got to get dressed. What if he comes upstairs?" Footsteps could be heard approaching. Tracy's face was flushed, her lips were wet and parted. There was a sudden knock on the bedroom door.
"Come in, Dad," said Tracy suddenly in her deepest voice. Tommy bleated and buried his head in both hands.

 

 

"I want to see you again. I've got something important to show you."

"I'm not allowed to speak to you," Tommy whispered into the phone. "Please. I'll see you at your house later."
"I can't. I'm going to be late at school again. We're all being kept in for an hour. It's that Danny Baxter's fault. He..."
Tommy slammed the phone down just in time as his mother appeared.
"Who was that?"
"Wrong number."
"Another one? That's a dozen since last week. And anyway, why were you talking to them so long?"
"I was trying to help them find the right number. They wanted the butcher's..." He grabbed his books and fled.
If it hadn't been for the insatiable Mrs Tucker, Tommy would have had serious thoughts about his relationship with Tracy. Tracy was trouble with a very large T. If it occurred to him that the girl might be just as insatiable as her mother, he chose not to think about it. He preferred not to contemplate that Tracy might be finding satisfaction anywhere else, Danny Baxter or wherever.
In fact, there hadn't been the uproar Tommy had expected after last week's episode. Although his mother had promised the most severe punishment for having a naked girl in his room, his father had taken little or no action. "Where does she live?" he had asked and, "What's her father's phone number?" Tommy had answered his questions while trembling in his boots, but had heard nothing more about it apart from a stern warning not to speak to Tracy again.
That afternoon, as he thrust deep into Mrs Tucker's tunnel, he found himself looking forward to the girl's homecoming with quite an array of mixed feelings. She had something important to show him. Something lewd from that fount of all on-line smut, Danny Baxter? Maybe she had pictures of that woman she'd mentioned, or one of those stories about girls who needed huge custom-built brassieres.
"Penny for your thoughts, dear!" said Mrs Tucker. "If you're not going to finish, I could maybe get on with the housework." Tommy realised he had been lost in thought. So lost, in fact, that Mrs Tucker had completed her customary orgasm and he had continued slithering away getting softer and softer. "What's the matter, sweetie? Worried about something?"
"Yes," he said, "Tracy." He hadn't meant to. It just slipped out. In every sense.

 

 

At that precise moment, Tracy wasn't worrying about very much at all. "That's right," she sighed. "Fifty-four inches! I'm growing so fast, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever stop." She leaned back against the car seat and gathered her immense bosom up in one stupendous armful, while allowing her other hand to fall accidentally on to her lover's innermost thigh. She pouted and stretched lazily. "Do you think I'm ever going to stop growing, Mr..."

"Roger. Call me Roger."
"Ooooh, Roger! It's such a strong, manly name." She unclipped her seat belt and leaned over, resting her boiling hot breast on the driver's upper leg.
"You'd better fasten your seat belt, Tracy. We might get stopped..."
"The police wouldn't stop us, Mr ... Roger. They'd think you were a lovely kind Daddy taking his little girl home from school." She sat back and positioned the belt between her mammoth globes, tilting her head to gauge the effect. "You'd like to see them, wouldn't you? I mean, really see them! They're really big, Roger."
The car seemed to hesitate and falter for a second and the driver gave a low moan in his throat.
"Oh, Roger! Not again! You haven't ... you haven't, have you?"
He had.
"What a shame! Never mind, you can take me to the end of our road and I'll walk the last hundred yards. We can try again some other time, can't we? Then I'll let you see them. Please say we can try again, Roger! But it will have to be soon. My boobs are growing so fast, you see?"
Roger said they could try again the next evening, if he could get away from work early again. He'd call her mobile phone number...
Tracy hugged her latest little present to her mountainous young chest — funny Belgian chocolates yesterday, six pairs of nice silk panties today — offered her cheek for a goodbye kiss and stepped out of the car. She waved happily and set off home. In several of the houses, curtains twitched as she passed. Young Tracy's ever-increasing bosom was rapidly becoming one of the major scandals of the district.

 

 

"Not again! She can't be home already! She said the whole class had been kept in after school."

"That's what she told me, too!"
"At least, she's telling us both the same story now," said Mrs Tucker, hurriedly pulling her housecoat across her rather too erect nipples. "She must have realised it's easier to remember one excuse than two."
They heard the girl thundering up the stairs, there was a slamming of drawers, then she came down.
"Oh, hi, Tommy! Fancy seeing you here again! Has Mummy been looking after you?" She bounced into the kitchen and pottered about in there. Mrs Tucker gave a heavy sigh, her entertainment ended for the foreseeable future. "I'd better be getting Mr Tucker's dinner ready," she said, as Tracy came back in and looked wide-eyed at them over a glass of milk.
Tracy pulled a face at her mother's retreating back, then perched her bottom next to Tommy on the couch. "Hello, you! I've got something to show you. Up in my room. Can you guess what it is?"
"Something rude?"
Tracy giggled. "Not rude. Not really. Nice. Do you want a drink of my milk?"
"Your what?"
"This, silly!" She offered him her glass. "What did you think I meant? Oooh, Tommy! You didn't think I meant you could suck my tits, did you. You can, anyway. If you want to." She stood up urgently and dragged him to his feet. "Come on upstairs."

 

 

"Mrs Mountstaff? Good afternoon. My name's Tucker. Charlie Tucker."

Mrs Mountshaft stared at this mountainous man blocking out the sunlight from her front door, and smiled thinly. "Mountshaft. But I don't think I've had the pleasure," she said truthfully, not having had any pleasure for a number of years.
"I'm Tracy's father. You know, Tommy's girlfriend? I wondered if I might have a word..."
"You'd better come in." She stepped aside.
"Nice little place you've got here." He had to duck to go through the door into the living room. "Is Tommy your only child?"
"Yes. I ... we decided once was ... one was enough. He's a good boy."
"I'm sure he is, Mrs Pikestaff. And Tracy's a good girl, too, deep down. She's a bit wild, and her ... appearance is rather unfortunate..."
"Mountshaft. Unfortunate?"
"Her bust is far too big," Mr Tucker apologised, "but she's not a bad girl, despite that. My wife is the same, although Tracy's much bigger than her already. I'm afraid I don't find large busts at all attractive."
Mrs Mountshaft looked puzzled. Why was he telling her all this?
"Anyway, I was passing, Mrs Jackstaff, and I thought I'd like to tell you that despite her looks, Tracy isn't a slut at all. And Tommy seems to be a restraining influence on her. It might not be a bad thing if they continued to see each other..."
His soft voice tailed off. He was looking at her in a curiously gentle way. Such a caring, nice man. And so huge, too. Mrs Mountshaft glanced in the mirror over the fireplace and tried to straighten her hair.
"Your hair looks nice. You must be going somewhere really special tonight?"
"What?"
"I thought you must have just had your hair done for a special date. Mr Mineshaft will be most impressed..."
"Mountshaft. I washed it this afternoon," she told him without really meaning to. "I don't suppose Roger will even notice. He doesn't notice much at all. Except big breasted women," she added bitterly.
"We tend not to notice the really important things," said Mr Tucker nodding sympathetically. "But at least, he'll be proud of you tonight, wherever you're going."
"We're not going anywhere. We never do." She smiled again. That was twice in five minutes. There was an unfamiliar sensation as if her face was about to crack. "You've got time for coffee, Mr Tucker?"
"Charlie." He followed her into the kitchen, watching her narrow figure from behind.
"Charlie. So down to earth. Call me Oriana."
"Oriana. What a lovely name!"
"They named me after Queen Elizabeth the First."
"Elizabeth?"
"Not exactly." It was too complicated to explain.
"What does your husband do?"
"Oh, he's in the field of corporate excellence. In fact, he's just had a promotion, so I'll see even less of him. He gets home later and later. If he wasn't such a little squirt of a man, I'd almost be starting to feel suspicious. What do you do, Charlie?"
"Automotive engineering." He accepted a mug and gulped coffee like a desert traveller.
"So masculine," Mrs Mountshaft gushed. "You must have such a huge appetite. Have a double chocolate chip cookie."

 

 

"Are you sure it's only fifty-six?"

Tommy checked the tape measure again. "Yeah. Exactly fifty-six. When are they going to stop growing, Trace?"
"They've got miles to grow yet, Tommy! I bet I can be up to a hundred by the time I leave school!"

 

 

Charlie Tucker was late. He'd had a couple of drinks, so he was driving with exaggerated care. It was pitch dark when he turned into his road. His house was ahead of him, on the bend. He could see Tracy's bedroom light on. She was probably up there doing her homework with Tommy Mineshaft. Areola's little boy! Wow, what a woman! So passionate, like a volcano when aroused.

 

 

Downstairs, Mrs Tucker was knitting a tiny pair of white bootees. She had the sweetest little pink and blue ribbons ready to sew on after the ultrasound scan. She sighed. Another girl would be nice. But a little boy like Tommy would be even nicer. Just like Tommy.

 

 

Still driving with exaggerated care, Mr Tucker swung wide to turn into the driveway. Approaching from the opposite direction, Roger Mountshaft drove slowly past for the tenth time while looking up at the lighted square of young Tracy's bedroom, hoping for a glimpse of those Himalayan breasts. He almost stopped in time. When the echoes of rending metal finally died away, curious curtains had twitched open all down the road.

 

 

"It's my Dad's car!" said Tracy, wrapping the bed sheet round her bosom and shading the glass with her hand to see down into the road. "Somebody's crashed into him."

"But that's my Dad's car!" exclaimed Tommy. "What's he doing round here?"
They stared at each other open-mouthed.

 

 

Roger Mountshaft looked up at the enormous man who had climbed from his car and towered above him. "Sorry, old boy. I just didn't see you. Not too much damage, by the look of it. Look, mine's a company car. Insurance will cover it. Here's my name and address." He scribbled the details on a scrap of paper. He seemed desperately anxious to be getting away.

By the light of the streetlamp Charlie Tucker inspected his crumpled front bumper. No major damage. No need to trouble the police about it. Absolutely not. He produced a creased business card from his back pocket and handed it over to the little gnome-like man, accepting the piece of paper in exchange.
He could read it later, indoors.

 

The End