"I HAVE to go to Oxford today, Sis. I hate to leave everything up in the air like
this, with the Anastasia question still unresolved."
Corinne straightened Michael's tie for him. He still seemed
a little scared of me for some reason. I had offered to help him with his shirt and tie,
and he had backed away at high speed to take shelter behind one of Corinne's breasts.
"Silly boy," she chided him. "Shannie won't
bite you." Understandably, he winced at the thought of that. "Now you run off to
Oxford and show the professor your system. You'll slay 'em, Mike. Just stick to the basics
and don't try to change the world as a demonstration while you're there."
"Yes," I said soothingly, reaching out and trying
to touch his arm in reassurance. It meant reaching across my own left breast and Corinne's
right one, and I failed by a couple of feet. "We'll sort out Anastasia's nipples when
you get back."
Michael seemed to relax with me out of reach. "I'm a
bit unhappy about this Anastasia business. There might be a bug or something. I don't like
leaving you here while strange things are happening to girls."
"Things happen to girls all the time at St Cat's,"
Corinne laughed.
"I've protected my pattern anyway," said Michael.
"I daren't protect you two, in case anything were to happen to the laptop while I'm
away. If it did, and you were protected, you would be at risk if reality became altered
significantly."
"We'll be okay," said Corinne. "You'll be
back tomorrow night, won't you?"
"Tomorrow night, yes."
"Spending a dirty night out in Oxford, then?" I
coo-ed at him, trying to edge around Corinne's breast for a playful nudge. I could swear
she's getting bigger again. Maybe just her time of the month, she grows about ten or
twelve inches for a week or so. You need to study her closely to see such a small
difference, but I do have plenty of opportunity to study Corinne at close quarters.
Michael gave a sickly grin. "I'll be the guest of the
professor. Knowing him, I can't imagine there'll be much risk of us getting entangled with
female students." Was that a twinge of regret I noticed in his tone? Had Michael's
experiences with myself and Anastasia perhaps awakened something in the depths of
Michael's psyche, if that's the word I'm groping for?
It would have been pretty surprising if they'd had no effect
on him. I can be capable of some fairly memorable performances. As for his treatment at
the hands of Anastasia, I could only judge by the way Anastasia was going at it hammer and
tongs with me last night before I managed to calm her down with several pounds of fruit.
The girl was like a wild animal. I could only hope she hadn't spoiled Michael for life for
any other women.
We walked out with Michael to the taxi, and Corinne kissed
him fondly before he got into the car, clutching his overnight bag and the precious
laptop. Then away he went up the drive.
Smegs watched the taxi as it wound its way to the main gate and turned left toward
Borcester station. She let the curtains fall closed with a sigh of relief. Now the
whizz-kid was off the premises, she was free to carry out her plan.
A whole twenty-four hours to make the necessary changes. She
was going to sort out that little bitch Corinne once and for all.
She picked up her jotter from the desk. She had covered
several pages with scribbled notes. Once she was fully familiar with the St Cat's
computer, she would be able to do this sort of thing standing on her head, but for now,
she needed to plan every stage well in advance. She toyed with the idea of taking
Anastasia down to the IT lab with her, but reluctantly decided against it. The girl was
enormous fun to have around, but too much of a distraction. If they started having furious
girl-sex on the floor of the IT lab, nothing would ever get done.
There was always later. Smegs licked her lips at the
prospect of a night of unrestrained sex with the newly horny — in fact, the
Uncontrollably Horny — Anastasia. That had been an inspiration, doing that to her.
Typical of that bitch Corinne to make the kid's nipples a foot long. Corinne was obsessed
with size instead of the real thing. Foot-long nipples would serve no useful purpose when
they got down to the real action.
The lab was empty, as usual. Smegs slipped into a seat and
rested her trembling hands on the keys. She took a deep breath and began to type,
referring to her notes. Up came the welcome screen, the login prompt, and the request for
the password. 'Chauntaille', she typed, and watched as the screen cleared, leaving only a
simple menu. She was in.
Not too many Corinne Meadowlarks in the universe, she
observed with some relief. If there had been more than a few hundred, she was prepared to
treat them all the same and let the others, the ones Smegs didn't know, sort out their
problems for themselves.
The list of parameters was endless, until she discovered how
to sort them into separate lists for physical characteristics, character traits, sexual
preferences and so on. It was laughably simple, with no protection at all. Well, after
all, she supposed, the system was intended to be used by people with no great knowledge of
computers. People like Corinne.
"By the time I've finished with her, she won't have any
great knowledge of anything," Smegs gloated, typing busily. She completed her entries
with satisfaction and glanced at the clock. Still time, she thought, and did a search for
Chauntaille Gruntworthy. Not too many of those, either.
"There, that ought to do it!"
She logged off. A light had come on down the corridor, and
somebody was coming this way, whistling. She had finished only just in time. Quickly, out
of the door and round the corner, her heart beating a tattoo.
All she had to do now was to sit back and wait for the
results. With Corinne Meadowlark finally off the scene, the ripe fruit — Chauntaille
— would drop into Smegs's eagerly waiting hands.
Strange, thought Anastasia, she could have sworn Miss Mountains had come down this way,
to the IT lab, and the lights had been on only three minutes before. She walked around,
sniffing the air. Yes, she decided, Miss Mountains had been here a short while ago.
Anastasia prowled around the lab, looking for the teacher.
She needed her badly, and although she had recently eaten a whole bowl of strawberries,
she was beginning to feel the onset of Uncontrollable Horniness once more. Not an
unpleasant feeling, but most inconvenient if Miss Mountains wasn't around.
At a loss, she sat down in front of one of the computer
terminals. Wait a minute, she thought, this seat is warm. She's been here,
working at this machine. Anastasia tapped at the space bar experimentally and the
black screen came to life. It seemed to suggest that someone had recently been logged on
to somewhere: the words on the screen were the dog-end of a little dialog. 'Bye' it said,
and the time, not seven minutes before.
Anastasia stood up, about to hurry up to Miss Mountains's
room, when she noticed a notepad that seemed to have slid under the monitor. She glanced
through it. It was Miss Mountains's writing. Oh, goody, she thought, an excuse
to go and see her, I can take it back. It was her own name in the pad that caught her
attention. Within seconds, she was reading avidly, her glasses down on the end of her
nose. The last few pages were interesting, very interesting indeed!
It was only when she put the notepad down, with masses of
information swimming around in her head, that Anastasia realised she couldn't take the
book back to Miss Mountains. It would be far too incriminating. Quickly, she ripped a wad
of pages out of the back of the notepad, sat down again, and made a series of rapid notes,
copying Miss Mountains's information for her own use. Then she tucked the sheets of paper
into her cleavage, slid the book back under the monitor where she had found it, gathered
up her breasts, and fled back to her room.
"I'm going down town in ten minutes, on the eight o'clock bus." Corinne stood
in front of the dressing table, legs apart, playing with her hair. She ended up with it
hanging down on each side of her face: she turned round to ask my opinion and I creamed my
panties. Her little nose peeked through, and she had to hold her hair apart with both
hands so she could see me. She aimed a little pout in my direction. It flew unerringly to
the heart of the target. "How do I look?"
"Devastating!" I meant it. If only Corinne were
just a little bit more bi, she might notice me from time to time. And I had to share a
bedroom with her, as if fate hadn't already been so cruel to me.
"Why don't you come down to Borcester, Chauntaille?
There'll be loads of boys around tonight. We're going to the Golden Horn, see what
we can find, then maybe we'll end up at the Stag And Bagpipes in time for the last
bus back."
I felt a wave of disgust. Why did Corinne have to be so
insensitive. Boys! As if it wasn't bad enough to think of Corinne going with men, she was
even taking Anastasia down town with her. An evening of lust-crazed video watching and a
Chicken Tikka Masala Ready-Meal For One stretched ahead of me. Fuck it.
"Is my skirt short enough?" Corinne turned her
back to the mirror, bent forward and tried to see over her shoulder up the hem of her
scarlet plastic skirt. She couldn't see what she wanted to see, and stood up straight, her
little hands on her hips, pouting again. "Look up my skirt, Chauntaille, is it short
enough?"
"How much do you want to show?" I asked, bending
low in my chair with a squish of juices.
"Can you see my panties?"
"No."
"Good. I'm not wearing any. Can you see anything when I
bend over like this?"
"No."
"How about this?"
"I can see the crease under your bum cheeks ..."
She bent lower and spread her legs lewdly.
"... and your pussy lips. You've shaved, that's why I
couldn't tell what I was looking at."
"I suppose you want to feel it," she sighed.
"Come on, then!"
"Cee, it's all smooth and slippery."
"I know, it always is." She turned to the mirror
again. "How about my top?"
I had thought she would never ask. Her deeply scooped
T-shirt stretched tight as a drum across a cleavage a mile deep between breasts balanced
quiveringly on top of an absurd platform bra. The band at the back was about six inches
deep and the shoulder straps must have been three inches wide.
"These fucking narrow straps nearly chop my shoulders
off, but how else can I support these things properly?"
There didn't seem to be anything proper about sticking your
tits out three feet in front of you. If I tried it, I'd fall flat on my face. Well, not
exactly, but you know what I mean. And I'm nowhere near Corinne's size.
She looked at me, her head on one side. Coming closer,
avoiding a clash of breasts, she put her little fingers under my chin and stroked my
cheek.
"I'm sorry, Chauntaille! I know how much you'd like to
take me to bed, and I'd enjoy it too, you know I would, but I do need men as well.
I can still carry on fucking you one night a week as usual."
"But it was only two nights ago, Cee!" I wailed.
"I can't even have Anastasia, she's going with you."
"I need her with me, she helps me with money and stuff.
You know I can't work out how much change I should get. The barmen always rip me off when
I go on my own. Where is she, anyway? We'll miss that bus."
There was a polite knock on the door.
"Come in, Anastasia," I said, steeling myself for
the experience. Corinne is a total slut, but Anastasia can make her look like a nun. It
had been a wise precaution to steel myself. At least, there was some good news. Anastasia
wasn't wearing a tight T-shirt and a skirt short enough to show the cheeks of her bottom
and everything in between.
The bad news was that she wasn't wearing a skirt at all. Her
T-shirt was a little longer than Corinne's, but it barely reached to the tops of her
thighs. At least, there was some more good news. Anastasia didn't have her tits balanced
on a ridiculous platform bra like Corinne. The bad news was that she apparently wasn't
wearing a bra at all. Her nipples looked about two inches long and an inch thick. They
were right down there on her tummy. That meant that she was wearing a bra of some sort:
without one, they would be halfway down to her knees.
And at least, she was wearing panties. The bad news was that
they were lacy to the point of almost complete transparency.
One bit of good news was that they were chocolate brown
panties, so they didn't show her pubic hair through the see-through front panel. The bad
news was that there were enough tufts and tendrils of pussy curls creeping out of the
sides of the skimpy garment to stuff a medium-sized cushion.
"Anastasia, you are absolutely not going out
like that!" I raged.
She began to sob, and her glasses clouded over. Tears
trickled into her cleavage. I almost expected to see them emerge as steam.
"Oh, come on, Chauntaille, don't be a boring old
fart." Corinne put an arm round the girl's shoulder. "She's only young once. She
can't help it if she's outgrowing all her clothes, can she? And I need her along with me,
like I said." She grabbed Anastasia's hand and led her to the door. "Don't wait
up for us, Chauntaille. Anastasia will look after me."
Anastasia had recovered her good spirits sufficiently to
wink at me and blow a little kiss.
"I'll look after her, Miss Gruntworthy. We'll be all
right."
They wiggled and jiggled and wobbled out. I suppose
Anastasia's shirt wasn't all that short, really. It had sort of settled down a bit and her
pants were invisible now. And with those whacking great tits, who was ever going to notice
her pubes?
At least, I managed to hold out until they had gone before I
dissolved into tears. It was happening more and more often these days.
The eight o' clock bus is usually fairly crowded. It had been even more crowded
recently. A number of regular travellers rode out to St Cat's and back to Borcester on the
eight o' clock service. Several of them carried video camcorders, clumsily concealed in
shopping bags. Corinne and Anastasia knew many of the faces by now as they bought their
tickets and threaded their way up the centre aisle of the bus, all the way to the back.
The passengers, mostly male and dressed as if they were
expecting a shower of rain, turned to watch the girls, open mouthed, awestruck and
lustful. As Corinne wobbled past, they couldn't see her face: it was hidden somewhere up
above the jutting shelf of her bosom. Anastasia's face was visible, and she favoured her
regular passengers with a dazzling smile and a friendly word. Her nipples, already wildly
extended, thrust out even further through her soft bra and clinging jersey T-shirt. By the
time she reached the back seat, Corinne was sitting down, leaning back, her knees as wide
apart as they would go in her tight little skirt.
Anastasia wasted no time. She sat on Corinne's lap,
squashing the teacher's mammoth breasts in all directions. Their lips met in a slobbering
wet slack-mouthed kiss you could hear all over the bus, even above the roaring, hissing
and sighing of the engine.
Forty pairs of bloodshot eyes stared back at the improbable
couple. Video cameras whirred softly. Many of the passengers' hands were hidden from sight
beneath their raincoats. Some of the faster workers had already attained a climax and were
trying for another. Their moans and grunts mingled with those of Corinne and Anastasia,
and the young girl's keening cry of 'ninety-seven'.
It was going to be a warm night.
Smegs gratefully clutched her notepad to her chest, looked around to see that the coast
was clear, then scuttled out of the IT lab. That had been a bit of a close shave. There
was enough stuff in that little book to make anyone ask some really awkward questions if
it fell into the wrong hands. Not to mention quite a few interesting names and phone
numbers.
She slowed her pace as she reached the staff domestic
quarters. Ten past eight. The night was yet young. Nobody about. Time to drop in on Shan.
"WHERE'S CEE, Shan? Not gone out again?"
I quickly wiped away a tear. Fortunately, the lights were
turned down low.
"Smegs? Sorry, I was asleep. Corinne went out with
Anastasia again. Down town, dressed like a couple of complete slags. They'll get arrested,
dressed like that."
"Probably," said Smegs cheerfully. "Come on
up to my room and have a drink. I'm getting lonely up there with none of my girlfriends.
We can have a chat, like old times."
"Oh, Smegs, I don't know. I was thinking of making it
an early night. I had a heavy session last night. Must have had at least a couple of
bottles of wine."
"Oh, yeah? Anyone interesting?"
"Just an old girlfriend. Nobody you'd know. I don't
know if we did anything, I was too drunk. My head has been throbbing all day. Would you
mind if I gave it a miss tonight?"
Smegs looked unhappy when she trailed glumly out of the
door. Poor old thing. I was almost tempted to go upstairs with her and we could give each
other a good seeing-to. A right couple of man-hating lezzie bitches, both of us. Well,
maybe not Smegs, but certainly me.
It could be the loneliest time, being stuck on the campus
when the girls were all away. During term time, when Corinne wasn't available, which meant
six nights a week, I could always pleasure myself with some of the more or less bisexual
girls. A poor substitute, but the sheer variety of the available girls made it more
interesting. Variety of shape, size and smell. The girls of St Cat's came in all breast
shapes from almost fried-egg flat to beanbag size, in all heights from four feet six to
six feet six, and in every imaginable fragrance from fresh ocean spray to discarded
fish-heads.
Not tonight, though. I felt distinctly melancholy tonight.
Corinne and Anastasia cruised down Station Street to the Stag And Bagpipes. The Golden
Horn had been horribly quiet, but the 'Pipes looked more promising. A bunch of
boys hung around the door, loudly debating whether to go in. The arrival of the two
absurdly busty young women decided them. They followed them in through the door, in a
strangely stunned silence.
"I'll get those, love," said the nicest looking of
the boys, a blond haired one. He pushed to the bar, whipping out a ten pound note as the
barmaid poured a vodka and Coke for Corinne, and a fresh orange juice for Anastasia.
"Oooh, thanks." Corinne looked him up and down,
deciding that he would probably do quite nicely. She accepted a seat at a large round
table in the corner of the pub. The other boys gathered round like flies. "I'm Mandy
and this is Wendy."
Anastasia opened her mouth to say something, but closed it
again. Three of the boys had clustered round her, gazing in utter disbelief at her swollen
nipples. In here, by some trick of the light, her areolae were somehow visible even
through her bra and shirt. They were an unlikely size, even on a pair of breasts as
enormous as Anastasia's. She kept her mouth shut and accepted another large fresh orange
juice.
Corinne, or was it Mandy, was turning from one boy to
another, tilting her head seductively, sweeping her hair out of her eyes and letting it
fall back down again, pouting and fluttering her eyelashes, breathing deeply and flashing
her cleavage. She glanced across at Anastasia, and grinned to herself as she caught sight
of the girl's minimalist panties. They were glistening wetly.
"Somebody give Wendy another fresh orange juice,"
Corinne drawled huskily. "Mine's a vodka and Coke." Three boys fought for the
privilege.
Anastasia was shaking her head, holding her fingers to her
mouth. "No, Miss," she whispered fiercely. "I'm full up to here and
overflowing with fucking fresh orange juice."
Still leering round at her admirers, Corinne answered out of
the corner of her mouth. "You've got to drink fresh fruit juice. And don't call me
Miss, I'm Wendy."
"I'm Wendy," insisted Anastasia. "You're
supposed to be Mandy."
"Are you sure?" said Corinne.
"It was your stupid idea, Miss, these daft names. You
could have thought of something a bit more realistic. Mandy and Wendy, for
Chrissakes!"
The boys stared at them, not comprehending the muttered
conversation. A vodka and Coke and a large, brimming orange juice appeared on the table.
Anastasia rolled her eyes to the ceiling and took a deep draught. Suddenly, she clutched a
hankie to her mouth, stumbled to her feet and fled to the ladies room: a bounding,
jiggling, wobbling, eye-boggling lollop of giant tits.
Corinne hiccupped. "Anastasia's not feeling well. I
mean Mandy."
"You mean Wendy. You're Mandy." The blond boy
grinned at her. "Not that it matters what your names are. You're amazing, you two.
Are you sisters?"
"Yes. I'm twenty-one and ... she's twenty-three."
"She's older than you? She only looks about
twelve. Apart from those tits of hers. Nearly as big as yours. Not as firm, though!"
"It's because I'm younger. I'm only nineteen. That's
why I'm so firm. And of course, mine are still growing, so they don't get a chance to get
floppy. Look how Mandy's sag." She pointed a wavering finger at a pale-looking
Anastasia, who was making her way back from the bogs to the table where another glass of
fresh orange juice awaited her attention.
"Wendy's been telling us how your tits are all
saggy," one of the boys whispered to Anastasia.
"She's Mandy," blurted Anastasia loudly.
"You'll have to excuse my older cousin, she's had too much to drink.
"Wheeee! Too much to drink," agreed
Corinne, half rising to her feet and sagging heavily down again as the room tilted through
ninety degrees and stuck at that angle. To Corinne's surprise, her drink stayed in the
glass, although by rights it ought to have flowed all over the table and the ceiling. She
clutched at it, then lay down contentedly on her back, raised her legs in the air, then
lowered them, lying like a great big starfish on the table with her breasts extended
skywards.
A great cheer went up from her boyfriends. Anastasia could
not believe this was happening. Another cheer rose as gravity took a hand with Corinne's
platform bra, her breasts ponderously collapsing on to her face, to settle unsteadily on
each side of her head before sliding inexorably off the sides of the table.
"Ouch!" she said, wholly inadequately.
It really was time to get Miss Meadowlark home to St Cat's,
thought Anastasia. Too late. Corinne was already making her own domestic arrangements.
"Who wants a fuck?" she offered invitingly. The
request was met with a stunned silence, before the blond boy decided it was probably the
best offer he was going to get at ten pm. He unzipped himself, raised the hem of Corinne's
skirt — bringing a gasp from his friends: "it's BALD" — before
lining himself up and moving in. With no noticeable resistance, he penetrated her, and
Corinne gave an ecstatic little sigh and wriggled her bottom comfortably on the polished
table top.
"Plenty more room up top," she giggled, as the
blond boy's thrusting forced her bodily backwards across the table until her head hung
over the edge. She opened her mouth invitingly, and found a willing member ready to fill
her vacancy. Corinne stopped giggling after that, but there was no shortage of volunteers
to help as first the blond boy, then the one with his cock in her mouth, stiffened and
began to thrust faster. Corinne, completely abandoned now, had flung her arms out wide to
the sides, and found something to occupy her hands, one each.
Women's magazines always used to make a big deal about
simultaneous orgasms. Corinne didn't quite achieve that ideal, at least, not with all four
of her partners, but she managed to get them all off within ten seconds of each other. A
satisfyingly copious glop of cream was delivered in her aching love tunnel at more or less
the same time as a mouthful at the other end. This was followed by two pellucid fountains
of jism landing in the chasm of her cleavage.
The whole display ended in a round of polite applause,
rather as if the vicar had completed a stylish fifty in a cricket match on the village
green.
Anastasia forced down the last of her fresh orange juice.
"I almost think I'd rather be fucking," she said to herself, before getting up
from her seat and approaching Corinne's table.
Corinne lay with her eyes closed. "Time we were
catching the last bus, Miss," Anastasia whispered in her ear. There was a smear of
semen on her cheek, and Anastasia daintily wiped it off with a finger before tasting it.
She evidently enjoyed the taste, as she began scraping fistfuls of the stuff from her
Support and Mobility Mistress's chin, neck and chest and licking it eagerly off her hands.
"Bus?" Corinne sat up uncertainly, but her breasts
dragged her down again. Several willing helpers heaved them up and deposited them in her
lap. Anastasia thanked them on behalf of Corinne, who was looking a little green around
the gills.
"Take your nasty bra off, Miss Mandy," crooned
Anastasia, unhooking the dozen or so hooks. She retrieved Corinne's T-shirt from the floor
and began stuffing her into it.
"That's what big sisters are for, love,"
encouraged one of the boys.
"Belt up and make yourself fucking useful,"
suggested Anastasia, and the boys bit their tongues and helped load Corinne's breasts into
her shirt. There were worse ways to spend an evening, they decided on reflection.
Five minutes later, the strangely subdued little party
delivered Corinne safely to the bus station, and even paid the fare for the two St Cat's
sluts as the girls collapsed on to the back seat of the bus. Their tits flopped out and
their genitalia glistened almost festively when the lights inside the bus dimmed then
brightened as the driver started the engine.
As luck would have it, the bus was empty, the regular
passengers having gone home to replay their earlier experiences. No passengers got on
board all the way back to the school gates. This might have had something to do with the
fact that the driver failed to stop at any of the thirty-seven bus stops along the way. He
was too busy looking in his interior rear-view mirror.
Truly, the devil looks after his own.
I heard the clock strike midnight out in the quadrangle.
"I'm just going to the loo, Smegs," I whispered,
then realised it wasn't her face I was addressing. I gave her labia majora a
farewell kiss and disengaged my streaming sex from my dear friend's face. "Just off
to the bog, love," I repeated, and Smegs moaned softly. She sounded exhausted. Smegs
was no longer as fit as she used to be.
The carpet on the stairs felt crinkly under my toes as I
descended. In the still night, I could hear the bus on its way back to Borcester. I didn't
have long to wait. The sound of two soprano voices singing something about Nymphs and
Shepherds Coming Away carried clearly to my ears. Then it stopped, and was replaced by
much louder and exaggerated shush-ing.
The double doors creaked open, and Anastasia crept in,
looking decidedly fuckable. Since my earlier decision not to go to bed with Smegs had
lasted all of ten minutes before I had slunk upstairs and prostrated myself before her
steaming loins; I was feeling hornier than I had felt for at least twelve hours. I could
recognise the signs. A few more hours of this, and I would be lusting after inanimate
objects like bedposts and Hoovers.
Anastasia was anything but inanimate. She wobbled in,
peering around short-sightedly in all directions. Then she turned and beckoned into the
darkness. For a panic-stricken moment I wondered if they had brought a bunch of men back
with them, but when Corinne came in, she was alone. She carried her useless bra in her
hand and her droopiness matched Anastasia's. So did her nipple erection.
The doors slammed shut behind them, and both girls jumped
about a foot in the air with the shock. Their breasts continued upwards when their owners
came down, and there was a great deal of extremely heavy bouncing which continued for what
seemed like twenty seconds, but was probably no more than fifteen.
Hand in hand, tiptoeing with exaggerated care, they started
down the corridor toward Corinne's and my bedroom, Anastasia leading the way. They hadn't
noticed me, still poised on the fifth stair, gazing down at them with foaming lust and
with juices coursing down my inner thighs in a raging torrent. It was a wonder they
couldn't hear the gushing sound, but they were still making too much noise themselves,
shush-ing each other.
"Good morning!" I said severely.
"Aaaargh!" squealed Corinne.
"Eeeeek!" yelped Anastasia.
"What time do you call this, then?"
"I brought her home, Miss," said Anastasia.
"We caught the lasht bus," Corinne intoned with
great care.
"Get into that bedroom and take all your clothes
off," I ordered them, and they quickened their pace with what looked like eagerness.
"If Sexy Amy was here, I would get her to give you a good spanking!"
Both of them began to squirm and make little mewling noises.
"Yes, please, Miss!"
"Yes, please, Chauntaille. We've been so
naughty. We deserve a good spanking."
"All in good time," I boomed. "Get your arses
in there." And I followed them closely, so closely that I could smell their
fragrance: a ripe mixture of cheap, sluttish perfume, sweat, tobacco smoke, booze, girl,
woman and if I was not mistaken, fresh semen. Disgusting girls.
We were no sooner inside the room when Corinne started
climbing out of her skirt. Anastasia looked a little surprised, but apparently decided
that when in Rome ... and began pulling her shirt off over her head. This is the sort of
thing that can make me feel faint. Within seconds, the room was filled to overflowing with
mammoth wobbling breasts, not forgetting mine, which of course were quite bare to start
with.
Anastasia sat demurely on the edge of the settee, gazing
longingly at the bowl of fruit on the coffee table. She looked at me with mute, doglike
appeal in her eyes.
"Help yourself, Staze," I said, and she grabbed a
ripe imported peach in one hand and a couple of clementines in the other. Biting into the
peach with a squish of juices, she tore at the peel of the little oranges, stuffing
segments into her mouth as fast as she could chew and swallow.
Even Corinne ceased playing with her smooth-shaven pubis to
stare at her.
"Are you hungry, Anastasia?" she asked. "I'd
have thought you'd had enough fruit tonight to last a month, and all that orange juice in
the pub."
"It's all right for you, Miss," she spluttered
through a faceful of Vitamin C, "you were getting fucked on the table."
"Corinne! On the table? In the pub? Which one?"
As if it mattered.
"The 'Pipes. That big round table in the corner
by the fireplace. We had ... how many boys buying us drinks, Mandy?"
"Ten. And don't call me Mandy. I'm Wendy, and I hate
that name, too. I don't suppose you remember having four of them at the same time
...?"
I gasped. "She had four at the same time?
Where?"
"On that big round table in the cor ..."
"Where, Anastasia?"
"One in the puss, Miss, one in her mouth, and one in
each hand. Nothing anal, Miss."
"Well, that's a relief. You know buggery's against the
law, don't you?"
"Is it really, Miss?" Anastasia sounded genuinely
interested. "Why?"
"It says so in the Bible."
"It says lots of things in the Bible, Miss, but we
still enjoy doing them. Me and Clark ..."
I plugged my fingers into my ears. "No, no, NO! I do not
want to hear about you and Clark."
"All right, Miss. I was forgetting you're a lezzie
these days."
"These days? What do you mean? Oh, never mind!"
Corinne had gone very quiet, I noticed.
"Shhhh, Miss," Anastasia hissed, inspecting her
drinking partner from about six inches range. "She's asleep. We'd better put her to
bed. It's a good job she got undressed."
Not that it made her any easier to put to bed. Corinne has
some very unwieldy attachments. We tried lifting her by her shoulders and her feet, but we
no sooner got her clear of the settee than her breasts took charge.
"Look out, Miss!" Anastasia made a grab for
Corinne's left breast, but she had to let go of her feet first. Somehow, she managed to
catch the thunderously huge thing by its nipple, and saved it from hitting the coffee
table, where it would surely have done some serious damage.
Meanwhile, I dived for Corinne's right one, which rolled off
her chest in the other direction. Perhaps Anastasia and I ought to have discussed our
emergency procedure beforehand. If we had, we might not have got ourselves in such a
tangle as we did. I grabbed at Corinne's right tit, which was disappearing on the side
furthest from me, while Anastasia grabbed at the other which was coming in my direction.
It was lucky that Corinne weighed practically nothing apart
from her boobs. Each of them on its own weighed considerably more than her body weight. So
she more or less floated down to the floor. She was followed, unfortunately, by Anastasia,
bravely clutching one tit, and an instant later by me hanging on like grim death to the
other. Anastasia was no lightweight, I can tell you, and I was shamefully heavy. And I do
mean shamefully.
We lay in a heap, waiting for the inevitable.
"What has she been drinking?" I asked, fascinated.
"Vodka and Coke."
"Christ, it seems to work."
"I think she's tired, Miss. She's had a long day."
"Let's not try carrying her again, though," I
suggested, clambering up to allow Anastasia to get to her feet. "Grab a leg each and
we'll slide her across to the bed."
It worked quite well for a while. Anastasia took one leg, I
took the other, and Corinne followed us like a sledge behind two reversing huskies toward
the bed. It was only when I realised that I could see right up inside the Support and
Mobility Mistress that I called an urgent halt.
"We both have to go the same side of the bed,
Anastasia, or we'll pull Miss Meadowlark in two like a wishbone."
"I was wondering about that, Miss, but you're the
teacher. I was waiting for you to give the orders."
"Do I have to think of everything?"
"I'm only a girl, Miss," Anastasia pointed out,
rather unnecessarily.
"Come on, then. Let's both stand on the bed and pull
her up on to it feet first."
Up she came, although things got a bit heavy at the end,
when we had Corinne almost completely on the bed, and only her breasts — trailing
over her shoulders — were left lying on the floor.
"Jeez, Miss, they're fucking heavy!"
"Language, Anastasia! I really don't want to have to
tell you again. Fucking hell, girl, PULL!"
She came with a rush in the end, so suddenly that Anastasia
and I found ourselves stumbling backwards toward the wall. It's not easy to run on a bed,
and we clutched at each other for support. No use. Down we went, lying in a tangled jumble
of bodies. I had the presence of mind to fall in the right direction, so Corinne was there
to break my fall. Anastasia's, too.
I always believe in making the most of any situation. Here
we were, on a kingsize bed, three immensely endowed young females, two of whom at least
were not averse to girl-girl sex. Happily, Anastasia seemed to share my philosophy.
The night had turned out far better than I had ever dared to
hope.
I heard the clock strike midnight out in the quadrangle. It can't be midnight already,
I thought, surely. It was daylight!
"Coffee, Miss? Anastasia jiggled massively into the
room with two mugs. She seemed to be wearing one of my favourite T-shirts. "Sorry
about your shirt, Miss. "I've split it. But you can have one of my old ones, from
when I was little."
"Gee, thanks." She handed me a mug, placed the
other on the table and placed her tongue in Corinne's ear. All I wanted was to be seen
walking round in a T-shirt with some nursery-style character plastered across the boobs.
"Wakey-wakey, Miss. Black for you!"
"Mmmm. Black, huh?" Corinne stretched gloriously.
"I haven't had a black boy since ... ooh ... last Tuesday. Where is he?"
"Coffee." Anastasia thrust the mug into Corinne's
trembling fingers.
"Where's yours, Staze?" I asked her.
"I'm having fresh orange juice, Miss."
ANASTASIA WAS a little angel. She stripped the covers off the bed and took them down to
the school laundry, then came back with fresh sheets and a duvet.
"Those dirty covers weighed a ton," she grumbled
happily. "They were soaked. By the time I reached the laundry I had twenty dogs
following me. Jump up, girls. Let me make the bed."
She busied herself, watched by Corinne, who was hiding
behind a huge pair of dark glasses.
"We've got some tidying up to do, you two."
Anastasia chattered gaily. "What time is Mr Michael coming back from Oxford?"
Corinne groaned and clutched her head on both hands.
"Oh, shit, no! I'd forgotten."
I glanced at the clock. "He'll probably be here on the
three fifteen at Borcester."
"It's that now. He'll be here in twenty minutes."
Anastasia scooped up the remains of our breakfast and carried the plates out to the
kitchen. There was the sound of running water and an occasional smash of crockery. Washing
up is not easy when you can't reach past your breasts to get at the bowl. Anastasia still
hasn't really got the hang of it.
"Will he be hungry, Miss? I could make him an
omelette."
"Oh, you darling girl! Would you?"
"Of course, Miss. Just you sit there. And you, Miss
Meadowlark, get some more sleep. You had a hard time last night."
We lay down on the bed again.
"I suppose it might be better if you got dressed before
Mr Michael came back, Miss. I mean, he's probably seen Miss Meadowlark naked before, but
..."
"God, yes!" The last thing I wanted was to be seen
in all my nakedness by a male. The thought of it made my flesh crawl. I went to my chest
of drawers in search of something suitable, and settled for a pair of my most capacious
dungarees, over a heavy knit black sweater, with jungle boots and a forage cap.
Corinne, still feeling her head, bestirred herself, opened
her top drawer and dragged out a lime-green polyester bikini , a true miracle of
engineering. She even applied some make-up, although she didn't go as far as to take off
last night's mascara and lip-gloss first.
But at least, we were ready to receive a guest.
"What are you staring at, Michael?" I snarled at him. "Anyone would
think you had never seen a woman before."
"Sorry!" He sounded startled. It's just that I'd
never seen you with clothes on until now. You look ... well ... stunning!"
That was all I needed, a sarcastic twit coming on to me.
"Fuck off," I told him.
Michael went very red. "Chauntaille, don't be mad, it's
just that seeing you dressed up like that, dungarees and stuff, and that cap, and the
boots — especially the boots — you look really attractive."
"And I don't normally?" I sneered. And what, I
wondered, was all this stuff about never seeing me with my clothes on until now.
Anastasia came in from the kitchen carrying a steaming
plate. She was followed by Corinne.
"Hi, Mike," Corinne yelled as she came through the
door. "I heard you come in, but I was tied up in the kitchen. Anastasia's made you an
omelette and she dragged me in there to show me how to do it. I think I could manage it
after a few more tries."
She sauntered to the middle of the room and posed in front
of her brother, who looked at her in stupefaction.
"Cee?" he mumbled at last.
"That's me, Mike!"
"You look different, somehow."
"Me, different? How do you mean?"
"Both of you look different. Thanks, Anastasia,"
he said, as Anastasia placed his plate in front of him and tucked a napkin into his
collar. "Chauntaille is wearing clothes, for a start. I was just telling her how nice
she looks in her boots and everything."
I exchanged looks of disbelief with Corinne.
"And you, Corinne: thanks, Anastasia." Anastasia
had placed a fork in his right hand and a knife in his left. Then she had taken them both
away and swapped them over into the other hands. "You look so different in that ...
what is it? A swimming costume?"
"A bikini."
"So that's a bikini!" He gazed at it for
some time. Anastasia straightened his napkin and turned the plate round through ninety
degrees for a better effect.
"Bon appetit," she said.
"Why are you wearing a bikini? Are you going
swimming?"
"What, in this? It wouldn't stay on for five seconds.
At least, the top half wouldn't. The bottom half might last a bit longer, unless there
were some decent boys around at the swimming pool."
I wondered why she referred to the top and bottom sections
of her bikini as 'halves'. The top was about ninety-nine per cent of the thing. The bottom
bit was no bigger than one of those lady's tiny handkerchiefs.
"Boys? Corinne? Why are you so interested in boys all
of a sudden?"
Michael was certainly behaving most strangely. Perhaps it
was the result of coming into contact with all those academics at Oxford. He was eating
his omelette, watched by Anastasia who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of
him, a bowl of fruit by her side. She sucked an orange with obvious enjoyment.
"Is everything all right, Mr Michael?" she asked
him anxiously.
"What? Oh, yes, thanks. Very nice." He took
another mouthful, still staring at Corinne. Then he looked at me and a strange expression
came into his face. "Did you feel all right after I had gone to Oxford? You didn't
feel unwell or anything?"
Anastasia shook her head then loooked round at Corinne and
me. "We went out drinking last night, Miss Meadowlark and me. We went to Borcester,
and Miss Meadowlark got laid on the pub table."
Michael seemed to have heard the expression, 'got laid'
somewhere before, as his eyes opened wide. So did his mouth. He put down his knife and
fork, got up and rummaged in his bag, coming up with a bunch of connecting cables for the
computer.
"Eat your dinner while it's hot," Anastasia
scolded him, but he plugged the leads into the electric socket and the telephone, then
switched on his laptop. He began to type busily, then stared at the screen. He gave a
stupid little squeak.
"What's up with you?" I asked him. "And eat
your dinner. Anastasia slaved over a hot stove for you, making that. I can't think why
anyone would want to."
He took another forkful, but continued to concentrate on the
screen. "Some things have been changed," he announced. "No wonder you both
look different."
"What are you talking about?" I snapped at him.
"Your daft little computer can't change people. And eat your dinner."
"I told you all about this the other night. Unless you
were too drunk to remember. You remember I protected my pattern before I left for
Oxford?"
"He's rambling, Cee."
"He always does," Corinne sighed. "She pouted
at her brother. "Lighten up, Mike. You're only young once. Tell you what, it's still
early. Let's all go down town again tonight. We can have a few drinks and a laugh. There
were a few girls in the 'Pipes last night. We could fix you up with one, and I can
get screwed again. Maybe my friends will get in there again tonight. We could find a woman
for Chauntaille, too, I'm sure. Borcester's a pretty broad-minded place."
"I don't feel like a woman," I said stiffly,
although Corinne's idea didn't sound too bad. And if Corinne fixed up Michael with a girl,
he wouldn't be boring us rigid all night with his computer talk.
"What about me?" said Anastasia.
"You're too young," said Corinne, to my amazement.
"Huh. I wasn't too young to rescue you from a fate
worse than death last night, Mandy," she retorted.
"Who's Mandy?" asked Michael, puzzled. He typed
the word Mandy into his machine but evidently drew a blank.
"She is." Corinne pointed rudely at Anastasia.
"I'm Wendy. Wendy Whammers, and she's Mandy Fruitbat."
Anastasia rolled her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head
sadly at Michael. "See what I mean?" She sighed heavily.
"I'm beginning to think so. This is worrying. I had the
computer with me the whole time. Corinne, does anyone but you have access to the St Cat's
computer link to Fuckh?"
"What are you talking about? Me? Computer? What would I
know about those things? And what's a link to fuck?"
"Fuckh, my island," whined Michael exasperatedly.
"Fuck your island," Corinne giggled. "Hey,
get it? Fuck your island. Your island is called Fuckh, but when you said 'fuck my island',
I said 'fuck your island'."
It was my turn to roll my eyes to the ceiling and exchange
significant glances with Anastasia. Sometimes, I think if Corinne wasn't so good between
the sheets once a week, I would wonder what I saw in her.
Michael stood up abruptly, and his plate went skittering
across the coffee table. Anastasia caught it and wolfed the last of the omelette. I need
to see the St Cat's computer. Where is it?"
"Fuck knows," Corinne crowed again, "Hey, I
made another joke ..."
"Corinne!" Michael interjected. "Just shut up
for ten seconds, will you?"
She did, looking hurt. Maybe Michael wasn't so bad after
all, I thought.
"I know where the IT lab is," I told him.
"But I don't know how to use any of the equipment down there."
"I do." Anastasia came to the rescue. "I'll
take you down there." She struggled to her feet and held a paw out to Michael. He
looked worried all of a sudden. "It's all right," she grinned at him. "I
won't eat you. Maybe I've changed, too!"
In the end, we all went down to the IT lab, although Anastasia still held Michael's
hand as if he was a favourite uncle. "Here we are," she said. "It's all
switched on. Do you know what to do?"
"I'll soon find out." Michael seated himself at a
keyboard and typed a sequence of commands. "Ah," he said suddenly. "A
problem. What's your password, Sis?"
"Password? Me?"
Sometimes, I wonder if she can really be as stupid as she
makes herself out to be.
Anastasia was looking from one to another of us. "Try
this," she said, leaning over Michael's lap. "Hold my tit a minute, please, it's
keeps flopping on the keys." She said it so innocently that Michael obeyed without
question. "Thanks!" She tried to type for a moment, without success. "You
couldn't hold both, could you? No, on second thoughts, it's okay. Hang on." And she
swiftly unbuttoned her shirt, unloaded her right breast out of her bra and with a grunt,
heaved it over her shoulder. She did the same with the other one. "Make sure that one
doesn't slip off my shoulder," she told the aghast Michael. "It will flatten you
if it falls on you. Or squash your balls. Now, here goes."
She typed a word, and the screen cleared.
"You did it," Michael gasped. "How did you do
that?"
"I'm a good guesser."
Michael goggled at the girl, then shook his head. She had
straightened up and was busily stuffing great handfuls of her breasts back into her bra.
It took some time, and I watched the process with interest. Michael, meanwhile, had turned
his attention back to the screen, and was evidently in some kind of communication with his
other computer on Fuckh, whatever that meant. It was all rows of figures on the screen.
That, and some weird lists of names and writing.
"I need to make a call and ask it what changes have
been made in the last forty-eight hours. It will take it ages to list them, probably about
six or seven hours. It there has been a single parameter change to you three, the knock-on
effect will be felt all over the universe. Unfortunately, if I call up the changes, I get
the whole lot, and I can't interrupt the process. That's why we don't call for a changes
listing very often." He looked round at us, and was met with blank incomprehension.
Anastasia looked interested, her eyes half closed behind her glasses.
"Couldn't you ask it to list changes to just the three
of us here?"
"Good point, Anastasia, but the way it does it is a
safeguard against tampering. Only by listing every change can we be certain that we don't
change some things back to the way they were, and not others. Imagine this scenario
..."
And off he went into a rambling discourse, interrupted at
intervals by Anastasia's bright little cut-glass voice asking what were presumably
intelligent questions.
At last, Michael stopped. "You're right,
Anastasia. I shall have to change it to your way, it's far better than mine. If we had
done it your way from the start, we would have saved sixty-one percent of the time taken
to perform this present task, and over the past two years we would have saved forty-two
man-days' of work." Anastasia was glowing with pride.
I snorted. "Man-days! It took a young girl to teach you
how to do your job properly. They ought to be called woman-days."
"No, Chauntaille. Although I hear what you say, the
concept of woman-days is influenced by the phases of the moon. There is a correction
factor which allows ..."
"Oh, fuck off," I said quietly. "I'm not
listening to you."
Somebody was coming down the corridor to the IT lab. I heard
the door slam shut at the other end of the corridor by the Second Form Sexual Chemistry
Group laboratory, and footsteps echoed on the polished parquet flooring. Then the door
opened.
"Jeremy!"
"Chauntaille!"
I remembered my manners. "Michael," I said, trying
not to allow my lip to curl excessively. This is Jeremy, the caretaker. He is an old
friend from my home village."
"Hi, Michael."
"Michael is Corinne's brother," I said, completing
the picture.
Jeremy exchanged intimate glances with Corinne. 'Huh,' I
thought. 'She's had him, too!' Why it should worry me, I don't know, but I felt a
touch of regret and even jealousy, as if Jeremy ought to mean something more to me than
just friendship. Probably because he came from Fillamore Deepleigh. Jeremy was looking at
me in a funny way, too. It was an uncomfortable moment. God, it was almost as if I were
attracted to him!
Corinne had sidled closer to Jeremy and was rubbing her
bikini-clad left breast against his thigh. Jeremy looked uncomfortable at the contact. He
had an erection, I noticed, with a more natural feeling of revulsion returning. Corinne
became more forceful and her bikini bra cup was not up to the task in hand.
"Oops!" she cried. "It's come out. That was your fault, Jerry!"
Together, they tussled with the giant breast, until they
coralled it and persuaded it back into its cup. Jeremy looked embarrassed and slightly
ashamed. I began to feel sorry for him. This was terrible, this feeling. I ought to have
been overcome with my lust and desire for Corinne, while all I felt for her was
exasperation. Meanwhile, for Jeremy, I had a feeling almost of tenderness. Really
confusing.
Anastasia was watching us both with interest, too, her eyes
bright and large behind her specs. I was noticing things about Anastasia I had never
noticed before. She seemed to have grown up so much, as if her brain and her emotions had
decided they had been left behind by her monumental breasts, and had spurted to catch up.
Jeremy spoke to the room in general, although he seemed to
be speaking personally to me. "I came down to the lab, I saw the lights on. I didn't
know anyone was working down here."
"Michael's just doing something with his computer in
Scotland," I explained. For some reason, I didn't want to say the name of the island.
It gave me a most disturbing image of myself on my hands and knees on the back seat of a
big luxury car, with Jeremy behind me, doing unspeakable things. Perhaps I was over-tired.
Michael completed his typing and hit the Enter key. The
screen began scrolling with dazzling speed. He watched it for a few moments, then stood
up. "That's all I can do now for six hours. We can't speed it up more than that,
although with Anastasia's suggested pseudo-iterative method, we will be able to get that
down considerably. There's nothing to see here, so perhaps we could adjourn to somewhere
more comfortable. I quite fancy a drink, myself."
"WHO BOUGHT all this wine, Cee?"
I stared into the fridge, which was crammed with bottles and
wine-boxes. Corinne came over and peered in as well.
"Dunno," she said at last. I shouldn't have
thought it would have taken her that long to decide she didn't know who bought it all.
"It's all white. You know I never drink
white." It was bad enough someone stuffing our fridge with wine, let alone without
consulting me first.
"It's all right," Michael giggled, "I don't
like red. I'll have to drink it all myself." He was draped in my favourite chair,
playing with his stupid laptop. Much more of this, and that bloody computer was going out
of the window. He hit a few keys in an unnecessarily jolly way as Corinne handed him a
brimming glass. "Thanks!" He gulped it down in one, and belched. "More,
please."
"Get it your fucking self," I retorted with ill
grace.
Anastasia took his glass and refilled it. "You're sure
you don't fancy a glass, Miss? It's quite nice, and it's all there is."
"Oh, go on, then." Why do people have to be so
nice all the time? Anastasia brought me a huge glass of the stuff. It tasted like treacle.
"How do people drink this?" I took another slurp. At least, it was cold.
"I'll get you another," said Anastasia, taking my
glass away.
"I love that stuff you're wearing, Chauntaille,"
said Michael.
"Stuff?"
"Clothes. What do you call those trouser things?"
"Dungarees. And this is a sweater, this is a forage
cap, these are thick hairy socks and these are combat boots. As used by the armed forces.
Anything else you need to know?"
"No. I just want to sit here and look at you. Get up
and walk around."
"Piss off!"
"That's better. I love the way it all clings to your
bottom and your thingies when you walk. How big is your waist?"
"What business is it of yours how big my waist
is?" I sat down again and Anastasia brought me another glass of wine. "Twenty
eight." I felt myself going red. "Well, twenty-six, now, actually."
"I thought so. Pity. Still, if you keep on drinking
plenty of wine, it might get bigger. You might even get it up to thirty!" Michael
shuddered, as if he was suffering from an orgasm. The bastard.
"I brought the bottle, Miss. Saves carrying it over
every time." Anastasia sat on the floor and looked up at me with concern on her
pretty face.
"Aren't you going out tonight, Anastasia?" Michael
asked her. "You could go down town with Corinne. I'm sure she fancies a night out.
I'll keep Chauntaille company here."
"It's too late," Anastasia said regretfully.
"By the time we got dressed up, we'd have missed the bus."
"We could walk down the village," Corinne
suggested.
"It's out of bounds, Miss."
Corinne lay back in the armchair, spread her legs lewdly and
began touching herself. "You'd be all right if you were with me. Who would see you?
Moggie's away, and nobody would guess you're only a student, not with those things under
your shirt."
"Most of the St Cat's girls have got huge tits, Miss.
Maybe I am in the Top Five, but we St Cat's girls are pretty obvious, aren't we? We
stand out, as it were."
"Go on, Corinne," Michael urged, "take the
girl out. You're obviously keen to go out yourself."
"I'm not!" Corinne insisted, pulling her panties
aside and plunging in with both hands. Her eyes glazed over and she began to dribble down
her chin. It was time for polite company to look away and discuss something else. We all
stared at her until she came to a madly-howling conclusion, panting, flushed and
trembling. "Wow!" she said.
Anastasia handed her a glass of wine. "Come on, Miss.
We could nip down to the village for a quickie. Mr Meadowlark can look after Miss
Gruntworthy, and we won't be late back. And by then, Mr Meadowlark's results will have
come through on the computer."
Corinne allowed herself to be hauled out of her chair.
"Come on, Miss. I'll take you up to my room. You can
try some of my clothes." And Anastasia led Corinne out of the room.
"They'll be back soon," I stared at the clock again. It hadn't moved since
the last time. Typical of that Corinne to desert me and go off to get herself shagged,
leaving me with her rabid brother. What on earth had come over him? He had seemed a nice,
quiet person at first, but now I was having difficulty keeping him at arms' length.
"They've only been gone an hour," he insisted.
"Come on, Shannie. Walk round the room again. I want to see your lovely big bottom
move under those trousers."
"They're dungarees, for Chrissakes."
"I don't care what they're called, they're full of
beautiful big fat girl-bottom and they wiggle about like puppies in a sack. Go on, walk
over there again, go to the door, then round by the kitchen and back next to my chair so I
can nearly touch you as you walk past."
At least, I thought, he hadn't tried to touch me yet. He
genuinely did seem to want to watch my bottom move. The safest thing to do was just to
humour him and comply with what he said. I walked again to the door, wiggling a bit. I
could hear him groaning softly as I turned and headed back in his direction. I eased up a
bit on the wiggle, but my tits were still very much on the move as I approached Michael's
chair. One of them brushed his face as I passed and set off on another lap.
"Shannie," he squawked, "I can even smell
your arousal. I know how much you want me, dear one. Come here and take all your clothes
off. Everything except your enormous panties, burstingly full of your wondrously fat
backside."
"Fuck off," I muttered. What had happened to those
two? Were they never coming back to rescue me? What was Michael doing now? He was out of
his chair and coming after me with a bulge in his groin. Obscene!
"Shannie, please!"
He hopped over the coffee table as I retreated behind my bed
and sought the shelter of the dressing table. There was just room for me to escape through
the narrow gap between the bed and the wall as he came groping after me, red-faced and
panting. I fled, looking over my shoulder, and I would certainly have got away, out of the
door, if I hadn't tripped over something on the floor. Even as I felt myself falling, I
knew what it was.
Perhaps I ought to explain. I know I should really
have kept my clothes on, but I had to do something to delay him, or he would certainly
have raped me. I had shrugged my dungarees off. Fortunately, they were loose enough to
come off over my boots, which left me dressed in my forage cap, heavy sweater, thick socks
and army boots. Somewhere in between, there ought really to have been a pair of enormous
panties, burstingly full of my wondrously fat backside. Sadly, I had dressed in haste, and
my only spare enormous panties were soaked and not altogether nice to be near, so I had
gone without.
Even so, this was no excuse for Michael to go half crazed
and start chasing me round the bedroom until I tripped over my discarded dungarees. Over I
went, sprawling on to my cosy little bed, landing on my front. My tits, unrestrained by
any clothing apart from my gigantic baggy sweater, took over and carried me over the edge
of the bed, where they escaped and flopped out of captivity to the floor. I would never be
able to get up now, without friendly assistance and perhaps a small mobile crane.
There I lay, my shamefully large bottom in the air, my
booted legs splayed about as far apart as they would go. Michael came after me with
unabated speed, and perhaps realised too late that he couldn't stop. Maybe it was careless
of me to have left my dungarees on the floor. Michael's feet tangled in them, he went down
in a jumble of limbs and ...
Needless to say, I couldn't see any of this, as I was
preoccupied with my tits falling out. The first I knew of the arrival of Michael was when
I felt his weight hit the bed somewhere behind me. The second thing I knew was the arrival
of his face between my wide-flung legs. Instinctively, I closed my thighs.
Too late. Michael was in there already. I suppose he got
what he wanted. In fact, he probably got rather more than he bargained for.
"Mmmnnfff!" he protested.
"Get your head out of my cunny, you bastard!"
There was a knock on the door.
"Phlummf!"
"Let me up, you dirty little shithead!"
There was another knock, louder.
"Come in!" It might be the Cavalry.
"Shan?"
"Jeremy?"
Not the Cavalry, but better than nothing. There was a moment
of silence as he took in the scene. Perhaps it needed an erotic artist to do it full
justice.
"How can I help you?" I asked.
Jeremy blushed prettily and shuffled his feet.
"Actually, it was Mr Meadowlark I wanted to see."
"He's back there, somewhere." I jerked my thumb in
the general direction of my genitalia. I knew Michael was still there, I could feel him
wriggling. Despite everything, it didn't feel all that bad.
I looked up at Jeremy, whose face was heavy with sadness.
For some unaccountable reason, I wanted to go over and comfort him. Trouble was, I
couldn't move, unless Jeremy gave me a hand.
"Could you help me get up, please?" I begged him.
His hand was hard and strong and warm. He pulled upwards,
and I was able to half sit up. My tits came up off the floor and rolled on to the bed
beside me. Somewhere along the way, Michael was ejected from between my thighs and sat up,
looking bewildered, his face shiny with my intimate juices.
"Thanks, Jeremy!"
He blushed again, even redder, and I wondered what it might
feel like to give him a big friendly hug. His blue shirt and jeans were nicely full of
muscle, rather like that nerd beside me on the bed, but so much nicer, somehow.
"Mr Meadowlark," Jeremy stammered. "Your
computer was beeping, so I came up to tell you: it's probably finished whatever it was
doing."
"Oh? Doing? Oh, thanks." Michael looked around him
as if he was wondering where he was. His hand came up to his face and wiped his cheek. He
seemed surprised to find it wet. He sniffed at his fingers cautiously, then jerked his
hand away from his nose in alarm, looking round like an animal caught doing something
deeply embarrassing.
"We'll come down to the lab, Jeremy," I said.
"Don't go. We can walk down there with you."
"All right," he said. "Will you ... I mean
... are you going to put your clothes on first?"
My dungarees were still wrapped round Michael's feet, and I
didn't fancy them any more. "Could you open the wardrobe?" I said to Jeremy, and
he turned away almost gratefully. "There's a pair of jeans in there."
While he was getting them, I piled my tits back into my
sweater. Well, most of them, at least.
Jeremy came across with the jeans and laid them on the bed.
"Sorry, I couldn't find you any, erm ...any ... underpants." Bless him, he had
gone scarlet.
"That's all right," I said, diving into my jeans.
Jeremy watched with something like horror and fascination. I let him have a good look at
the property before it disappeared. For some reason, I was getting wet again. "All
done! Come on, then!" Michael wasn't showing much sign of life yet, still sitting
there, his glistening face peering round the room stupidly. At last he seemed to focus,
and got up as if in a dream.
"The great genius," I murmured to Jeremy.
"Look at him! Let's go."
We went down the corridor in silence, Jeremy striding along
half a pace in front, me feeling uncomfortably moist but somehow reassured by his
presence. Michael trailed along behind, I didn't look back at him.
"Why don't they get a bus on this bloody route," bellowed Corinne, sitting
down suddenly on a tussock of grass.
"Why would they need a bus service between the village
and St Cat's?" Anastasia pointed out reasonably. "It's only half a mile, and
it's out of bounds to the girls anyway." She helped Corinne to her feet.
"I bumped into a tree again," Corinne wailed.
"You should look where you're going." Anastasia
was unfeeling. Yet another evening watching Corinne get fucked had been an unnecessary
strain on the poor girl.
"I can't see the ground with these things in front of
me!"
"You don't need to wear them hoisted up round your neck
like a First Form tart, do you?" said Anastasia crossly. "Mine are nearly as big
as yours, but I can see where I'm going."
"That's because you let yours dangle. I couldn't let
mine dangle like that. I'd look like Miss Gruntworthy!" Corinne shuddered.
"Come on." Anastasia held out her hand to the
teacher, feeling like a big sister. Really, apart from being a total slut, Miss Meadowlark
was such a baby. "We've got to get back. The computer will be telling us the results
soon."
"Fuck the computer," Corinne pouted. She came to a
halt on the path and stood with her thumb in her mouth and her toes turned inward. Boys
always told her she looked cute when she stood like that.
"You look so stupid when you stand like that,"
said Anastasia. "And stop blubbing, you great baby."
Corinne stopped crying and took Anastasia's hand again. They
hurried along in strained silence for a while.
"Staze?"
"What do you want?"
"Wanna ask you a question."
"What do you WANT?"
"Did you like that boy, Kyle?"
"It's a stupid name. He was all right. Quite nice, in a
pretty kind of way."
"He's got a big prick!"
"You're obsessed with size, Miss. And why did you
introduce us as Candy and Shandy?"
"They're nice names. They rhyme. Candy, Shandy, Mandy,
Wendy ..."
"Wendy doesn't rhyme," Anastasia objected.
"Oh, come ON!"
Corinne had crashed into a tree again.
"Ouch, my tits!"
"For Christ's sake!" Anastasia walked quickly
round behind Corinne, seized the neck of her blouse with both hands, and tugged hard
downwards.
"Eeeek! What are you doing?"
The blouse split down the back: all the buttons flew off.
Anastasia continued ripping down at it until it slid off Corinne's slender arms. She
tossed it into the bushes and grabbed at Corinne's bra. With a single mighty heave, the
velcro parted and the bra ceased to support Corinne in the manner to which she had become
accustomed. As the young girl yanked the shoulder straps down, Corinne's breasts plummeted
down to their full length.
"Ooofff," Corinne said.
Anastasia grinned as Corinne staggered about, off balance.
She jerked Corinne's bra off and stood back to look at the Support and Mobility Mistress,
now deprived of all of her support and most of her mobility. "It was my blouse
anyway, I can rip it if I like. At least, now you can see where you're going!"
"I can't walk around like this! Look at me."
"You look very pretty, Miss. You used to be much
bigger, but you look quite pretty like this." She hauled Corinne along the path,
clopping along in her fuck-me shoes.
"What do you mean, I used to be much bigger?"
Corinne panted, her voice a petulant whine. "Ouch, not so fast! They hurt!"
"Never mind. Come on. We've got to get back to see what
the computer says."
"You're stupid. As if it matters what the computer
says. I'm going to give you extra low grades next term for being so stupid."
They trotted across the drive, up the steps and through the
double doors into the main building. Corinne skidded to a halt in front of the big mirror
just inside the doorway.
"Look at me! They hang down to my knees.
You shouldn't take my bra off like that, I need my support. If I walk around like this,
they'll get stretched out of shape and I'll end up like Shan. Where's my bra,
anyway?"
"Tucked in the back of your skirt. We haven't got time
to put it on now. We've got to get down to the lab." Anastasia began towing the
topless teacher down the corridor.
MICHAEL PERCHED himself in the chair and stared at the screen. He hit a key and the
display scrolled a bit before stopping with a curt beep. He hit another key and the
columns of data whirled at dizzying speed as the display scrolled all the way back to the
beginning.
I stood close behind Michael, looking over his shoulder,
with Jeremy by my side. He was very close, right inside my personal space. Normally I
would have moved away, but I stayed where I was, oddly thrilled by the feel of his warmth
just touching my side. My left breast was pressing heavily against his leg, but Jeremy
wasn't moving away either. One of us shuddered, and we were so close, I wasn't sure if it
was him or me.
All this data on the screen. Really, there was nothing there
to concern me, but it seemed to matter to that nerdy Michael, and it had taken hours to
download itself, so it must have been fairly important. I looked closer. There were words
I recognised: 'ST_CATS' appeared several times, and names. There was CEE, and CHAUNTAILLE,
and even CHAUNTAILE and CHANTAULLIE. Whoever had been inputting data had either been a
lousy typist or dyslexic. Further down, I saw MEGAN mentioned, and ANASTASIA. Spelled
correctly, too. It didn't seem to mean anything, though. For every name there was a string
of garbage: numbers and letters all mixed in together.
Michael gawped at it all, shaking his head and occasionally
tapping the Page Dn key with his typing finger.
"Look at that," he said, once or twice, turning to
me and pointing at some chunk of exceptional gibberish on the screen. "And that,
look!"
I looked. "What's it say? What's it all mean?"
"Someone has been messing with your pattern in a very
big way. Corinne's, too. It will take ages to correct all this and turn you both back to
what you ought to be. And it's been done in such a haphazard, hit-or-miss way, I can't be
certain of getting it all sorted out. This line, here, for instance."
Sxl_Ornttn: CHANTUAILEI>>F=100,M=000
"What about it? They've got my name wrong."
"That's just it. The line sets your parameter for
sexual orientation. It means you prefer women 100%, men not at all. You are a lesbian,
through and through."
I felt Jeremy stiffen slightly, and he moved an inch or two
to his left. My breast followed him and he made another little shuffle away from me.
Again, my breast caught up and squashed itself massively against his leg. He would have to
move another foot to get away from it altogether.
"Michael," I said carefully. "Tell me
something I don't know. I'm a lezzie. The whole fucking world knows that. I always have
been."
"I know, but I can't change you back unless ..."
"Change me back? Back? What are you on about?
You can't change me back if I've always been this way, dickhead!"
Michael flushed. His ears went red. Reasonably enough, I
suppose, as I had just clipped him rather hard. 'Whapp'. I did it again. He cowered like a
whipped dog.
"Shan," he said at last, once he realised that I
had stopped hitting him for the time being. "That's the whole point." He turned
to look up at me, urging me to understand. "You haven't always been this way. Only
since the changes were made to your pattern. Before that, you were more like 50-50 men and
women. Bisexual. And horny as fuck. You raped me the other night!"
I hit him again.
Jeremy was gaping at us both in speechless horror. He
couldn't say a word.
Michael tried again. "They've spelled your name wrong,
haven't they?"
"I can see that."
"That's what has screwed everything up. The computer is
programmed to recognise spelling errors and correct them. Like an auto-correction feature
on a word processor, except that it is fully automated. It only works on names. See, here.
Assuming whoever changed the patterns only wanted to change yours and Corinne's, the only
names he typed in would be your two. If he spelled them wrong occasionally, the computer
would check to see which name was closest and substitute that. If it wasn't sure, it would
ask for clarification."
"Michael! Bor-ing!"
He carried on, speaking faster. "The trouble is, the
auto-correction facility only seems to work at a local level. And if any one of the
instructions typed in with a misspelled name leaks through to the Global environment, all
hell can break loose. And break loose is what all hell has done. Shan, you are in danger
of staying a lesbian for the rest of your life, just as Corinne could remain a brainless
slut."
"So what? I already have been a lesbian all my life so
far, and Cee's brain, what there is of it, is right down there between her legs. So what's
new?"
Michael turned away, placed his elbows on the desk and his
head in his hands. His shoulders began to shake. The great baby was crying now. Whatever
next?
"I'm out of here," I sneered at him. "You and
your computer are a total waste of space." And I turned away. At the end of the
corridor, the door opened and two figures appeared. They were silhouetted against the
bright light as they came closer, but they were instantly recognisable. The slightly
taller one was Anastasia, and the one with her tits swaying around her knees was Corinne.
Jeremy and I watched them approach. I heard him gasp
slightly, and gave him a sharp and meaningful glance as he bent forward from the waist and
clutched at his groin. Reasonably enough, I had never noticed before, but Jeremy did seem
to have the most appallingly large penis. And now it was getting bigger, and harder.
Disgusting!
Fascinating, though. I found my attention riveted to his
crotch as he squirmed this way and that, apparently trying to make the thing more
comfortable.
"Let me give you a hand," I said, and grabbed the
end of it with one hand while I tugged at the unyielding material of his jeans with the
other.
"Shan! No!"
"It's all right," I said calmly. "I know what
I'm doing. I'll just point it downwards and it can fit down your leg ..."
"It won't, Shan, you'll break it! Aaaargh!"
"It won't break, will it? There's no bones in it?"
You could have fooled me. It felt like a lump of seasoned oak. Yet, somehow, not at all
unpleasant. Hard, yet still fleshy, and with a life of its own, really.
Anastasia and Corinne had almost arrived.
"What you doing, Miss?" Anastasia asked shyly.
Corinne said nothing, but her tongue crept out and moistened her lips.
"Mr Jeremy's got an erection," I explained.
"I'm putting it down his leg so it won't hurt."
"That won't work, Miss," said Anastasia with
absolute certainty.
"It won't?"
"No, let me do it."
I let her take over. She squatted down, her breasts settling
on the floor to each side of her feet, swiftly unbuckled Jeremy's belt, gave a sort of
wriggle to his jeans, unzipped them and hauled them down. The object of our attentions
emerged into the light and waved around pinkly.
"There you are, Miss!" She grasped it gently and
stroked it up and down once or twice in a detached manner. "It seems to be working
all right. You haven't damaged anything. What were you getting it out for, anyway?"
"I told you. I wasn't getting it out. I don't
want to touch the bloody thing!"
"Well, you should leave it alone, then. You'll only
waste it. There are people here who can make good use of that."
"There certainly are," said Corinne, finding her
tongue at last.
"Oh, it speaks," I said. "Where have you been
with your tits hanging out?"
"Anastasia took my bra off cause I kept crashing into
the trees," Corinne explained.
"Her bra's tucked into her skirt at the back, Miss. I
didn't want her to lose it." Corinne had crept closer to Jeremy, but Anastasia headed
her off and placed herself in the way. "You're not having him, Miss. It's my
turn."
Jeremy bleated helplessly and tried to pull his jeans up
again. He managed, but he was still sticking out the top like a flagpole. I could imagine
why some girls liked those things. I touched it experimentally and it twitched.
"Look," I said to Anastasia, "It's
alive!"
"Yes, Miss. I know. What's wrong with Mr
Meadowlark?"
I'd forgotten about him. He was still sitting in the same
position, sobbing gently. He must have been very sad indeed, if he could sit there crying
with all this action going on around him.
"He's unhappy, Anastasia. He wants to make me straight.
I won't let him."
Michael was obviously listening. He wailed and began to cry
out loud.
"Get off!" Anastasia slapped at Corinne's
hand as she tried to get hold of Jeremy.
"Ouch, Staze!" Jeremy complained. "You've got
long nails. On both hands," he added as Anastasia changed her grip. "Woooh,
no, stop her, somebody ...!"
Now that was interesting. Who would ever have thought
Anastasia could open her mouth that wide. And where was it all going? The girl had eased
Jeremy's jeans down around his hips. Her eyes boggled behind her glasses as her mouth got
closer and closer to Jeremy's hairy bits. I was intrigued to know what she would do when
she got that far. Was she going to eat those as well?
The question was academic. Anastasia was swallowing
something, you could see her throat moving. I began to wish I had paid more attention in
biology classes. Jeremy had stopped complaining, at least. He stood, shoulders slumped,
occasionally twitching his hips as Anastasia glugged away at him.
At last, she slid it out of her mouth, swallowed one last
time, then grinned up at Jeremy.
"You've eaten some of it," I accused her.
"You've eaten about half of it."
"Yes, Miss," said Anastasia with a polite little
belch. "I ate it all. But it will soon grow again." She stood up, wiping her
mouth with her pretty lacy hankie. "All yours, Miss Meadowlark," she giggled.
"Now, I'll just go to the loo, then I'll get myself an apple, then I'll come back and
have a look at this computer."
We all listened to Michael's halting explanation. He started uncertainly, afraid I was
going to whop him again. Okay, I let him go on thinking I might, but I left him alone.
Now, at the second telling, it was beginning to make sense.
Not that I could ever have been anything other than a
straight lesbian, that was a ridiculous idea. Just as the idea that Corinne wasn't really
a bimbo with the morals of an alleycat, but an almost-entirely-lez young woman, capable
and organised and practically a genius. Crazy!
But what if it were possible to change things around
like that. These patterns Michael was talking about, if he could protect some and allow
others to change, it would, in theory, be possible to change Corinne into someone who
would have eyes only for me — and not only eyes: a mouth, a vulva, a clitoris and a
whopping great pair of tits, too. Huge blue eyes, a sweet soft mouth, a moist vulva, a
clit ... no, stop it, Shan. The whole idea was absurd.
Anastasia was listening in rapt attention. If she paid this
much attention in class instead of playing with herself under the desk, she would get
straight A's. A-plusses, even. And whenever Michael paused for breath, she asked
questions. Questions of which I didn't understand a single word.
"Parametrically," she intoned, her head eagerly on
one side, "what specific percentile likelihood would there be of dissonance in Miss
Gruntworthy's modified pattern being precipitated by typographical anomalies, such that
her recovery might be adversely prejudiced? Ten per cent? Twenty? Thirty?"
"More like seventy-five or eighty," said Michael
mournfully, and Anastasia sucked in her breath and shook her head. "There are so many
incorrect ways to spell her name. To each of these, the computer might assign anomalous
global paths, divergent paths, of course."
"Of course. So to rectify, or at least, partially and
usefully to ameliorate the effects of these anomalies? Sustainably, I mean?"
Michael nodded. "Days of work. Fortunately, the school
is on holiday, so I can work without hindrance, but I can only work for twelve, fourteen
hours a day."
"May I help?" Anastasia asked eagerly. I noticed
her nipples had become suddenly erect. She delved into her cleavage and came out clutching
an orange. She peeled it feverishly and crammed half of it into her mouth.
Michael looked at her, startled. "There may be some
tasks you could accomplish, yes. I never considered it until now. But yes. There are many
repetitive tasks, and some requiring simple third and fourth-level decisions. Well within
your capabilities, I should think. You seem like an intelligent enough girl."
"Oh, goody! Miss! Mr Meadowlark is going to let me help
him with the computer. Isn't it yummy?"
"You be careful, Anastasia. We don't want you breaking
anything."
"I'll be careful, Miss. And I'll make sure nothing
happens to you."
"How very reassuring. Don't go tiring her, Michael. You
know she's only young and needs her sleep. And we don't want any funny business,
either."
"Funny business?" Corinne pricked up her ears.
"He chased me round the bedroom while you were out.
It's as well Jeremy came in when he did."
Michael and Jeremy had both gone scarlet.
"You mustn't chase Chauntaille, Michael. You know she's
not that kind of girl. He wouldn't know what to do if he caught you, Shan."
"He did catch me."
"Golly! What did he do?"
"If I told you, you'd never believe me in a thousand
years."
"Let me guess. He buried his face in your fragrant and
cavernous snatch?"
"You're making him embarrassed, Miss," Anastasia
scolded Corinne. She bent and whispered to Michael. "Don't you listen to your little
sister, Mr Meadowlark, she's just a horny little slut." She sniffed his ear, like an
inquisitive dog, then sniffed further afield, his cheek, his nose. "Phworr," she
said. "Where have you been sticking your bloody face? You randy bugger!"
"I told you," Corinne rejoiced. "I'm
surprised at you, Chauntaille. I didn't think you were that way inclined. I shall have to
keep an eye on you in future."
"Right, that's enough!" Anastasia shouted sternly.
"You will all have to leave. Mr Meadowlark is going to give me private tuition on
this sytem and we need absolute privacy. Miss Meadowlark, Miss Gruntworthy, I must ask you
to go back to your room. It is long past your bedtime. Mr Jeremy, perhaps you would make
sure ...?"
"Oh, certainly, Anastasia. I'll take care of it."
Jeremy rounded the two of us up and shooed us in front of him out of the IT lab.
Anastasia was right. It was long past our bedtime.
"Thank Christ we got rid of them, they're so childish." Anastasia stood up
and stretched. "Are my breasts too much of a distraction for you, Mr Meadowlark? I
can put a thick sweater on ..."
"No, no, they're fine. Fine." Michael blushed and
busied himself with the screen.
"Good. I tend to forget how huge they are, and the
nipples get so big when I'm excited, it does seem to turn men on a bit."
"No, it's okay, honestly."
"Excellent. And when I get excited, I do get rather
wet. Well, sopping, actually. If the smell puts you off, just say so. You will say so,
won't you? It's a warm, sexy, musky sort of smell; a bit fishy. You'll know it when you
smell it. A bit like Miss Gruntworthy's front bottom, but a bit sweeter and fresher. My
boyfriend, Clark, says it reminds him of the seashore, rock-pools and shellfish. Quite
nice, anyway."
"Thanks. No, it's not noticeable. Not really,
anyway."
"Right then. You going to teach me about this system
and what I will have to do when you're not here?"
Michael recovered his wits. "Well. I will take the
first shift, tonight. You can join me at seven in the morning and I will sit with you for
an hour until you get into the swing ..."
"Can you smell it now, Michael?"
"... of things. I shall give you ... what? Smell
what?"
"My thingie. I'm ever so wet, and I can feel it
trickling down my crack, so I thought you'd be able to smell it for sure."
"No, Anastasia, I can't!"
"How about now?" Anastasia raised the hem of her
skirt and flapped it a few times.
Michael's eyes watered. "Don't, Anastasia, please. It's
not at all noticeable. Do let us get on with this."
Anastasia yawned widely. "It's past my bedtime as well,
Michael. You don't mind if I call you Michael, do you? Call me Staze. Tell you what. We
won't get much done tonight. Why don't we both go to bed?"
"Anastasia!"
"Not together, silly boy! Whatever next! No, you go to
your bed, and I'll go up to my little room and think about working with you tomorrow. And
at seven o' clock tomorrow morning, we can come in here, all fresh, and really go at it.
I'll even have a shower, in case I smell too much ..."
"Anastasia! You do not smell. Not at all. Well, just a
little bit, but it's quite pleasant."
"Oh, Mike! You should have said sooner. I wouldn't have
sat on your lap if I'd known."
She climbed off, and dabbed at the extensive wet spot on
Michael's trousers with her hankie.
"It will brush off when it's dry," she assured
him. "Or take them to the cleaners. Our local one in Borcester never asks
embarrassing questions about stains. Come on, bedtime."
Michael got up. It had been a long day. Perhaps Anastasia
was right. They could make an early start and get much more work done in the morning.
Perhaps they would even get Chauntaille and Corinne changed back by the end of the day. Or
even sooner, by lunchtime. He followed Anastasia to the door, took her hand and let her
lead him up the corridor.
At the foot of the stairs, she reached up and kissed his
cheek. "I go upstairs here," she whispered. "You get a good night's sleep
and I'll see you in the morning! Night-night."
"Night-night."
The data was all still on the screen. Anastasia sat down, scrolled quickly up to the
line she was looking for and began to type. After a few seconds, she sat back and watched
as the screen went black. Then a flashing cursor appeared. Confidently, she logged on and
typed the password.
Then, screwing up her nose, she thought for a while. Why was
thinking of a new password always so difficult? Her expression cleared, and she giggled. That
was one they would never think of!
Smegs looked both ways. Nobody around. It was well past midnight, after all, but you
never knew at St Cat's. During term time, you were quite likely to stumble across a
copulating couple at any time of day or night. Even during the holidays, the unexpected
was normal. She ducked through the double doors and strode down the corridor to the IT
lab. The screen awoke when she tapped at the keyboard, logged on and typed the password.
'Sorry,' said the screen impersonally. 'Invalid Password.
Please try again.'
"Why can't that bloody girl have an ordinary name like
Mary-Ann," she muttered. Savagely, she typed CHAUNTAILLE again, her fingers poising
over the keys and crashing down. "Got it right that time!"
The machine wasn't so sure. 'Sorry,' it gloated again.
'Invalid Password. You got it wrong again, didn't you!'
Smegs scratched her head. No doubt about it, she had
got it right. Was it possible that whoever had entered the password in the first place had
got the spelling wrong, and that the last time Smegs had accessed the Fuckh computer, she
had accidentally also got it wrong, but the right way? If that was the case, what crazy
spelling did she need to enter to get access? Worryingly, Smegs thought, there was likely
to be a limit to the number of times she would be allowed to get the password wrong before
the ultimate indignity of being kicked off by the computer.
Smegs grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote on it:
CHAUNTAILLE
CHANTEAUILLE
SHANTAIL
CHANTEUILLE
CHAUNTIALLE
CHANTUAEILLE
CHUAUNTUAILLUEUE
"Getting silly. It's certainly not that last
one, but it could be any of the others, although it's probably not 'Shantail'.
Probably." She hovered with her pencil, crossed out several options, crossed her
fingers and typed 'CHAUNTIAULLE'. Then she pressed the 'enter' key.
Nothing happened for a while, then infuriatingly, the screen
said 'Sorry. Invalid Password Count Exceeded. Access Denied. See You Later, Megan.'
User friendly, if nothing else. "Bastard fucking
thing," Smegs thumped her fist down on the desk. It hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Tears of rage, frustration and now worry. She had wanted to study the effects of her
changes to Shan and Corinne, but now she had changed them, she hadn't even seen them
since. Had it worked? Was Shan now and forever a full-blown lesbian? Was Corinne a
dimwitted nymphomaniac bimbette? "I shouldn't have done it all in one go like that. I
should have worked up to it gradually. Why did I have to be so bloody impulsive?"
Poor Shan. Poor Corinne! Poor Smegs.
She walked in a tight little circle, returned to the screen,
still bearing its sad little message. Tears blurred her eyes, and spilled hotly down her
cheeks.
"I'll go and see Anastasia in the morning," she
decided. "She'll know what to do."
ANASTASIA SAT up and yawned. It was six-thirty. She felt excited at the prospect of the
day ahead. Michael had explained the workings of his system yesterday, but it was far too
complex and mind-boggling for normal brains to comprehend. Anastasia smiled to herself as
she remembered Miss Gruntworthy's fumbling attempts to come to terms with such outrageous
concepts as the computer turning her into a lesbian — and even more outrageously,
turning her back again into whatever she had been before.
As for Miss Meadowlark, all she was concerned with was
keeping her ever-ready love-tunnel filled with throbbing manhood. Michael had explained
everything as well as he could, but he seemed to Anastasia to have missed one or two
fairly important points. Probably, it was just because he wasn't used to presenting ideas,
he was better at dreaming them up. Even so, a couple of the ideas he had not even
mentioned were so fundamental, Anastasia wondered how he could have failed to say
something about them.
"I'll ask him this morning," she decided, reaching
for her fruit bowl. "Now, what shall I wear?" she opened the wardrobe and ran
her hand along the row of clothes hanging there. Nothing too sexy; it was going to be a
long day and she didn't want to get Michael too excited. After all, he had tried to rape
Miss Gruntworthy yesterday. "He-hee, I wish I'd seen that!" she giggled, and bit
into an apple.
Ten minutes later, tingling from her shower, she loaded
herself into her most comfortable Softee ScatBra®, pulled up her ScatSorb® panties and
zipped and buttoned her lush curves into the most shapeless garment she could find in her
wardrobe. The front of the camouflage tunic still bulged impressively, after all, it was
designed for a man. For the same reason, the baggy pants were quite taut across her
unusually womanish hips and bottom. No need for the belt, she thought, reluctantly,
although she pulled a green beret over her hair after tying it into a pony tail. No need,
either, to bother tying her boots, far too difficult.
She stuffed her pockets with apples, pears and small, easily
peeled clementines, grabbed a handful of seedless grapes and went out, closing the door
behind her. She felt so warlike, dressed like this, loping easily down the stairs,
checking in all directions before racing flat out for the corridor leading to the IT lab.
"Wow!" Anastasia panted, sitting down at
the terminal, panting. "I should work out more. Or see Clark more often. Hello!
What's this?"
'Sorry. Invalid Password Count Exceeded. Access Denied. See
You Later, Megan.' The screen was still feeling sorry for Megan after all this time. How
very interesting. Anastasia logged on, typed her new password, and the screen said 'Good
Morning, young Staze' to her.
"How does it know it's me?" she wondered briefly,
then dismissed the thought. "Probably it just recognises the feel and rhythm of my
typing. Nothing sinister about it." The data came spewing out, just as it had last
night. Anastasia glanced at the clock. Five minutes. Just time to make a little adjustment
before Michael arrives ...
Michael was surprised to see Anastasia already sitting at the computer. She smiled up
at him happily and took a bite of a juicy pear.
"I've just logged on, and it's all ready for us,"
she said, sliding out of the seat. "And I'm all ready for the first lesson."
"You know the password?" Michael sounded
surprised.
"You told it to me last night," said Anastasia,
with a perfectly straight face.
"I did?" Michael looked at the screen,
bulging with data. "I suppose I must have done." He was about to slip into the
seat when he looked sharply at Anastasia, rubbed his eyes, and stared at her again.
"What are you wearing?"
"My soldier's suit. It's ever so comfortable. I thought
if we were going to be here all day, I'd be better off wearing something loose and
baggy." She finished her pear and licked the juice off her hands, one finger at a
time, never taking her eyes off Michael's face. "Aren't you going to sit down? I'll
get another stool and sit right behind you where I can see."
Michael sat down, slowly, watching Anastasia as she found
herself a chair and dragged it over. She parked the chair behind his right shoulder,
planted her camouflaged bottom in it, decided it wasn't close enough, and pulled it
closer. Her scent filled Michael's entire head. It was warm, musky, girlish, with a hint
of militaria about it. Gun oil, metal polish, webbing paste and warlike stores.
"Am I too close?" she asked.
"No, that's fine. Can you see the screen from
there?"
"Just about." She took off her glasses and
produced a hankie from one of her multitude of pockets. "Gosh, that's better,"
she exclaimed as she wound the earpieces round her ears and straightened her beret. Her
pony-tail needed tossing over her shoulder again.
Michael's fingers trembled on the keyboard. He typed a few
characters, backspaced and tried again.
"What's the matter?" Anastasia asked him.
"Forgotten how to do it? Look. Put your hands loosely on the keys like this. Feel
those little bumps on the 'F' and the 'J'?" She took his damp, shaking hands in hers
and guided them into position. The massive bulge of her left breast thrust insistently
against his body. "Sorry," she said, "try and ignore my boobie, it's a bit
too big really, but I need to be this close or I can't read the screen."
"Aaaargh!" Michael croaked, and buried his
face in his hands. It was becoming a familiar pose. Eventually, he sat up straight while
Anastasia stared wonderingly at him. "You sit here, and I'll sit behind you," he
told her. "My hands are too unsteady this morning. Must be the cold."
"I thought it was warm in here," said Anastasia.
"Maybe it's just me. I am quite hot in the mornings."
"Ohhhh, no!" Michael clambered uncomfortably out
of his seat, keeping his back to Anastasia, and shuffled round, bent almost double, until
he was behind her, pretending he had seen something of all-consuming interest across the
room.
She sat down, still staring at him. The chair was too close
for her, she need room for her breasts to lie in her lap. She found a more or less
comfortable position.
"Type something!" Michael yelled desperately over
his shoulder.
"Anything?"
"Find the entry for Chauntaille. That will do for a
start."
She did, and heard Michael slip into the chair behind her
right shoulder. The screen changed, and steadied on a huge list of parameters, with the
word 'CHAUNTAILLE' at the top.
Concentrating hard, she began to make sense of the various
lines of text. Some of the lines were too long for the screen, even in their impenetrable
shorthand, and wrapped to the next line. But she was getting the hang of it. Every now and
again, she tapped the page down key and took in the next lot of information, totally
absorbed. From time to time, she tossed her pony tail back over her shoulder with a jerk
of her head.
"Can I change this bit?" she asked, pointing to
the screen. She sat back, resting her hands on her breasts while she read the information
before her. "This bit is wrong," she said excitedly. "Can I change it,
Michael, please?" Her right hand groped out behind her and came to rest on Michael's
thigh. As if it had a mind of its own, it discovered something of interest to it, explored
briefly, then began to explore its findings at some length.
"Golly, Michael," she said, turning round.
"You've got a hard-on, haven't you!"
If ever you need an example of a rhetorical question, that's
not a bad one to quote.
No answer was necessary, and none was forthcoming.
"You should have said you were getting turned on,"
she said reprovingly. "Is it me that's doing it?"
"Yes," Michael grated the word out.
Anastasia's hand slid along the length of the object, then
back down the other way.
"No!" Michael yelped, without meaning to indicate
a change of mind.
"Shall I make it smaller for you? I'm good at
that."
"NO!"
"You mean you want it to stay? But it must be terribly
uncomfortable. Let me make it smaller. It won't take a minute ..."
"NO, Staze, you mustn't. If anyone comes in ..."
"If anyone comes in and finds you with an erection down
to your ... your knee ... you are going to have some serious explaining to do. I'll
make it smaller for you. Here!"
And using her index finger and thumb, she flicked accurately
at the painfully throbbing member's outer end. It got smaller. Instantly.
"My mum used to be a nurse," Anastasia explained.
"She said she had to do that all the time, especially in the mornings. You'll be all
right now."
"Ooooooh!" Michael groaned. "He had suffered
instant detumescence, but he was far from all right.
Fortunately, Anastasia had more interesting matters to
concern her. "This line here," she continued brightly where she had left off a
few moments before. "Where it says,
Sxl_Ornttn: CHANTUAILEI>>F=100,M=000
we need to correct the spelling of her name and enter it BEFORE we adjust her sexual
orientation. That's where you went wrong last time. You changed them both at the same
time, so her global parameters were adjusted before the machine intercepted the spelling
error and corrected that locally. By the time the computer made that change, her
orientation was already adjusted. It ought to be the same, but certain other parameters,
globally, not apparently directly affecting Miss Gruntworthy herself, may have been
changed. We need to reverse that sequence. Like this ...!"
Before Michael could protest, Anastasia thumped the keys and
sat back. The lights dimmed for a moment and the walls seemed to give a shudder. From
somewhere along the corridor came the sound of breaking crockery.
"There," said Anastasia confidently, "that
ought to have done it!"
"Anastasia," Michael finally managed to croak.
"I can't believe you just did that."
I sat up in bed and blinked. There was something heavy on my legs, and I couldn't move.
It was soft and warm and it spoke.
"Don't move, Shannie," it said.
"Cee? What happened?"
She pressed a cool damp face-flannel to my forehead. It felt
nice. "You don't remember anything?" she said wonderingly.
"Nothing, really. Just some disconnected thoughts, and
none of them make any sense. What happened?"
Corinne took a deep breath and made herself comfortable on
the side of my bed.
"It was a quarter of an hour or so ago. You've just
come round this minute. You were out cold. Jeremy had just delivered something to our
room. I can't remember what it was, it was probably just some weak and feeble excuse to
get into our room so he could see me without my clothes on. He could have done that by
following me down the nearest pub. I usually get my kit off pretty quick down the
pub."
She wiped my face again with the cloth.
"Anyway, Jeremy was sort of standing there, gawping at
me, and gawping at you. A bit like last night, when Anastasia gave him that oboe solo. I
thought then that if you hadn't been a dedicated lez, you could have gone for Jeremy
big-time."
"Funny, that," I said. "I felt sort of the
same way myself."
"Well, we were having breakfast. I was sitting up in
bed, toying with a piece of toast. You had your bowl of porridge, you know how you always
eat porridge standing up?"
"Of course, " I said, "it's
traditional."
"Well, Jeremy was saying something to me, something or
other. Suddenly, the lights seemed to flicker, and Jeremy put his professional caretaker's
face on and said something about a power surge. 'That's the second one of those we've had
in the last few days,' he says."
"I don't remember any of this stuff!"
"You wait, there's more. You said to Jeremy, 'well,
you'd better fix it, hadn't you, mate, instead of hanging around in here trying to get a
flash of Corinne's tits. Or mine. You men are all the fucking same. Fuck off,' you said,
or words to that effect."
"I said all that?"
"You did. But then the walls seemed to shudder, and you
dropped your bowl of porridge."
"What a waste!"
"Shut up! Do you want to hear this or not?"
I shut up and listened.
"Then you screamed, 'It's an earthquake! Jeremy! Save
me!' And you were clinging to him ..."
"You mean I was feeling the heat of his glorious hard
body radiating through my flimsy nightdress?"
"Yeah!"
"Oh, yuck, Cee."
"Anyway, you had your thighs clamped round his leg,
rubbing yourself up and down against him like a dog. I was getting wet, and I was only
watching. And you were going, 'Oh, Jeremy, it's been so long! Take me, darling, please!'
Off comes your nightdress, away into the corner of the bedroom, and you've dragged him
away to your bed."
"You're expecting me to believe all this?"
"You want proof? Look at the trail of love-juice, all
the way across the carpet and on to your bed."
"How do I know that's mine?"
"It's certainly not mine. My puddle's over on my
bed. Well, Jeremy was screaming for help. 'Shan?' and he says to me. 'What's the matter
with her? Corinne? Help, she's gone mad!'"
This stuff seemed to have the ring of truth about it.
"'No, Shan, don't!' he shouts, and you've chucked him
on the bed and tried to rip his overalls off."
"You can't rip overalls off, Cee. They're too
strong."
"Tell me about it. You had to ask me how to get them
undone, and I told you."
"How do you get them off?" I asked, purely out of
academic interest.
"A button at the top, then a hidden zipper down the
front," Corinne said. "I told you."
"What happened then?"
"Well, you've got his prong out ..."
"Oh, Cee, no!"
"And you've spread your legs ..."
"Yes, yes?"
"And you know how big it is, his thingie?"
"I've seen it, yes."
"It went in without touching the sides."
"It would," I said with some pride. "It did?"
I screeched in horror.
"Then there was another earthquake, just a little one.
Like the earth moved a bit. And the lights flickered a few times."
"What happened?" I had to know.
"You got off him. You just collapsed on the bed. You
were crying your eyes out. And Jeremy got up, and crawled away, sort of looking back over
his shoulder, like on all fours."
"Has he gone?"
"He's gone."
"Hold me tight, Cee. I'm scared. What's
happening?"
She did. Our great big breasts squashed together
comfortingly. I could feel the chill juiciness of the bed covers beneath my bare bottom.
What was going on? Why did I feel so horribly sad. Why did I feel so sad about Jeremy, a
rough, sweaty, man. Corinne hugged me tight, she felt ineffably soft and gentle and warm.
She smelled of all kinds of interesting things. I loved her so helplessly, she made my
fingers ache.
So why did I want to find Jeremy right now and lick him all
over?