"YOU ALL better now, Shan?"
Corinne gave my face a final dab with the damp face flannel,
and got off the bed. If only she was like this the whole time, instead of being such a
slut, hanging around in pubs looking for sex. As if that wasn't bad enough, she was
introducing Anastasia to such foul habits, too. And probably half the girls in the school.
She was standing with her feet in line like an ancient
Egyptian — how could she balance like that — and poking about in her wardrobe,
now, shuffling through her array of dreadful tarty clothes: revealing tops, minimal
skirts, shorts that made my eyes water just thinking about them, and the kind of shoes
called "fuck-me". Probably looking for something to wear tonight.
There was a knock on the door.
"Who can that be?" Corinne asked, looking at me in
wonder.
"Come in," I shouted.
Smegs came in, stark naked as usual. Ever since she became a
Naturist, she has walked around the school completely naked. We're all getting used to it,
even the girls in her class, although Moggie had to put her foot down and forbid Smegs to
try and persuade her girls to embrace nudism as well. On the whole, the girls weren't too
displeased: it was the middle of winter when Smegs shucked off her panties for the last
time, and the girls' dormitories are not the warmest rooms at St Cat's. (The girls are
often forced to share beds just to keep warm.)
Smegs was going to need careful watching now, though. If we
had a warm spring and summer and she had any success at persuading the students that they
ought to be naked as nature intended, it would lead to unacceptable breaches of the school
uniform regulations.
"You've been crying," Smegs accused me. She walked
across the room and looked out of the window, her breasts high and spherical, her thighs
and calves powerful, her labia dangling like mouthfuls of pre-enjoyed strawberry-flavoured
chewing gum.
"I know," I said. "I've had an emotional
experience. Corinne was being very nice to me. With Jeremy."
"She was being nice to you with Jeremy?"
"No, she was being nice to me. New sentence: I had an
emotional experience with Jeremy."
"Why didn't you say so?" Smegs said testily. She
has been very pedantic lately. Picky.
"Piss off," I muttered.
"What's she doing?" Smegs jerked a thumb
over her shoulder at Corinne. She doesn't like her for some reason. Corinne sniffed and
stuck her nose in the air, then picked out a heavy-looking silver T-shirt which she held
against her burstingly huge rack. With her bra on, and her tits hoisted up so they bulge
out of the tops of the cups, they are about on a level with her chin, although they are
quite a few feet in front of her.
"I dunno. Why don't you ask her?"
"I'm not talking to that slag," Smegs said, still
looking out of the window. Corinne pulled a little face at her back, and made a lewd
gesture with her middle finger. I was trying not to giggle, stuffing my hankie in my
mouth.
Smegs scratched herself intimately and sniffed her finger.
The trouble with being naked is that you have nowhere to wipe your fingers. She finally
dried them on the curtains. I made a mental note to send them to the dry-cleaners. The
curtains, not Smegs's fingers.
"Would you speak to your friend, Shan," said
Corinne, "and ask her not to wipe her intimate juices on the curtains."
"Tell her to get stuffed," Smegs advised me.
"Tell her I have every intention of getting stuffed,
Shan, probably tonight."
"Tell her she's got the morals of an alley-cat."
"Tell her at least I've got a pair of tits, not a
miserable little couple of melons."
"Tell her I don't particularly want tits like beanbags
hanging round my knees."
"Huh!"
"Huh, yourself. I mean, herself."
The lights flickered a little. "That's been happening a
lot lately," I said conversationally, trying to restore the peace. The walls seemed
to shudder, like a little earthquake. "So does that."
"Did the earth move for you, too, darling?" Smegs
murmured softly. I wish she wouldn't say things like that. I never know how to take it
when she says that sort of thing.
"I think it's probably something to do with the Air
Force," I said desperately, but Smegs wasn't looking at me at all. She stalked past
the end of my bed with her cat-like walk, straight up to Corinne, and took the
heavy-looking silver T-shirt from her.
"How does it look on me?" she purred, holding it
against her chest and twirling in front of the mirror.
Corinne stroked the material, smoothing it against Smegs's
chest. "Looks great on you, lover. Do you want it? It's not my colour."
"Oooh, can I? Yes, please!"
"It's yours." Corinne stood on tiptoe, held her
breasts apart so Smegs could stand between them and kissed her on the lips. They snogged
pretty comprehensively for a while, ignoring my coughs and polite "ahem's".
By the time they separated, still touching each other in
various places with their fingertips, the room was filled with electricity and the musk of
two highly aroused women. I had to get up and open the window to let the pheromones out.
Outside, several St Cat's tom cats yowled in frustration. I turned back to look at the two
unexpected lovers. Smegs was trying on a pair of Corinne's shorts. They fitted her
surprisingly well, given their different build. She strutted around, admiring the effect.
"Do they show too much?"
"Not if you keep tucking them in."
Smegs tried to tuck her labia into the overloaded crotch
area of her shorts, but as fast as she tucked herself in one side, more of her came out of
the other.
"I think you would get away with that," said
Corinne, critically. "It's quite dark in most pubs."
"I'll wear them now, then," Smegs said, "and
this top, and your shoes won't fit me, will they?"
"No. But you could try some of Shan's"
"Hers? That dyke? She's only got Doc Martens and army
boots."
"No, she's got some fuck-me's. She just doesn't call
them that, that's all. Show Megan your shoes, Shan."
"Shan't!"
"I knew she wouldn't," said Smegs. "She hates
me 'cos I snogged you just then. Let's do it again!"
And they did. They were so wrapped up in each other, they
never noticed the earthquake that followed the lights flickering again. I couldn't watch
this performance. Pushing past them, I headed for the door.
That was when Smegs and Corinne broke apart, and stood
staring at each other. At some stage in the proceedings, Corinne's bra had come off, and
her breasts were gently bouncing, the nipples rubbing against Smegs's kneecaps, one
against each.
"Aaaaargh!" Smegs screamed. "Filth! Foul
filthy clothes. Get them off. OFF!"
And she began tearing at the heavy-looking silver T-shirt,
which clung to her melon breasts like a second skin. It finally came off over her head,
revealing her red, tear-stained face. She ripped at the shorts, but they were far too
tight for her muscular thighs and powerful bottom.
"Don't rip them, you fat cow, they're my best
ones," Corinne screamed.
"They're filthy," Smegs howled. "Filthy
clothes!"
"They are now, with your smelly snatch stuffed into
them," Corinne screeched. "I'll never get them clean."
Smegs made another attempt to pull the shorts off, then set
off, barging me aside, out of the door and down the corridor as the lights flickered
again. I clung to the edge of the door, but no earthquake happened this time.
"What was all that about?" I asked.
"Jeremy said something about it," Corinne remarked
mildly, amiably sorting through her clothes again. "Power surge, or something."
"Funny how the lights flicker every time we make changes to someone's
pattern," Anastasia mused, typing in another line of instructions
Michael groaned. "Every time you make changes to
someone's pattern, you mean. I haven't changed anything so far."
"I showed you what I was going to do to Miss
Gruntworthy before I did it, and you never stopped me."
"You didn't give me a chance to stop you."
"Anyway, it was only temporary, I changed her back
again."
"You hope you changed her back. How do you know
you didn't change some things and not others. We have to change every parameter at the
same time, or they all affect each other."
Anastasia shook her head. "That's where you've screwed
up, Mike. You can't change everything at the same time, because whatever you do, the
computer still processes the commands one at a time. Even if they're only microseconds
apart, they're still not simultaneous. And it doesn't matter if it's microseconds or
hours. That's why I'm changing things one at a time, so we can see what happens and change
them back."
Michael bit his lip. He had long suspected this weakness of
his system, but it had seemed to work well enough, so he had been lulled into a false
sense of security.
"You changed Chauntaille, but you didn't check
to see what differences you'd made," he objected.
"No, you wouldn't let me. You made me change it back
again. The same with Miss Mountains. I wanted to change her, then go and see if it had
worked. You made me change her back again straight away. It's just not very scientific,
Michael!"
"But what if you'd changed Miss Mountains, and
something terrible had happened to her? You wouldn't be able to change her back."
"All right," said Anastasia reasonably. "I'll
change her again, same as last time, and you can go and watch her and see if it works,
then run back and tell me."
"What's the good of that? I've never even met this Miss
Mountains. How am I supposed to know what she's supposed to be like?"
The door opened.
"Ah, see? You don't need to. Here she is now. Hi, Miss!
Why are you wearing Miss Meadowlark's shorts?"
"Because I can't get them off. Are you messing about
down here, Anastasia?"
"Messing about? How do you mean? Oh, this is Mr
Meadowlark, by the way. Miss Meadowlark's sister. Brother."
"I know who he is," Smegs snarled. "And I
know what his machine can do. Did you do something to me a little while ago?"
"Do something? Like what?"
"How would I know? If you changed my pattern, I
wouldn't know, would I?"
Michael had been silent since Smegs had come in, his face
buried in his hands as if unwilling to look at her. He risked another peep between his
fingers. The teacher was pretty fearsome-looking, six feet tall and powerfully built, with
breasts like Association footballs. Anywhere else on earth, those things would have been
considered huge. She had calves like an Italian waitress. Her thighs positively bulged
with rippling muscle. Her shorts were too small and she was apparently trying to conceal
something in the crotch. They must have been uncomfortable: she was fiddling with them the
whole time.
And she knew the secret! Someone had betrayed the
secret of the system to this Miss Mountains. She knew that if her pattern had been
changed, she would be the last one to know about it.
"You never said why you're wearing those shorts,"
said Anastasia. "Weren't you a nudist?"
"I don't know!" Smegs was close to tears. "I
know I want to take them off for some reason, but I can't walk around naked, can I? What's
happening to me?"
"I should keep them on, if I were you," Anastasia
advised her. "In fact, you ought to wear a few more clothes than that. It's still
quite chilly out."
"I don't want clothes on. Clothes feel horrible.
They're made of dead animals. And I haven't a thing to wear. Last time I looked in my
wardrobe it was empty. I didn't even have a wardrobe."
"I'm sure there's one in your room," Anastasia
soothed her. "Slip upstairs and find something comfortable to wear."
"Are you really sure?" Smegs whimpered.
"Of course! Off you go, like a good girl."
Smegs slunk off.
"Wow!" Anastasia turned to the screen and
punched a few keys. "Quick! What did we change last time? She's got stuck halfway
between patterns."
"I told you ..."
"Let's try ... that!" Anastasia hit the
keys and the lights flickered. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed and something heavy
rolled across the floor. "Hmm. Something seems to have worked. Hey, I'm getting quite
good at this."
The bus sighed to a halt and Clit hauled herself wearily out of her seat. One of the
worst aspects of being a Computer and Breast Support Technician was that one didn't get
the same generous holiday allowance as the students and teaching staff.
She'd only been away from St Cat's for three days, and now,
here she was, back in harness. Lots to do, too. Apart from sorting the bugs in the new
range of ScatBra E-Plus®, which was sending corrupt data to the school computer system,
she was going to have to check and restore the original data as well. Only an eagle-eyed
Moggie had suspected that something was amiss, calling Clit at two-thirty one morning to
ask who this Fifth Form girl was with measurements of 687-17-26.
"I don't think I've seen a girl who looks anything like
that," Clit had said, to Moggie's bitter disappointment, "although I'll take a
look if you like."
"No, don't bother," the headmistress sighed
resignedly. "There's something a bit fishy about those figures. But you'd
better go through the records of every girl in the school and see that they're all
accurate. It shouldn't take you more than a week."
So Clit wasn't the happiest of bunnies. Her prototype bra
wasn't helping her good temper, either. Her dynamic gyro-counterweights were playing merry
hell with her balance on corners. Every time the bus went round a bend, her breasts lifted
up to just above the level of her chin and only resumed their normal level after a delay
of thirty seconds.
The driver looked at her in alarm as she approached the
door. The last half mile before the St Cat's stop was a twisting succession of left and
right hand bends, and Clit's breasts, denied recovery time, were supported almost
vertically upwards.
"What do you think you're staring at," she asked
him, as they slowly began lowering themselves. Down, down, down, they plunged, until they
passed their limit stops and both her gyros toppled. An alarm buzzer sounded, red lights
came on at the extremities of the cups, gleaming eerily through Clit's shirt, and her
breasts slumped heavily to rest against her lower stomach. "I need a piss," she
told the driver, who didn't really want to know.
"You can't do it on here," he said. "Get off
first."
Clit watched the bus drive off, squatting in a billowing
cloud of steam by the roadside, beneath the critical stares of young mothers and their
children returning to the village with their weekend shopping. No, Clit was not in a happy
mood as she clumped down the driveway to the school buildings looming through the trees.
Her suitcase and her breasts were getting heavier with every step.
"Home sweet fucking home," she grumbled.
"Not!"
"Her room is upstairs. Go to the top of the stairs, past the showers on the left
and the loos on the right, down the corridor. Mine's the first room on the left, the one
with the really huge wide doorway, in case you ever need to call on me urgently in the
middle of the night..."
"I'll remember that, Staze," said Michael
patiently, "but right now, all I really need to know is which is Megan's room."
"I was coming to that. You're so impatient.
Carry on past my old room, that's got a wide door but not as wide as the other one you
just passed, then go round the corner and Miss Mountains's room is on the left. You'll be
able to smell it, you'll know when you're there."
"Smell it?" Michael looked apprehensive.
"A warm, musky smell, a bit like this ..." she
reached into the elasticated waist band at the back of her camouflage pants, half stood up
in her seat then wiggled her bottom around, sniffing the air like a connoisseur.
"Mmmm," she sighed, "a bit like that, only stronger, and not quite so much
..."
"Stop it!" Michael looked horror-struck.
"Let your trousers go and sit down at once."
"Hers is a bit more front bottom and not quite so much
back. You can't miss her room, though, it's like a tip, with all sorts of dirty clothes
all over the floor and spilling out into the corridor."
"I'll find it." Michael couldn't wait to get away
from this appalling girl. If it hadn't been for the way she was practically bursting out
of that army uniform, he would have thrown her out of the IT lab hours ago. As it was, he
was almost drained from his state of constant erection. And each time he had re-tumesced,
Anastasia had flicked it with her knowledgeable nurse-trained fingers and made it shrink
again. But only for about forty-five seconds, then it was back, throbbing harder than
ever. Anastasia didn't make it any easier for him with her constant chattering cut-glass
voice, her incessant and unconscious fondling of her mountainous breasts and the way she
tossed her pony tail back out of her face every minute and eleven seconds.
"Come here," she said as he retreated through the
doorway, still bent double in agony. She got up from her chair and took a few swaying
paces toward him. Her beret was pulled low in front, her fringe spilled out underneath,
her ponytail dangled between the monstrous mounds which stuffed her almost exploding
jacket. "Stand up straight, like a soldier," she cooed, and placed an
encouraging hand on Michael's bottom. He stood up straight as a ramrod, until Anastasia
gave him the mother of all finger flicks, right on the thick, throbbing tip of him, and
down he went. "If I was three years older, I'd be able to do something a bit more
permanent about your problem," she simpered, gazing up into his eyes. "Don't be
long, I'll miss you!" And she reached up and gave him a little, soft, tongue-tipped
kiss.
Michael groaned and fled up the corridor.
"I thought he'd never go," Anastasia sighed,
sitting down at the keyboard again. "Now then, let's try something a bit more
advanced, shall we?"
CLIT SANK into her armchair and scratched her head. Where was it? She knew she'd had it
on the train, but now it was gone. She turned her suitcase upside down and waited until
the last of the rain of pink ankle socks and panties died down. It definitely wasn't here.
She had been through the suitcase half a dozen times already. You couldn't miss anything
as heavy and chunky as a laptop computer.
It was either on the train or the bus. She picked up the
phone and started to tap out a number, then put it down again. No use, she'd never get it
back. If anyone found a toy like that, they weren't quietly going to hand it in at the
local police station. Still, she had to go through the motions. She called the police and
reported the loss. The constable was patient and heavy-voiced. Distinguishing marks?
Description?
"It's not a fucking lost dog, for Chrissakes!" she
exploded.
"There's no need for foul language, Miss,"
pronounced the policeman prissily. "You have the serial number, of course?"
"Of course not."
A heavy sigh came over the phone, reproachful, yet clearly
filled with deep self-satisfaction. Clit knew in that instant the computer was gone for
good. It wasn't the machine itself, it belonged to the school and it would be replaced,
but she had spent the last two days and three nights painstakingly entering data into that
pigging little thing, and now some spotty-faced wet-lipped geek was trying to play games
on it. Either that, or it was changing hands for a hundred quid in a pub down town.
She replaced the phone and cradled her head in her hands on
the workbench. "It's enough to drive a girl to fucking drink," she groaned.
"Oh, fuck it. I'm not going to do all that stuff again, not this morning. I'm going
down the pub anyway!"
Five minutes later, after she had deliberately selected a
halfway-up-the-thigh skirt and a not-too-baggy shirt, she was ready. The door slammed
after her as she set off through the woods toward the village.
"I fancy a fuck, Shan. I don't usually, not this early, but snogging with Smegs
has got me just about busting for a hot cock."
"Cee! It's only half past ten in the morning! Even for
you, that's pushing things a bit."
"I'll go down the village. There'll be a farm-hand or
something I can screw!" Clothes flew as she rummaged in her chest of drawers. She
settled, surprisingly, for a crisp cotton frock in a blue and white check, with neat white
collar and cuffs.
"I haven't seen that one before," I said.
"It's nice."
"I confiscated it from one of the Fourth Formers last
term," she grunted, compressing her breasts with both fists and forcing herself into
the straining bodice. A pity, really, the rest of it fitted her perfectly. One had to hand
it to the material manufacturers and the seamstresses who made that dress. It stood up to
the strain of having Corinne's vast bosom buttoned up inside it. Obviously, the previous
owner had been a big girl for a fourteen year old, but even so, Corinne was more than a
couple of cup sizes larger. More like a couple of yards. Well, feet, anyway. She had to
hold the sides together while I fastened the buttons one at a time.
"How's it look?" she wheezed.
She looked like a cartoon by an artist with a serious
problem. I mean, her lower half was perfect, and her face was divine, but in between was
this hot air balloon shaped object. I tapped experimentally on the side of her breast. It
made a sharp, hard noise like hitting a fifty-gallon drum with a stick.
"Ouch, be careful. If this dress splits, Monica will
give me hell next term."
"How are you going to walk down the pub like that?
And once you start fucking, you'll split it anyway."
"Nah! I've got no panties on. I can just flip my skirt
up and away we go. You know what farm hands are like."
"No," I answered, perfectly truthfully.
"Fast and efficient," she said, tying a
virginal-looking ribbon in her hair and heading for the door. "See ya later,
right?"
Michael found Smegs's room empty. He knew it was her room from Anastasia's description.
"I'd better wait. She'll only have slipped out to the
toilet." There was certainly a noticeable odour in the room, and Michael had to
admit, Anastasia had described it perfectly. He supposed girls must be a bit like dogs
when it came to smells, they recognised each other by sniffing at their sex organs. Not
that there would be much need to get too close to Smegs to recognise her. About fifty
paces ought to be close enough.
"It seems to be coming from the wardrobe," he said
to himself, and wandered over in that direction. There was some kind of garbage bag in
there, with the top twisted closed. Michael tugged at it, and it quickly unwound itself as
if there was something inside trying to get out. Then he gagged and staggered back several
paces.
The bag seemed to contain a soggy mass of women's
undergarments. Not that Michael had much experience of women's undergarments, but there
was nothing else these could be. They were flimsy, vari-coloured and pungent. Steam rose
from the neck of the sack. Holding his breath, he leaped forward and twisted the sack
closed again, before blundering away to the window. He opened it at the third attempt and
leaned out, sucking in the cool spring air.
"God, what a nightmare! How did I ever allow myself to
get mixed up with a girls' school?"
"I beg your pardon? Do you usually enter a lady's
bedroom uninvited?"
Smegs strode into the room as Michael backed away in horror.
She went straight to the window and slammed it shut before turning round to confront her
guest.
"Well?" She seemed to be expecting an answer of
some sort.
Michael was speechless. The explanation had been ready on
his lips. He had been going to tell Miss Mountains that Anastasia had typed in a change to
the pattern, and he had come up to observe the results at first hand. But everything was
driven out of Michael's head by the sight of the woman in front of him.
Slowly, he came closer, drinking in the sight of her. Never,
in his life, had Michael seen such a vision of loveliness. Bells rang in his head. Fire
bells, he thought. They would be fire bells, of course.
"You're dressed as a fireman," he pointed out
unnecessarily.
"A firefighter," Smegs corrected him acidly.
"Fireman is a sexist term, and its use is no longer permitted."
"Firefighter, of course. Sorry." Michael came
closer still. Miss Mountains was as tall as he was, and with her helmet, she was even
taller.
"That's close enough!" she shouted, pointing a
finger at him and laying the end of her hose on the bed. A few drops of water came out.
The hose stretched out of the door and away down the corridor out of sight.
"Has there been a fire?" he asked, becoming
uncomfortably aware of a restriction in his trousers. This was worse than anything
Anastasia had given him. Somehow, his cock had become bent double and was attempting to
straighten itself. Like a fire hose under pressure, he realised.
"Not yet," Smegs replied. "But we have to be
prepared. Don't come any closer," she warned him, going for her axe.
"It's all right!" Michael held up a placatory
hand. His other hand was less placatory, delving in his groin to try and sort out his
predicament.
"What are you doing in there?" Smegs asked,
nervous but fascinated.
"I've got cramp in my leg." He continued to
rummage, without success. The thing was irretrievably bent. If he didn't get his trousers
off, it would snap in half. "Excuse me ..."
"What are you doing?" Smegs screeched.
"Just taking my pants down for a minute. It won't take
long ..."
"I bet it won't." Her eyes widened. Michael had
pulled his trousers down almost to his knees. After a few rearrangements, he pulled them
back up again with an expression of relief on his face. Was it relief? More like rampant
lust.
Michael advanced on Smegs again. Her uniform tunic buttoned
across her chest with a row of silver buttons all the way down the front.
"Double-breasted," he thought irrelevantly. The tunic bulged out intriguingly.
Not as much as Anastasia's, but Smegs's chest jutted out as if she had a cushion stuffed
in there. Lower down, there was a shiny leather belt crowded with exciting holsters,
lanyards, clips and hooks. She had a chopper hanging on there; a flashlight; a radio that
emitted occasional squawks and piccolo cadenzas; and lots of intriguing firefighters'
accessories. Even lower, Michael's eyes strayed, to a serviceable-looking pair of thick
trousers, tucked into high boots. She had picked up her hose from the bed and was
inspecting the end intimately.
"Smegs," he sighed. "Or can I call you Megan?
I ..."
He lunged for her. She backed away a pace or two, her eyes
glued to his crotch.
"Take them off," she hissed. "Take ... them
... OFF!"
"Whaa ... at?"
"Off! Off, off, OFF!"
Michael got the message. Without taking his eyes from
Smegs's face, he unzipped and unbuckled, and took them down. Smegs's eyes gleamed as she
laid down her hose. Then the only sound was the clinking of her accoutrements as she bent
to him, her mouth already busy ...
I was at a loose end. The place was like the Marie Celeste. I drifted down to the IT
lab.
"Hi, Miss," said Anastasia happily, looking up
from her screen. "This is great!"
"What ya doing?" I settled astride the chair just
behind Anastasia's right shoulder. Her fingers were like lightning across the keys. Every
now and again she tossed her pony tail over her shoulder. I tucked it down inside her
collar and she grinned her thanks. She smelled of girl and her nipples stuck out about a
mile and a half. Clearly, Anastasia was aroused.
"I'm altering parameters one at a time, Miss. I've been
working on Miss Mountains, and I sent Mr Michael up to her room to see if there's any
changes. He's still up there. It's been an hour now."
"I hope they're all right," I said, but I wasn't
about to go and investigate. Smegs had been behaving strangely lately. I leaned closer and
breathed deeply. "What are you changing now?"
"I dunno. Who do you fancy, Miss?"
For some reason, an image came to me of Jeremy.
"What? Sorry?"
"Who do you think we should change? We don't want to do
you or Miss Meadowlark, not until Mr Michael comes back, but we can still do all kinds of
interesting things."
"You don't really mean you could change me? I've always
been like this."
"Yes, Miss. Anything you say, Miss."
"I have, haven't I?"
"I told you, Miss. I did Miss Mountains. Made her a
nudist, then changed her back."
"That was you? You changed her?"
"You mean you saw it, Miss?" Anastasia's
face was alight. "What happened?"
I described it as well as I could.
"And Miss Mountains and Miss Meadowlark snogged each
other?"
"For a while. Then the lights flickered and they
stopped. Miss Mountains seemed confused."
"Yes, Sorry about that, Miss. I spelled a word wrong. I
typed 'revert' and I must have been thinking of something else. Mr Michael was ogling my
boobies and I typed 'pervert' instead. I think I sorted it out afterwards. It wouldn't be
very nice if Miss Mountains turned into a pervert, Miss!"
I tried to imagine Smegs in a circus ringmaster's outfit,
with a whip and a top hat. Or dressed as a fire-fighter!
"Who else can we do?" I asked. "Who else is
on campus?"
"Only Mr Jeremy, Miss. What could we do to him?"
Her face was totally innocent. "We could make him
bigger, Miss?" she said shyly.
"Bigger?"
"Well, not all of him!"
"You mean, just his ...?"
"Why not?"
"What's wrong with it the way it is? It seemed to be
quite a mouthful for you." I had a funny feeling inside. Squidgy. Wet and squidgy. I
didn't dare mention it to Anastasia, but I wanted to try doing what she had done. Could I
really ask the girl for advice on how to do it? Why not? She was clearly an expert. She
was typing furiously.
"There! Let's see how he looks now. You'll notice the
difference when you see him. I've protected your pattern."
"Oh? Oh, thanks!"
"Why don't you go and find him, Miss? Just take a look
at his willie, and come back and tell me if it worked. You remember how big it was
before?"
I held my hands apart like a fisherman. Anastasia adjusted
their position by about three more inches.
"Are you sure?" I said.
"Positive, Miss."
She should know, she'd had it in her mouth. Although if she
was right about the size, it must have been halfway down her throat. I wondered why she
would want to make it any longer.
"I'll go and find him, then."
"Wait a minute, Miss. How thick was it?"
I guessed again, feeling foolish. She adjusted my fingers to
a ridiculous dimension. Surely, her mouth wouldn't open that wide! As I walked away up the
corridor, I tried opening my mouth as wide as it would go. No chance.
What was really disturbing was the wetness in my panties.
Anastasia performed an elephantine little jig round the chair in the IT lab, her
breasts gallumphing like synchronised hippopotami.
"Two down, one to go," she giggled. "But
first, a teensy weensy change to Miss Gruntworthy."
"'Ow did you ever manage to get a job as a teacher, that's what I want to
know?" Clit sighed wearily. "You're thick as shit."
"I know," said Corinne, "but I'm good at what
I do best. I mean, look at my brother."
"Your brother? I din't know you had one. What about
him, anyway?"
"He's a bloody genius, that's what he is," said
Corinne, with pride. "He doesn't fuck, but he's still a genius. He can change
history. So he says."
"Oh, yeah?" Clit stared around the pub and drained
her glass. After a couple of drinks, she was on the lookout for a bit of local talent
between the sheets. Or in the back of a van. A nice girl between the sheets, or a bit of
rough in the back of a van. The pub was nicely full, and many a speculative eye flickered
toward the corner table where Corinne's breasts rested like grounded blimps. Clit,
out-gunned but by no means under-endowed, stuck her tits out and watched the drinkers'
eyes boggle.
Corinne was oblivious to Clit's working on the crowd.
"He's got a little computer that knows about everything in the entire Universe. And
he can change anything. Funny, he does fuck. I just remembered. He tried it on with
Shan."
"Shan! He enjoys a challenge, then?" Clit's
interest was becoming aroused. She plonked her glass down with a thump. "Your turn.
I'll have a pint this time. Caffrey's."
Corinne stood up, but Clit's hand was over the top of her
glass. "He tried it on with Shan? Wait a minute. You mean he's at St Cat's?"
"Course! There's something wrong with the school
computer and he's fixing it."
"He is? Nobody tells me nuffin' round here! Here now,
you mean?"
"Yes, he was starting in the computer lab with
Anastasia this morning, sorting things out. He's going to change Shan, he says. Make her
fuck him, more like. Do you want this drink, or don't you?"
Clit took her hand off the glass. "Yes, please. We'd
better make this the last one. I've got to get back to the school." She watched as
Corinne undulated to the bar. You could have heard a pin drop as every eye settled on her
mountainous breasts. It gave Clit an opportunity to check out the chances again. She never
saw him when he appeared from behind her and sat in Corinne's empty chair.
"I'm sorry, that chair's taken," she said, then
wished she hadn't. Fortunately, the newcomer didn't get up and apologise. He sat there and
grinned at Clit, frankly but in no way threatening. She felt uncomfortable but a bit
thrilled.
"I saw your friend go to the bar," he said, his
voice deep and pleasant. Not a local accent. Educated, almost, like the BBC. "She's
got some tits on her, hasn't she! Let me get you a drink."
"It's all right. Corinne's getting me one."
"Corinne? Nice name. Huge breasts. Yours are pretty
big, though! What do they call you?"
Clit blushed prettily. "Erm." She thought fast,
but nothing would come.
"Can't remember? I'm Rob. I'll get you a Caffreys,
right?" He stood up, tall and casually smart, not at all like the usual lunchtime
drinkers in the village pub. The usual clientèle tended to have straws in their
sun-bleached hair, red faces and shirt sleeves rolled up to their armpits.
"No! Cee's getting me one."
"I'll get you another. While I'm gone, you can try and
remember your name, okay?"
Clit subsided into her chair, her head spinning. She could
take Rob back to the bra facility and give him a good seeing-to. She could get down to her
work tomorrow, no problem. Fuck Moggie and her orders. Who did she think she was, anyway?
Corinne came back and set a glass full of creamy froth in
front of Clit. "I don't know how you can drink that stuff. Look at it!"
They both looked at it. It was turning slowly into beer.
"What's my name, Cee?"
Corinne looked at her sharply. Clit looked anxiously back at
Corinne.
"You've forgotten? You've had enough of those ..."
She started to take the glass away, but Clit seized it and took a deep swig. Foam remained
on her nose and top lip.
"What's my name? I need to know urgently!" She
jerked her head in the direction of the bar. She had to do it three or four times. Corinne
watched her in alarm.
"You getting a twitch now? Don't have any more,
Clit!"
"I've got another pint coming, look. Him!"
"Him? He's getting you a drink? Christ, how did you
pull that!"
"I didn't. He pulled me. I mean, I'll still take him
back to the workshop, if he's free ... but I need a name. He can't call me ... I mean, can
he!"
"You're scared to tell him! You're shy. I'll tell him!
What's his name?"
"Rob. He's seen you. He still fancies me, though. He
said so."
"Don't worry, love! Finders keepers. But you need a
name." Corinne clutched her head, deep in thought.
"Hurry up, think of something! Here he comes."
Clit was simpering like a schoolgirl.
"Crowded for a lunchtime..." Rob pushed his way
back to the table with two pint glasses. He placed one in front of the crimson Clit, and
pulled up a chair. "Hello," he said to Corinne. "I hope you don't mind, I
bought your girlfriend a drink."
Corinne looked him up and down. "Hel-lo!"
she husked, leaning forward and wriggling like a puppy. Two puppies. Very big puppies. She
stuck out a hand. "I'm Tabitha and this is Agatha!"
"Aaaargh!" said Clit.
"Hello, Corinne." Rob took her hand in his, big,
warm and strong. "Or can I call you Cee?"
"Duh ..."
"Agatha, eh?" Rob turned to Clit. "Perhaps if
I was called Agatha, I would want to hush it up, too. Don't worry," he dropped his
voice. "I won't tell a soul. Cheers!" He raised his glass.
"Cheers!" Clit picked up her drink, the one she
got from Corinne, still two thirds full. She took a sip, then realised her error and took
the new one, held it up, clinked glasses and spilled it down her arm. A member of staff
appeared instantly with a bar towel and started mopping up.
"Great service in here," said Corinne, making a
mental note that she probably wouldn't get away with casual sex on the table top in this
pub, at least, not at lunchtime. She sighed heavily, and watched as Rob talked quietly to
Clit. They seemed to be getting on like a house on fire. Shit, Clitty had pulled before
her. "I must be losing my touch," she said to no one in particular, peering into
her cleavage. Two gigantic creamy globes rested on a reinforced nylon platform. Their
upper surfaces were fully revealed, right down to the areolae, which were just over a foot
in diameter.
"Time to get to work," she sighed, standing up,
and heading for the bar. Half a dozen farm workers gazed at her in awe, then as she got
closer, with dawning panic.
In perfect unison, all six of them downed their pints,
slammed their empty glasses down on the bar and wiped their lips with the backs of their
hands.
"Back to work, lads?" the barmaid asked with a
lift of one eyebrow. "'Alf hour early!" She shrugged, and returned to drying
glasses. This little hussy again, scaring away all her customers. She'll catch her death
of cold, dressed like that. "What can I get you, love?" she asked Corinne.
"I never knowed the place this empty of a dinner-toime ...!"
"TAKE THEM off, Jeremy, please."
"But, Chauntaille ...!" He had gone deathly pale,
almost as white as chalk. His hair was standing on end. This had been the last thing I had
expected. Anastasia never warned me of anything like this.
"I only want to look at it. God, boy, you know me! What
do you think I would want to do with the bloody thing?"
"I don't know," he shrilled, clutching at his
groin.
"Come on down. I won't hurt you. I'm from Fillamore
Deepleigh."
"You think that makes me feel any safer? Fillamore
Deepleigh is the Uncontrollable Horniness capital of the world."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Get your arse
down off that workbench." I looked round the caretaker's workshop for a suitable
weapon. All the usual implement's of the girls' school caretaker's trade: the double bed
with black satin sheets; the erotic posters and photographs of students past and present,
many framed and autographed; the condom dispenser, offering a choice of designs; the
chains, handcuffs and whips; the wardobe, its door swinging open revealing bizarre and
exotic clothing for women. Nothing suitable there.
"Chauntaille, no, not the fire extinguisher. It takes
ages to clear up the mess." He began to clamber down from the bench. "Please
don't shoot, I'll be good."
"Take them down, then. You don't need to take them
right off. Just down to your knees."
He had a hangdog expression on his face, like a bloodhound
puppy. I wondered how any woman could find anything attractive about him at all, the wimp.
Then I shuddered and my insides went squidgy, for some reason.
"Please, Jewemy, lemme see your willie."
He gulped and bleated. For some reason, he seemed
indecisive. But he fumbled with the belt of his jeans.
"Come on," I encouraged, reaching out for him.
He pushed down the zipper and looked at me one more time in
mute appeal. I simply nodded.
Down they came.
"Are you sure you're just going to leave her in there, Agatha? She's your
friend."
"She'll be all right. Cee can look after herself.
She'll soon get over it. A girl has to get used to not being able to get fucked some time:
now is as good a time as any."
"I can't bear seeing a woman cry," said Rob.
"Not like that, anyway. Talk about a foghorn."
"Corinne's a bit noisy, whatever she's doing. She'll be
all right. That barmaid was looking after her okay."
"That depends if your friend is that way
inclined." Rob laughed in a worldly wise sort of way.
"You mean, if she does it with women?"
"Erm, yes, I suppose so."
"Course she does. We all do. What did you think? If we
had to rely on men to do it for us, we'd all still be waiting come Doomsday."
"What do you do at St Cat's? You a
teacher?"
"Me? One of those thick tarts? A right bunch, they are.
Nah, I'm a technician."
"Sounds impressive. What do you do?"
"I design bras, most of the time. Special bras, with
counterweights and electronic readouts, that sort of thing. And I'm sort of in charge of
the computer system that looks after the girls' measurements."
"I see," said Rob, not seeing at all. "Why
this obsession with bras and measurements?"
"It's just the way St Cat's girls are. Huge." Clit
suddenly clapped a hand across her mouth.
"What's the matter?"
"I just remembered. I lost my portable computer. There
was loads of work on it. I had it yesterday and it disappeared. Just an ordinary laptop,
it is, but it's got about three days' work on there. That's why I came out to the pub, to
forget my worries. I forgot them until now. That's the trouble with getting drunk, you
forget things, then you remember."
Clit stopped suddenly, leaving Rob sauntering on ahead,
talking to himself.
Could she, she wondered, bring herself to do this? She had
just met this bloke in a pub. She had allowed herself to be picked up for a drink. She
hadn't even wanted the drink. She'd had more than enough before Corinne had even suggested
the last one, and two more pints of falling-down water was the last thing she wanted after
that. With a tentative finger, she touched the middle of her forehead. She tapped it
experimentally, thumped it with her fist. She pinched her lower lip between thumb and
forefinger.
"I'm drunk," she decided. "Mum told me never
to go to bed wiv a bloke when you're drunk. 'Tha's 'ow you got contraceived,' she says.
'Aht the back of the Marquis of Granby. That's the Firkin an' Water Buffalo,
now. It was all green fields in them days, as far as the eye could see. Yer could see St
Pauls. I remember the night they bombed the Docks, all lit up it was, the sky, for miles
arahnd ...' What," Clit asked herself, "the fuck am I talking
about?"
She needed a piss, as a matter of serious priority. She
squatted in the middle of the footpath through the woods, and didn't have to wait long for
relief.
"Are you all right? I was talking to myself. I didn't
hear you stop."
Clit squinted up at Rob through the drifting steam. Among
other matters for regret, she found herself wishing she had taken her panties down first.
Rob looked on with horrified interest at the broad trickling current coursing away down
the middle of the path. Little twigs were floating on it, borne along on the foam-flecked
tide which showed no sign of abating.
"There's gallons of it," she admitted, "I
don't remember drinking all this."
Then she rolled over on her side and fell asleep.
Correction. She didn't fall instantly asleep. Her last memory as she lay down was of the
woods spinning slowly round and round above her head. Her legs rose slowly into the air
until she was suspended head downward with her head just lightly touching the ground.
"Bad news when that happens," she said with sudden clarity, and began to snore
gently.
She looked so peaceful, sleeping there under the trees. Rob felt uncomfortable, looking
down at Clit. Her skirt had ridden up, revealing her soaked and steaming underwear.
"How old is she," he wondered. "Not as young as she looks.
Thirty-something, probably. Well-preserved, in her prime, almost. And huge up top."
And what had this Agatha been saying about the girls of St
Cat's? Huge breasts? A girls's school with a full-time bra designer! Rob stared through
the trees. The buildings of St Cat's were visible from here. The woman looked comfortable
enough. He set off in the direction of the school.
"You can pull them up again now, thanks!"
"What?" Jeremy gaped at me.
"You heard. Pull them up. I've seen what I wanted to
see."
"You're not going to rape me?" I said nothing. He
pulled up his jeans and fastened them urgently.
"Thanks," I told him, and set off.
"Is that it? You're going?"
"Of course. I have to report back to Anastasia."
"Shan! Don't go. What's going on?"
I stopped with a hand on the doorknob. "Going on?"
"I know about you being a lesbian and everything.
Everybody in Fillamore Deepleigh knows. Yet, somehow, I'm with you, and it feels like
you're ... interested in me, somehow." He was blushing deeply. I wanted to go back to
him and give him a big soft hug. Or even more. Instead, I walked over and touched his
cheek. It was smooth and surprisingly soft.
"I've got to see Anastasia." And I was gone.
The place was like the Marie Celeste. Nobody around anywhere. Of course, it was the
Easter holidays. Rob cursed. That would explain why Corinne and this Agatha were hoovering
beers in the village pub at lunchtime. No girls, for sure. It was an interesting place,
though. Rob stared up at the school crest over the main entrance. It was an absurdly
complicated coat of arms, divided into four sectors, with all manner of weird heraldic
references to cats and sex.
Up the stone steps and into the echoing hallway. There was a
full length mirror just inside. Scrawled messages in lipstick had been half rubbed off.
"I luv Miss Gruntworthy," one of them said. "Me 4 Grant S," said
another. There was a broad staircase curving round on the left, on the right was an open
door.
Rob didn't mean to go in, but it was such a cosy room, with
two beds, one of them enormously wide, a dressing table, wardrobe, littered girls'
clothing. Was this a girls' dormitory? Rob stepped inside. A gigantic bra lay on the
floor, its cups big enough to lose a couple of pillows in each side. He picked it up,
marvelling at the weight of the thing. It was ridiculously heavy. He dropped it with a
solid thud.
A coffee table with glasses and a wine bottle. Not a girls'
room, then. Teachers, obviously. Or technicians. There was even a laptop computer on the
table.
"Stupid bitch. She hasn't lost it at all." Rob
picked it up and closed the lid. "I'll take it to her. Wake her up and give it to
her. He-hee! Give it to her! That's just what I will do, perhaps. She'll be so glad to get
her computer back, she'll spread her legs for me right there in the woods. Better get her
panties off first. I'm a bit kinky, but not really into all that golden stuff ..."
Musing happily to himself, Rob emerged from the bedroom into
the corridor and strode confidently out into the sunshine.
"It wasn't as big as you said, Staze," I told her. "It was like
this." I held my hands apart.
"Did you touch it, Miss?"
"Of course not!"
"That's about right, then. Was it twitching?"
"Not so's I noticed. It just dangled there."
"Dangled?" Anastasia looked puzzled, as if unable
to grasp such an abstract notion as a flaccid penis. She gave up and shrugged. "Must
be something wrong. Anyway," her expression cleared, "did you see anyone while
you were out there in the woods?"
"See anyone, no. Who?"
"Oh, just anyone. I don't know what he'd look
like."
"He?"
"Yes, Miss. I was feeling lonely, so I wrote myself a
man."
"You what?"
"Look," she said, tapping some keys. "I
invented somebody. Just a bloke. I called him Rob Archer. I made him interested in huge
tits, Miss. And quite horny, but not too much, in case Miss Meadowlark gets hold of him. I
thought he'd come in here, but I don't know how to make them go where I like. All I could
do was invent him. Now I've invented him, I don't know where he's gone."
"You can invent people? Just like that?"
"It's easy. Once he's written, he's always been. To be
on the safe side, he doesn't know anyone at St Cat's, he's from London."
"But what about his friends and everything? Doesn't he
have a family?"
"I suppose so. The computer looks after all that. I
haven't got time to check up on his family and everything. I only need him for a day.
Maybe a night. Then I'll get rid of him."
"You can't! What about his family? He might have
children. You'll deprive them of a father."
"No, once he's unwritten, so will his family. No
problem. I wish I knew where he was, though, Miss. I mean, I might not even like him, and
I might have to write somebody else."
This whole idea was absurd. A girl can't sit at a computer
and write people, just because she feels like a bed partner for a night. Then get rid of
him afterwards, like a tampon.
Anastasia yawned. "I want to change something else,
Miss. It's fun and everything, but there aren't enough people about to play with."
"Does Michael know about this?"
"Haven't seen him for ages," Anastasia yawned
again. "I don't think he's bothered. Let's change something. Do you want a bigger
belly, Miss?"
"Certainly not!"
"Smaller, then!" She turned to the keyboard and
typed busily.
"What are you doing?" I asked in horror.
"Saving some patterns, don't worry. Rob's, and Miss
Meadowlark's, and Miss Mountains's and Michael's ... any more, Miss?"
I'd better play along with her, I thought. "Miss
Clit," I said, "she's coming back to St Cat's today or tomorrow."
Anastasia typed in another name and a string of characters.
"Any more, Miss?"
"You've done mine?"
"Of course, Miss!" Her face was pure and innocent.
"Thank God for that ..."
"Agatha! Wake up!"
Clit stirred. Someone was shaking her shoulder. She felt
disgraceful. Her head hurt and her bladder felt like one of those goatskin bags shepherd
boys drink wine out of in Greece. Full.
"I found your computer, look."
"Who are you? Oh, it's you. You what?"
Rob held it up and waved it.
"I found your computer. You hadn't lost it at all. It
was on the table."
"What table? Ouch!" Clit's head hurt. She took the
computer. "That's mine, all right."
"Say thank you, then."
"Oh, sorry, Rob!" Clit struggled to sit upright.
"Help me up, please. Oh, yuck! I'm all wet."
"Erm, yes. You had an accident."
"Oh no, not again. Never again!" She allowed
herself to be pulled upright, then leaned against him. It felt better. "Can you hold
me, I'm a bit wobbly."
"I'll assume you mean your legs are wobbly. Your tits
certainly are."
"Come back to the workshop, and I'll make some black
coffee. Then I'll slip into something drier." She was recovering her spirits.
"And if you're good, I'll show you the computer working. It's a very clever
system." They stepped out along the path. "You see, it connects to a big master
computer system somewhere in Scotland, although where it happens to be is irrelevant. All
the data on the girls' measurements is sent to this other computer ..."
"Are!"
"Are?"
"Data is plural. Data are sent."
Clit stared at Rob, shook her head, and continued walking
down the path, clinging to his arm.
"WOO-WOO-woo-woo-woo-woo-WOW! THREE!"
"I ... beg your ... pardon?" Rob panted, some ten
seconds later.
Clit leaned forward and laid her close-cropped head against
his neck.
"School rules. Staff members don't have to do it, but
Moggie says it's a good example to the girls if we do. It's the number of orgasms we've
had so far today. That was my third."
"I'm honoured," Rob grinned into her hair.
"It was my first."
"Men are excused. You don't have to shout
anything."
"How reassuring. I would have thought St Cat's would
have insisted on equal rights. Do the girls have many, then? Isn't it rather a strange
school that needs to encourage its students to identify their orgasms by number like
that?"
Clit felt him begin to dwindle inside her, and sat up
carefully, swaying only slightly. She giggled down at him. "It gets very noisy round
here at nights. You wouldn't believe some of the numbers you hear being shouted."
"They learn about faking it from an early age, then? Ouch!"
"St Cat's girls do not fake it, Sunshine! And
they would pluck out their pubic hairs one at a time by the roots rather than call a false
number." Clit reinforced her point by individually removing a number of chest hairs.
"Moggie wanted me to look into the possibility of monitoring the girls' orgasms
electronically, but I persuaded her that if she needed to know, all she had to do was ask
the girl a direct question. They're proud of their orgasms, here. Each one is precious to
the girls."
"What about your first two, if that was Number
Three?"
"This morning, at home. I always bring myself off first
thing. Sets you up for the rest of the day, a good wank in the shower. I've been celibate
since then, until now." She had already begun working on Number Four.
Rob began to respond to Clit's insistently rippling internal
muscles. 'I suppose it would be rude not to,' he thought, closing his eyes and thinking of
England.
Smegs came thunderously. If she was to be believed, that was her forty-second time
today. Michael seemed to have lived through all forty-two of them.
'I wonder if it's too late to make a will,' he thought. 'I
shall leave everything to ... that's strange. I don't know anybody! Cee, I suppose.'
Anastasia was tirelessly surfing through the data. I watched her, fascinated. She
seemed to understand all this stuff.
"It's amazing, Miss. It all seems to come to life, all
these numbers and things. It's as if there was this long tunnel, and I'm seeing along it.
Every so often, other tunnels lead off it, and I look down them and I can see other stuff
down there, but all the time, I can still see clearly what was in the first tunnel. It's
hard to explain, Miss."
"It must be, Anastasia!"
"Looking at your pattern, and Miss Meadowlark's, Miss,
they've got loads more tunnels than any of the others. That means whoever set them up
spent ages doing it, just to get everything right. You'd never believe the detail there is
in there. And if I change anything, just one thing, it could screw everything up, unless I
wade through all your other tunnels first and check it out."
The idea of a gum-booted Anastasia wading through my tunnels
was somehow unnerving.
"Look," I said. "I still don't believe all
this stuff, but you keep saying, and Michael kept saying, about changing me back.
About me not being a lesbian any more. I've always been this way. Ask anyone in
Fillamore Deepleigh!"
Anastasia sighed heavily. "I know, Miss. That's what it
does. Your whole history has to be changed to make it fit. When ... I mean when somebody
changed your pattern, they didn't sit down and go through the whole thing. They just
changed one item. There will be other things that ought to have been changed at the same
time. How can I ... I mean, isn't there sometimes, when you feel normal. I mean, straight?
Do you ever fancy a boy?"
"You mean, Jeremy?"
"Then you DO fancy him, Miss?"
"I don't know."
It was true. I didn't know what I felt, apart from confused.
How could I know how it felt to fancy a man. Was I supposed to feel squidgy inside, the
way I did about Corinne?
"I think Jeremy is the key, Miss. I wish Michael was
here to help me, but he gets sidetracked and gets a hard-on all the time. But I think if I
looked at Jeremy's pattern, there might be something in there that hasn't been changed
properly. It might not be much — and it's all in shorthand anyway — but if I can
find something that looks wrong, I can try changing it. And it will change you,
Miss! That's what I think, anyway."
She ended with a rush of words. She was so sincere about it.
It was all way over my head, but it was as if Anastasia had been touched with the Holy
Ghost or something. She was inspired.
"What about Corinne?" I asked her. "What was
she like before she changed?"
"I don't know. I was protected, but not fully. I know
she's not really herself, just as I know you're not yourself, but I don't know how
she should be. If I did, I could start changing her back."
"Couldn't you just try one thing for me," I
pleaded. "Make her less of a slut? Make her love me the way I love her?"
"Oh, Miss! I'd love to, but I'm scared. And anyway,
that's two things."
"Not necessarily. Look, Michael said he checked one
little bit of our patterns, the day he came back from Oxford. I remember, he went straight
to it and read it out to us. It was something about sexual orientation. Couldn't you just
find that and change it? Please? You could change it back if it went wrong. Protect
everybody else first, or whatever it is you do."
Anastasia bit her lip. Finally, reluctantly, she spun back
round in her chair and began searching for something. Then, her fingers trembling, she
changed one line of text, looked back at me over her shoulder, then pressed the Enter key.
The lights flickered, and I distinctly felt my chair move
several inches across the floor.
"That was a big one," I whispered.
"I'm afraid it might have been," said Anastasia.
"I suddenly feel cold," said Corinne with a little shudder. "Wait there
a minute." She got up from her chair and went up to the bar. The barmaid looked at
her with interest. From above and from the front, Corinne was always an interesting sight.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, said Corinne quietly. "I suddenly felt cold. I think
I ought to get back down to St Cat's. I wonder, would you mind. Could you lend me a coat,
or a wooly cardigan or something? Please?"
The barmaid smirked at her. She was on the point of saying
something about Corinne's not wanting to catch a cold in her chest, or she'd never get rid
of it, but something in Corinne's eyes stopped her.
"I doubt as I'd have anything to fit you, lovey. I
mean, I know I'm big, but you're gigantic!"
"I know. But if I took my bra off, I wouldn't stick out
so far. Could I? Please?"
The barmaid decided. Corinne was really serious. She seemed
to have changed somehow. The farm-hand still sitting alone at the table with his nose in
his beer glass didn't seem to have noticed, yet, and Corinne hadn't even glanced in his
direction. She hadn't asked him for the loan of a coat. It was strange, but ... she lifted
the flap in the bar counter.
"Come through, love. Come out the back. Bert! Take over
'ere, love, I shan't be a minute."
Corinne followed her through into a big square kitchen.
There was a huge table in the middle of the floor, covered in some wipe-clean material,
and room to walk all the way round it. Over by the far wall was an enormous black stove,
covered with steaming pots and pans. Corinne scurried toward it and stood huddled for a
moment.
"I don't know as 'ow you can stand that close to that
thing, love. You must be comin' down with summat nasty. Here, 'ave a cuppa tea, an' I'll
fetch you a coat." She picked up an enormous pot and poured tea into a mug. She
thrust it at Corinne, who took it in both hands and rested it on the upper slopes of her
breasts.
"What's your name," Corinne asked, when the
barmaid came back.
"Flossie," the barmaid said. "Name like that,
I couldn't be nothin' else but a barmaid, I reckon. Here, gi's yer mug. This is Bert's top
coat. It still won't be big enough for yer ..."
"I'll take my bra off." Corinne's fingers shook as
she heaved her low-cut jumper over her head, then reached behind her. Flossie's eyes were
nearly popping out of her head. Velcro went 'ripppp', and Corinne leaned forward
carefully, before gently releasing the bra and dropping it to the tiled floor. She stood
up, grunting with the effort. "That ought to be better. I should fit into it
now."
Flossie watched in stunned silence as Corinne climbed back
into her jumper. She made no attempt to tuck herself into it, but left the last foot or so
of her breasts dangling out the bottom. Wordlessly, the barmaid handed her Bert's coat.
Bert was a big bloke, but the heavy greatcoat was a tight fit round Corinne's mountainous
chest. With her titties hanging down there, though, she looked more pregnant than anything
else.
"Thanks, Flossie. I'll let you have it back later. I
don't want to go through the bar like this. Can I get out the back way?"
"Sure. Down the path and through the gate at the bottom
of the orchard. Then just keep goin' till you come to the woods. You know your way from
there?"
"I'll find it," said Corinne. "But I've never
been that way before."
Flossie seemed to be on the point of reminding Corinne of
something, then she closed her mouth. She opened the heavy back door. "Keep going
down that way. Don't worry about the geese. They won't 'urt you."
Corinne thanked her, and planted a soft kiss on Flossie's
cheek.
"Oo!" said Flossie, touching the spot in surprise.
"Go on with yer!"
Corinne smiled and hurried away down the path, her breasts
feeling massive and terribly mobile under the huge coat.
Flossie watched her go, then closed the door thoughtfully.
She was trying to describe to herself the funny feeling inside her tummy. 'Squidgy' seemed
to sum it up best.
"I think we deserve a drink after that," Clit declared happily. She was
feeling on top of the world. Three most excellent fucks in one afternoon had taken her
personal orgasm score, at the last shout, up to a resounding fourteen. Rob was a bit under
the weather, but a drink ought to perk him up. She looked in the fridge. "Damn! We're
out of booze. Tell you what, love. Run back to the pub and get a few cans or a bottle of
something. While you're gone, I'll have a shower and whip up something to eat. Okay?"
Rob got to his feet, feeling distinctly raw around the
genitalia. Agatha's stamina seemed boundless for a woman in her thirties. And inventive!
They had performed in a variety of positions, some of which made his eyes water just
thinking about them. "Don't get lost," she told him, as he went out and limped
away across the deserted quadrangle.
Upstairs, Smegs hung by her heels from the rings above the bed. She was naked apart from her firefighter's helmet, boots and accessory belt. While a red-faced Michael thrust into her engorged femininity, she spoke crisply into her little hand-held radio. "Roger," she said, appropriately enough.
Rob didn't get lost. He knocked softly on the door of the bra manufacturing facility
and pushed it open. His plastic carrier bag clanked and chinked as he set it down.
"That you, darling? I've made some dinner!" Clit
emerged from the workshop and kissed him. She was scrubbed and looked ready for more
violent action. Wrapped in a pink towelling bathrobe, obviously made to measure, she
squashed herself against her lover and looked up into his eyes. Her breasts were like a
massive shelf between the two of them. There was room on there to lay out their plates and
glasses. It would keep the plates warm, too. Heat seemed to radiate from Clit's breasts.
"What shall we have first?" she asked
mischievously.
"First?"
"Dinner, or a drink? What did you think I meant?"
Clit stood back and bit her lip. "Oh, my, zur, Oi do believe you thought oi
meant zex," she drawled. And before Rob could protest, she tugged loose the cord of
her robe and let it fall open. Rob caught his breath at the captivating sight. Her massive
globes jutted out at him, bouncing gently, the pointed nipples aimed slightly above the
horizontal.
"You've ..." He pointed at her nipples, wordlessly
moving his mouth.
"Just a bit of make-up. Oi wanned to look moi best for
zur when 'e come 'ome!" She traced circles round her plump areolae with a finger of
each hand. Strong, capable seamstress's fingers. Her areolae were richly highlighted with
deep red. "Dinner will keep hot. Just a quickie, though. I don't want you to wear me
out ...!"
Rob was exhausted, but part of his body was ready for her,
at least. She led him by the hand into the bedroom. It never occurred to him that it was
perhaps unusual to find a fully equipped bedroom leading off a bra-making workshop.
She turned to face him, her breasts brushing his shirt. She
glanced down at them and back up into his face. "Naughty nipples, look at them. Here,
suck one. Suck it. Make it huge. Ooh, oo, OH!"
I was only fetching Anastasia some food and a drink. She had asked for some fresh fruit
and stuff while she tried making some modifications to see if she could find the new man
she had created.
"I've lost Rob, Miss. I'll erase him and then bring him
back again."
"You just be careful," I said.
Back in our room, I rummaged through the kitchen cupboard
for something quick and easy. Baked beans on toast was quickest. The IT lab was air
conditioned, after all, so it ought to be fairly safe. I loaded a tray and carried it out
of the little kitchen into the bedroom.
A little figure in a great big dark coat stood shivering in
the middle of the floor. "Cee? What are you doing, all wrapped up like that?"
"I'm cold, Shannie. I think I'm getting a cold, or
something." I touched her forehead. It was like a hot stove. She shivered and huddled
deeper in the coat.
"Where did you get that coat, girl? You ought to be in
bed."
"I don't want to be any trouble, Shannie!"
She didn't usually call me that. It sent shivers up and down
my spine.
"Come on, get your coat off and get into bed. You're
freezing. I'll fill a hot water bottle and make you a hot drink. In you get. No, coat off
first." She was like a rag doll. "Where's your bra?"
"Coat pocket. Tits were too big, so I took it off.
Bert's coat. But mind the geese, Shannie!"
I got everything off her and threw two extra blankets on the
bed. She huddled into a ball, quivering. The kettle was still hot, and I mixed her a hot
drink with lemon flavoured cold cure and fresh orange juice. She cupped her hands round it
and sipped eagerly between shivers. At last she emptied it and lay down, still shivering.
There was only one thing for it, I climbed into bed with her and hugged her close until
she stopped shivering. I rocked her like a baby.
The door opened, and Anastasia poked her head inside.
"Oh, hi, Miss. You've gone to bed with Miss
Meadowlark!"
"She's got a cold, Staze. She was shivering, but she's
asleep now. Throw that coat on the bed, and I'll get up."
"I got hungry, Miss. I thought you were bringing me
some food. Are these my beans?"
She was obviously famished. Cold beans never appeal much to
me, but Anastasia wolfed them down and grabbed at an imported peach. "Thanks,
Miss!" She came over and looked down at Corinne. "She looks different, Miss.
Peaceful, but different. Not so tarty, somehow."
"I see what you mean." Corinne looked soft, lovely
and innocent. I took another blanket off my bed and laid it on top of the others.
"Let's leave her and go back down to the computer room," I said.
"DID YOU see Corinne down at the pub, Robbie?" Clit peered into the mirror
and made needless amendments to her hair. There was no reply. She turned round and asked
the question again.
"Sorry? Who?"
"Who what?"
"What do you mean, who what? Who who?"
"Who who?"
"Who do you mean?"
"Corinne?"
"Yes, her. But this other one. Robbie. Who's
that?"
"That's you, fat-head!" Clit blasted at him. Yet
she felt a strange sensation as if her hair was standing on end. Rob had genuinely not
reacted at all when she had called him Robbie. She might as well have addressed him as
Zachariah or Srinavasaraghavan. "Rob," she said slowly, and he pricked up his
ears. He's like a dog. "Zachariah," she tried, and he just looked puzzled.
"Rob, did you see Corinne at the pub?"
"Who?"
There was that eerie feeling again. Clit drained her Beck's
and grabbed another bottle.
"Corinne. We were drinking with her at the pub? You
remember the pub, don't you?"
"Of course. We had a drink in there. Just you and me. I
picked you up. You've got big breasts."
"What is it with you? You're not the same bloke you
were a couple of hours ago. You don't even remember who we were drinking with. Look at
these!" Clit flung her bathrobe open, and Rob's eyes widened to saucers. She put them
away again. "You think those are big? Corinne's are ten times as big as mine!
You can't have forgotten her, just like that."
"Don't be silly, Agatha."
"And stop calling me Ag ..." Clit stopped,
exasperated. She emptied her bottle and belched to make room for more. "We were in
the pub, you, me and Corinne. We left, and came back here. I had a piss in the woods. We
fucked. Three times. And another twice after you went back to the pub for more booze. You
remember all that?"
"Piss?" Rob looked interested. "I need a
piss. Where's the Gents'?" He was suddenly sounding very drunk.
"There isn't one. St Cat's is a girls' school. Go
through there. And put the seat back down after you." Rob weaved out and headed for
the little girls' room. "And don't forget to put the seat up first...!" Clit
bellowed after him.
The lights flickered briefly, and the bottles on the
workbench clinked and rattled together. One almost fell over, but she caught it in time.
Clit sat down and turned on the laptop. Rob wasn't any fun
any more. All right for a fuck. Or five. What had she ever seen in him? She looked at the
screen, wide-eyed. Where was everything? Things were all moved around. If this
hadn't been her own computer, she would have sworn it was somebody else's. She fumbled
around, searching for something she recognised.
Ah, something, at least. A shortcut to the log-on screen for
the machine called Fuckh. Stupid name for a computer. She connected the machine to the
network socket, logged on, typed in her own password ...
"I got rid of him, Miss. He's no use if I can't find him, is he?"
"I suppose not. I haven't had him, anyway. He's no use
to me! And Corinne's asleep in bed, and not very well. He's not with her. Maybe he escaped
somewhere?"
"He won't have got far. I zapped him. He doesn't exist
any more. No more Rob Archer." She seemed to have farted. Silent but deadly. Beans on
toast hadn't been the best idea in the world, perhaps. "Sorry, Miss. Beans."
"I know. I can recognise beans, thank you. Do try and
control your sphincter muscles, Anastasia. You will find it excellent training for sexual
intercourse, I understand."
"Yes, Miss. I didn't do it on purpose, Miss."
"Just don't do it again. Or if you do, go out of the
room first."
She got up and went out. Thirty seconds later, she was back.
"This is going to slow things down, Miss, if I have to go outside every couple of
minutes. Why don't I stay in here and you go outside?"
Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea. "What are you going
to do now?" I asked her.
"I'm going to explore the tunnels. Yours and Mr
Jeremy's. It will take me the rest of the day. I won't go to bed until I've finished. I'll
get you sorted out, Miss. You and Mr Jeremy."
I gave her hand a little squeeze. Me and Mr Jeremy. It had a
somehow comforting feel to it.
Anastasia explored Miss Gruntworthy's and Jeremy's tunnels for an hour, then her
attention began to wander. She recognised the signs. All this tunnel exploring was making
her horny. In fact, she knew that the creeping Uncontrollable Horniness that was getting
to her was being caused by the lack of fresh fruit. Her last imported peach was wearing
off and she was down to a final banana.
She wished in a way that she hadn't left a banana until
last. It made her think of other things. As bananas went, it was a biggie, which didn't
help. Clutching the fruit, she got up from her chair and prowled around the IT lab, her
breasts swaying heavily inside her camouflage uniform. The friction of her nipples against
the coarse material was, to put it mildly, disturbing.
Without thinking, she sat down at another terminal. The
screen saver showed a selection of fish swimming around. Idly, she tapped the end of the
banana on one of the keys. The fish disappeared, to be replaced by a screen full of text.
She snorted. She had seen enough screens full of text for one day. But then her eye caught
a word that attracted her attention.
In seconds, she was reading avidly, her right hand tapping
occasionally on the Page Dn key. Fumbling beneath her lap-filling breasts, she found a way
in through the elasticised waist of her combat trousers. Tearing at the end of the banana
with her teeth, she ripped the skin back with a succession of bites until it hung like
wilting petals over her hand. In between all this activity, she was reading faster and
faster, hitting the Page Dn key more and more frequently. With a will of its own, the
banana went into the top of her trousers and Anastasia gasped as it almost instantly found
its target and slid easily home. Room for a whole bunch of bananas in there, she thought.
Whoever had written this story knew what she was doing. It
described Anastasia's feelings precisely. SO precisely! Leaving the banana in its
resting place, she stood up in her seat and clawed at her uniform top. It came off over
her head, leaving her mammoth udders flopping before her on the desk top. With an effort,
she avoided having them flop on to the keyboard to obliterate the story in a welter of
random characters. The chair skittered backwards on its castors and crashed unheeded on to
its back, its wheels still revolving.
Down came her trousers, to lie around her feet in a jumble
of earth browns and jungle greens. She hit Page Dn once more, panting as the story got
hotter and wetter. She rubbed the cool, slick banana skin against the taut and almost
blazingly hot nubbin of her clitoris; felt a handful of warm runny honey trickle down her
trembling fingers; shuddered in helpless arousal, her thighs and knees trembling, the
movement echoed and magnified by the swaying and jiggling of her spike-nippled,
puffy-areola-ed pumpkins; smelled her own ripe animal musk engulfing her; murmured a soft,
ullulating woo-woo-woo-woo-WOW! and panted out the obligatory number ONE!
In an instant, Anastasia was filled with shame!
Had anyone heard her? It was past eight o' clock in the
evening. She had blurted out the number without thinking. For a girl in the full bloom of
her sex to call out the number ONE at this time of day! Or this time of night, as it was
now. Disgrace!
Had anyone heard?
Anastasia obviously hadn't heard me approaching. Realising what she was doing, and not
wishing to interrupt, I hung around outside the door and waited for her to finish. It was
certainly a doozie. I envied the girl.
"Woo-woo-woo-woo-WOW! ONE!"
she howled.
That would explain everything. Her first today. No wonder
she had nearly exploded. I gave her a few seconds to stop quivering, then strolled into
the lab, whistling nonchalantly.
How do you say that word? Is it
"non-cha-lunt", or "nor-sh'lorng" with a cod French accent? I even
stopped whistling for a moment and practised saying "nor-sh'lorng". I followed
it up by saying "Shawn-teuiyye". Not easy, unless you screw your face up. Time
to unscrew my face and start whistling again.
"Eeeek!"
Anastasia's shriek echoed above the hum of the
air-conditioning and the whirr of high-tech machinery. "Miss!"
"It's all right, Staze!" She was standing in what
was patently an uncomfortable position, slightly crouched, knees and juice-glistening
thighs parted, her trousers and panties round her ankles. Her upper half — or her
upper eight tenths — was naked and extremely pink. And was that a banana ...?
Obviously it was. She snatched it out — snatched
it! — and crammed it into her mouth, whole, and stood with only the skin in her hand.
She looked round for somewhere to put it. A tidy girl, Anastasia.
I walked over and took it from her. It was covered in
fragrant Anastasia-juice. It had been a biggie! The banana as well as the orgasm.
No doubt about it.
"Sorry, Miss! I was reading horny stories. I didn't
mean to ..."
"That's all right dear. Pull your trousers up and put
your top back on. How was the banana?"
"Tasty, Miss. A bit funny-tasting, actually."
"It was probably past its best. I brought you some more
fruit ..."
I had to stand and watch as she unzipped another banana. For
a moment, I wondered just what she was going to do with it, but she stuffed it into her
mouth, then made herself relatively decent again, apart from the almost overpowering scent
of aroused girl. I was forced to cling to a filing cabinet for support.
"What were you reading, anyway?" I looked eagerly
round the lab for a book I could confiscate.
"On the computer, Miss. Somebody must have a stash of
stories. It was about a pregnant girl. It's quite good, Miss. It made me horny as fu
..."
"I get the picture, dear. You know, you need to rest.
You shouldn't sit in here staring at the screen all day. Come up to our room and watch the
telly for a bit."
She looked at me a bit strangely. What did I say?
"It's okay, Miss. I was getting close to a breakthrough
when the Uncontrollable Horniness hit me. Another half hour and I'll have reached a point
where I can save everything and break off for the night."
"As long as you do, there's a good girl. Umm,
Staze?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"I did ask you to get dressed a while ago. But you took
your trousers off instead of pulling them up. You really can't just sit there in nothing
but a pair of old army boots. Anybody could walk in and see you."
"They're genuine German Army paratroops' boots,
Miss," she reproached me.
An image came to me of a swearing paratrooper caught in an
apple tree while Anastasia relieved him of his footwear.
"The poor man is probably on a charge for losing them,
Anastasia. At least, put your top on."
She looked as if she was thinking of objecting, then sorted
through the dank pile of clothing on the floor, and came up with the top of her uniform.
"There's something I need to speak to Mr Michael about,
Miss," she grunted, wrestling her way into it like a reversed Houdini putting on a
strait-jacket. "Something else I think he's overlooked. It's about when he protects
our patterns. I think he's doing it all wrong. You have to protect everyone before you
make any changes, right?"
"Right."
"Well, say I wanted to change Miss Meadowlark. I would
have to protect us first. Well, I would protect me. I've got a hot key for that. I
just press Ctrl-Shift-AA and I'm protected. Then I do you. I have to do you
manually."
That sounded interesting, Anastasia doing me manually.
"Go on."
"And then, after that, only then can I change
Miss Meadowlark."
"And the lights flicker ...?"
"Yes, Miss. But say I wanted to change someone else as
well. Like Mr Jeremy. Where Michael has been doing it wrong: he would just go ahead and
change the next person. That's wrong."
"It is?"
"Yes. He should protect me and you again first. And
everyone else, too, who needs doing. After every change, re-protect. If he doesn't, and
just carries on and changes the next person, say Miss Mountains, I might not be fully
protected, nor you neither. Like just one parameter might get screwed up. We might
not notice it straight away, but there's a risk. It's strange. Michael seems to make such
elementary mistakes all the time."
I gulped. This meant that it had probably happened already.
So many changes had already been made before Anastasia's stunning discovery. It was
frightening to think of the errors that might have crept in. Not just might have,
certainly would have crept in. Our whole history was in the balance.
"Michael," I said, "you are an absolute
dick-head."
"Yes, he is, Miss!"
That didn't make me feel any better at all. "What are
you going to do about it?" I asked her.
"I was just coming to that, before I got horny. For a
start, I have to unprotect everybody. Then I can start again." She typed for a moment
and a list of names appeared on the screen.
CHAUNTAILLE
CORINNE
Ms xxx CLITRESS [READ ONLY]
JEREMY
MEGAN
ANASTASIA *
MICHAEL
"That's everybody at St Cat's at the moment, Miss. I'll unprotect them."
"What's that 'read only' mean against Clit?" I
asked.
Anastasia shrugged. "I suppose it's to say she can't
change anything, she can only read it."
She typed something, then with an air of finality, hit Enter
and looked immediately up at the lights. Nothing happened. Not a flicker.
"Seemed to be all right," she said, sounding
faintly disappointed.
There was a list of names on the screen of the laptop. Clit ran down them with a fingernail.
CHAUNTAILLE
CORINNE
Ms xxx CLITRESS *
JEREMY
MEGAN
ANASTASIA
MICHAEL
Just the usual list of staff on campus over the holiday, doing whatever they did.
Shagging, mostly. Corinne, anyway. And that lez, Chauntaille.
Jeremy would be engaged in maintenance, Smegs hanging around
as usual without a home to go to.
And two girls. What were they doing here? It was not unknown
for girls to stay at St Cat's during the hols. It happened when parents were away enjoying
themselves on yachts in the Mediterranean, or sunning themselves with rum cocktails on
Caribbean beaches.
Anastasia's parents were a heartless couple, always
abandoning her. Michaela Goodenough's were just as bad. They even kept selling their house
and not telling Michaela where they had moved to.
"Ooops!" said Clit. "Somebody should take
more care with their typing." She added the 'a' to the end of Michael's name.
She typed the words UPDATE
PERSONNEL LIST and entered it into the computer. The lights flickered briefly and
Clit frowned at the empty beer bottles bouncing on the workbench.
"That's happening a bit too often for my liking. Better
have a word with Jeremy about it."
She reached out and picked up the phone.
"You feeling better, love?"
Corinne sat up in bed and I propped her up with pillows.
"I feel groggy, still. Warmer now though, thanks!"
She patted the bed next to her and I sat down carefully, not wanting to squash her breast.
"You got into bed and cuddled me, Shannie! Thanks, darling. I love you so much!"
I gulped. "Oh, it was nothing. You were freezing, so I
warmed you up, that's all. Where were you when you first felt cold?"
"Down at Flossie and Bert's. It's Bert's coat. I'll
take it back tomorrow."
"Back where? I don't know these people."
"Down the village. You know Flossie and Bert? Where St
Cat's gets its apples and goose eggs. Flossie bakes the most amazing apple pies. I was
going to get her recipe, but she won't tell me. Her Mum's secret, she said. You know how
some people are with their secrets. To think, I'm teaching their poor little disabled boy
how to use a computer and she won't even tell me how to make a pie!"
"Oh, I see."
"Well, he'll have to wait for his next lesson. I can't
get down there tonight, not with this temperature."
"Certainly not, you're staying right there in bed. I'll
make you some chicken soup. Starve a cold and feed a fever!"
"Or is it the other way round?"
"I can never remember."
We both laughed, then fell silent. A companionable silence.
"You seem different, Cee!"
"It's this temperature. I'll get better. I'll get
better even sooner if you make that soup."
"All right, I'm going, I'm going!"
She wouldn't let me get up until she had given me a big wet
kiss.
"Gosh, Mikki, where did you learn to do that?"
"Did you like it, Miss?" The girl giggled and
wrapped the sheet tighter round her chest. "I used to do it with my big sister when
we were both little. Shall I do it again?"
"God! Yes, please!"
Clit swigged at her bottle and wondered how she could demonstrate the school computer
system for Rob. He liked big breasts, didn't he? Okay, let him see the measurements data
system in action. Pity there were only two girls on campus at the moment. But young
Anastasia was several feet bigger around the bust than anyone had a right to be, and
Michaela Goodenough was no slouch in the chest department. They would do as a
demonstration.
Taking another glug of beer, she eagerly turned to the data
monitoring page. She frowned. Both girls were reading zero. Fucking typical! Give these
kids a holiday and the first thing they do is take their bras off! It was enough to drive
any self-respecting bra-maker to drink. Clit took a deep swallow and popped another
bottle. She belched and stared at the screen. 'Nothing for it,' she thought, 'I'll have to
revert to their last known measurements. Rob will never know.'
Anastasia's were much as Clit expected. She shook her head
in wonderment at those incredible numbers. And only thirteen, too. Then she typed MICHAELA, and hit Return. A second or so later, she was frowning
at the screen. It was wrong, all wrong. She slugged at her bottle and looked again. It was
still wrong.
"Fucking thing!"
Anastasia frowned at her screen. It had been a long day, and she was tired. She wanted to get to bed, call Clark and have a good wank. The words seemed to swim before her eyes. Now, there was an error message which made no sense at all.
'Orphan Parameters ex-Rob: attach/delete/cancel?'
"Ex-Rob? Orphans? Oh,
no!" Anastasia glanced round to see if she had been observed. They must be Rob's
children. He never said. She hadn't told him to have children. Sodding machine! She
thumped the desk in frustration. The message didn't go away.
"I can't just delete the poor little kids, and I can't
cancel them. I'd better attach them. Whatever that means." She hit an 'A'.
Attach Orphans:
Where?
said the machine helpfully.
"Those poor children!" Anastasia brushed away a
tear. "They've lost their Daddy. Give them a Daddy!" It had to be Mr Jeremy or
Mr Michael. There was nobody else she could attach the orphans to. It wasn't the most
inspiring choice in the world. Michael was a genius, but prone to careless and thoughtless
errors: would she want these poor orphans to have such a father?
"It will have to be Jeremy," she said decisively.
She had typed the name and was staring at it on the screen, when an image came to her of
Jeremy standing right here in the IT lab, with herself, little Anastasia, playing tunes on
his cock. "How could he do such a thing when he has a tiny helpless family to look
after? What sort of a Daddy puts his willy in a schoolgirl's mouth. And halfway down her
throat," she added with relish.
She backspaced and typed 'MICHAEL'
in its place, then bashed the Enter key before she could change her mind.
Attach Orphan Parameters:
Michaela?
confirm/cancel
nagged the machine.
"I fucking told you, yes. YES!" yelled Anastasia,,
thumping the key again.
'OK, Then, On Your Head Be It,'
the machine sneered in a prissy way, while Anastasia stared at the ceiling and ran her
hands through her hair in exasperation. 'Attaching Orphan
Parameters: ex-Rob Michaela — Huge Breasts — Older Woman. DONE!'
The lights flickered for something like five seconds, and
almost went out. When they came back on again, the screen was blank.
CLIT SAT for a moment with her head in her hands. The laptop, or was it the Fuckh
machine, was telling her that Michaela's measurements were 32-22-33. Reasonable enough for
a girl considerably less than five feet tall. But the only Michaela Clit knew, Michaela
Goodenough, was a Fourth Form girl of rather stocky build and five feet ten inches tall.
She stared at the numbers again. Apart from those absurdly
slender measurements, the computer was insisting that Michaela was twelve years old.
"Wrong, wrong, wrong ... hic ...wrong!" said Clit. She tried typing new numbers
in place of the old ones, but the machine told her gruffly that she wasn't allowed to do
that.
Time for another drink. The last of the bottles was empty.
"Robbie! Rob! Get sh'more beer!" she yelled like a fishwife. "Bastard's
disappeared on me. Typical man!"
'UPDATE,' she typed. The
machine hesitated for a moment as if to say, 'you're not gonna like this,' then a terse
message appeared.
Now Attached Orphan Parameters:
Michaela — Big Breasts — Older Woman.
Apply?
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Clit stormed. "Her tits are
too small and she's older than that! Whaddya mean, apply?"
The computer didn't say anything. Maybe in another five
years ...
"All right, dog-brain, fucking Apply ...!"
She hit Enter so hard, the computer slid off her lap on to
the floor.
Smegs ran her hands over the young girl's flat belly, down to the sparse fluff of her
pubic hair. She received a squeak of delight. Michaela was flat on her back, her shortie
nightdress ridden up to her stomach. Her eyes were half closed in ecstasy as Smegs
caressed her. Perfection!
"You're lovely, Mikki, such perfect little breasts,
with such big rude naughty nipples."
"I know, Miss. You don't wish they were bigger,
Miss?" Michaela looked anxiously at the teacher out of the corner of her eye.
"Of course not, sweetie. There are enough huge girls at
St Cat's when I fancy that sort of thing."
"So if you had three wishes, Miss, you wouldn't want me
to have bigger boobs? Like my big sister's?"
"Like hers? The biggest udders at St Cat's? Why should
I wish such things on you. You're just perfect the way you are."
"What would you wish for, Miss?" the girl asked
huskily.
The bedside light gave a flicker, and Smegs frowned at it.
"That keeps happening," she said. "What were you saying?"
"I asked you what your three wishes could be,
Miss."
Smegs cupped the girl's eagerly-drooling sex, and ran her
fingers through the silken tangle of her pubic hair. Her index finger traced the downy
line of hairs up almost to the navel where it dipped beneath the surface of the soft layer
of incredibly sexy fat, just a little, just enough to sink a finger into. On and upwards,
Smegs's hand encountered the edge of the little nightie, though which the jutting half
globes of Michaela's breasts strained like halved grapefruit, only slightly larger; the
nipples, perched enticingly on top of the puffy walnut-sized areolae like the plastic caps
of those big thick marker pens you use for addressing parcels.
"Sorry, what was the question again?"
"I can't remember, Miss!"
By the time Clit had retrieved the machine from between her feet and got it the right
way up on her lap — she fell over three times, giggling, and ended up sitting on the
floor with her legs spread wide for balance — the data on the screen had revised
itself.
"That's better, but I'm sure she's older than
thirteen," said Clit, and asked the machine for another update.
MICHAELA 36-23-34 AGE 13
Verifying Attached Parameters
More/Less?
"Ho-ho, not sure, are you? About time you admitted it, you're fallible, aren't you? Come on, then, MORE!"
The bedside lamp blinked briefly again. Michaela sat up on the bed and looked at it.
"Is it going to go out, Miss? I don't like the dark. You will look after me, won't
you?"
Smegs gazed at the Fourth Former with frank admiration.
Those nipples held her attention where they thrust out through the almost transparent
material of the nightie. Michaela wasn't the biggest girl in St Cat's by any stretch of
the imagination, and there were plenty more fourteen-year-olds with far larger breasts,
but oh, those nipples ...!
Michaela glanced down at them shyly. "They're bigger
than I've ever seen them, Miss. It's you that's done that to them. Suck them, Miss. Suck
them for me! Make them grow even bigger!"
"Take your nightie off, then," panted Smegs.
"I can't suck them until you take it off."
"I can't get it it off. It's much too tight. I've had
this one since I was in the First Form, when I had a 32-inch bust. I'm over 38 now!"
Michaela giggled seductively and Smegs dumped a generous helping of juice down the inside
of her thighs.
"Get it off," screamed Smegs, beside
herself with lust. "Rip it, I'll buy you another!"
"It won't rip, it's too strong." Michaela tugged
and pulled at the material. It resisted stoutly. The firm, melon-sized globes wobbled
heavily in protest, eager for escape. The areolae were screamingly erect, like Cox's
apples sliced in half, and Michaela's nipples seemed to be longer than the ends of Smegs's
thumb as she tried to lend a hand. Only one hand, the other was buried in her own fevered,
sopping snatch.
"That's better, arsehole," yelled Clit, "she's fourteen!" Her
blurred eyes scanned the screen. The bust size wasn't right at all. It ought to be more
like 44, surely! Michaela was a chunky girl, with legs like tree trunks. "More!"
'OK,' responded the machine
gamely. !'
Smegs switched the light off and on again. It seemed as bright as ever.
"Sometimes, when the bulb is going, it flickers. Switch it off and on again and it
doesn't come on. But it seems all right now. Where were we?"
"You were just going to go down on me again,
Miss!" sighed Michaela.
"Oooh, yes. Let's take your nightie off first. Ooh,
look, you've ripped it. When did that happen?"
"It's only an old one, Miss. Look at the label. It's a
32! Is that ridiculous or what. I'm more like 42, or 44!"
Smegs found a pair of scissors. "These will get it off.
You can wear one of mine."
"Oh, can I, Miss? Will it smell of you, too?"
"Probably. You can have a clean one, though, if you
like."
"Clean? What for? Give me a nice poo-ey one to remind
me of my own Miss Smelly Mountains! But cut this one off first."
"All right. Stand up."
They clambered off the bed, clutching at each other for
support. The top of Michaela's head came up to Smegs's nipples. Michaela staggered a
little. "Funny, Miss, you'd think I'd be able to balance with these things by
now!"
"Michaela Meadowlark, I do believe you are deliberately
trying to turn me on. Turn round and I'll cut it up the back."
She applied the scissors to the straining hem of the
nightie, where it was tight against Michaela's plump little buttocks. Smegs was tempted to
give the girl a trim while she was down there. For a blonde, she was certainly unusually
hairy.
"Ooh, the scissors are cold, Miss. Specially between
the cheeks of my bum."
Snip, snip, snip. Some of the tension went out of the flimsy
yet strong material, and Michaela gave a little sigh. Smegs snipped higher, up to the
girl's waist. There was room now for Smegs to slide her hand round to the front and sink
her fingers into the generous fleshiness of Michaela's tummy, bringing a shuddering sigh
from the girl.
"Hurry, Miss, please!"
Smegs had no intention of hurrying.
"Hey, this is good!" Clit suddenly had a moment of startling clarity when she
stared at the screen. "Every time I tell it more, it does. It does as I tell it! Just
imagine if the real Michaela was getting bigger every time I told the computer to make her
bigger!"
It was such an absurd notion, but a decidedly appealing one.
It had been quite some time since her last fuck with Rob, and Clit was getting quite horny
at the thought of enlarging this imaginary girl.
"I haff you in my power," she exulted, and typed 'LESS'.
"It's getting easier, Miss," Michaela panted. "Please take it off
now."
Smegs giggled. She was enjoying this. She turned the
fifteen-year-old round to face her and cupped the plumply swollen pineapples of her
breasts through the still-taut, still-stretched laciness of the half devastated
nightdress.
"I'll unplug that fucking lamp if this carries
on," swore Smegs as the light flickered again. The scissors crunched through the lacy
front of the nightie, up, up between the sixteen-year-old's massive globes. Smegs
triumphantly snipped right to the top, and cut through the neckline like Her Majesty the
Queen cutting the tape to open a new bridge. Away went the skimpy shreds of material. How
ever could such a teensy apology for a nightie have tried to contain these twin monsters?
Michaela gasped as Smegs cupped both breasts in her damp
palms. Her hands weren't even big enough to cover the areolae, leaping extravagantly out
from the alabaster surface of the girl's mighty orbs in a riot of pebble-textured
milk-chocolate-hued throbbing puffiness, crowned with nipples as big as wine corks. She
released them and watched, hypnotised, as they bounced, plunging to their fullest extent
before settling with the marvellous nipples at just above the level of her waist.
"God! She's getting fucking huge. Funny how she gets older at the same time." Clit examined the screen for the latest update. "Pretty spectacular, even though I says it myself," she congratulated herself.
MICHAELA 59-26-35 AGE 16
Verifying Attached Parameters
More/Less?
"Shit, why not! I only wish I knew where this Michaela was, so I could go take a
look at her."
Clit typed her instructions into the machine, then struggled
to her feet. The trouble with beer is it always makes you want to go to the loo.
She clung for support to the work bench, to the wall, to
anything. "Robbo! Come out of there. It's Clitty's turn. Coming, ready or not."
The toilet was empty.
"Funny, where the fuck's he gone?"
The lights flickered, went out, and stayed out.
I nearly dropped Corinne's bowl of chicken soup.
"It's getting worse. They've gone out completely this
time."
"I've noticed," said Corinne. "I was trying
to read this report from the Journal of the Institute of Comparative Chaos."
The lights came on.
"Not a drop spilt, look," I said proudly,
delivering the soup to Corinne.
"Well done, love. Put it on the bedside table for a
minute. And could you get Michaela's laptop from the coffee table, please?"
"Right-ho." I set the soup bowl down and searched
the littered coffee table. "Are you sure she left it here?"
"It was there earlier, under those magazines?"
"Nothing. It's not here."
"I hope the daft bitch hasn't lost it. It cost bloody
thousands, and it's got all her project work on it."
I looked under the table, on the settee, the dressing table.
"It's not here. She must have taken it."
"But when? I've been in here the whole time."
"Maybe it was while you were over at Flossie and
Bert's. What did you want it for, anyway?"
"Oh, just to do a few calculations. Nothing too
complicated. I've done them now, in my head."
"While we've been talking? How do you do it, Cee?"
"Oh, it's nothing. Just concentration. You could do it
yourself if you put your mind to it."
That's the trouble with living with a genius.
"If I get out of this lavatory without drowning myself, I'll throttle that
Jeremy." Clit groped backwards, feeling for the toilet, then sat down.
"Eeeek!" She shot upward. "It's bloody
freezing. Why can't men put the seat down after them?" She had to flop down on to the
toilet again. It was the lesser of two evils, either a cold bum or a lot of wee all over
everything.
The lights came back on.
"Hmm! Could be worse, I suppose. Only a gallon or two
on the floor.
The phone rang.
"Oh, hi, Jeremy!"
"Sorry about that. Clit asked me to check out the
lights. I've gone over everything and it's all okay. I should have warned you first, but I
switched off for a couple of seconds. It should be all right now."
"Oh, thanks." I put the phone down. "That was
Jeremy."
"I can tell," grinned Corinne, writing down
another string of figures as long as your arm. "You've gone all red."
"I haven't!" I said, feeling the flush creep down
my neck.
"It's all right. If the lights go off again, you can
just stand there and glow. You're like a Fourth Former! Shannie's in love!"
"I'm not. I wouldn't know what to do with a boy."
"Oh, you'd soon pick it up, love. Get my little sister
to give you some lessons. She's been shagging since she was so high. Well, she's
still only so high, but you know what I mean."
I flung a bread roll at her head. She caught it in her left
hand without pausing in her writing, then she stuck her little tongue out at me.
"All right," she said with a little giggle.
"Give me ten more minutes, and I'll be finished. Maybe we've earned an early
night!"
"Don't move, I've got a lighter here!" Smegs fumbled around on her dressing
table for a moment, then the light came on again. "Shit, I'll screw that Jeremy if he
doesn't get these lights sorted."
Michaela gasped. "Gosh, is that the time? I've got to
go."
"Go? Where?" Smegs was distraught.
"I've got a date. I'm going to screw Jeremy. At least
it will save you the trouble, Miss!"
"Jeremy? God, Mik, not you as well. I thought you were
a bit more choosy."
"He's all there is at the moment. And he's pretty good.
Not many boys can really fill me, and Jeremy can. Nearly. Where are my clothes?"
"Huh. On the floor, probably, where you threw them when
you were so mad to get into bed with me."
"I'm sorry, Miss. I did say we only had a few hours.
And we had a good time, didn't we! We can do it again tomorrow?" She was fumbling
around under the bed, coming up with a variety of clothing, not all of it hers. She laid
it all on the bed and made a selection. "Oooh, is this your T-shirt?" She held
it to her nose. "Gosh, it is, isn't it!"
"Yes, it's mine. Hey! I had that made to measure. Don't
go stretching it out of shape. Shit, too late."
Michaela's laughing face appeared out of the neck of the
black T-shirt and she worked it down over her gigantic breasts. "What size is
this?" she puffed, finally tucking everything away relatively out of sight.
"Sixty inches," Smegs admitted glumly. That poor
T-shirt would never be remotely the same again. It would always have a great big pair of
pointy nipples, for a start.
"Ah, that explains it, then. Never mind. Tight clothes
make Jeremy excited." She bent with some difficulty to find her panties. The T-shirt
seemed to creak audibly, then her breasts burst out of the bottom in perfect synchronism.
"Not this tight, though." She struggled out of it. "This your blouse?"
"Yes. No! Get it off!"
"Ooof! Silk doesn't really stretch, does it. Good job
.. it's ... nice and ... loose! There, how's that look?"
"Dangerous. Don't try doing the rest of the buttons.
Mikki. NO!"
Michaela fastened the next button down from the top and
began to work her way down. And out. Things became increasingly fraught in there. As she
reached each new button, more and more pressure was exerted on the material. "It will
be all right once I get past the biggest part, Miss. Another four buttons ... oh, shit!
Sorry!"
Smegs held the tattered silk in her hands and used it to mop
up her tears. Michaela, meanwhile, seemed to have given up on the top and had succeeded in
working her generous bottom into a pair of Smegs's tightest shorts. "These are so
tight, Miss," she enthused, touching herself intimately. "I'll just work a bit
of my juice into the crotch, then Jeremy won't recognise them as yours."
"Don't be too sure," Smegs retorted sourly.
"Now, I just need to hide these things. What else you
got?"
"For Chrissakes!" Smegs leapt off the bed and
dived into the wardrobe. "Before you burst every item of clothing I've got, girl, put
this on." She flung her floppiest sweater across the room, and Michaela caught it.
"Not very sexy, is it, Miss! I'll look like a sack of
spuds in this." She wrestled with it for a while, then had to turn to the mirror to
see what she was doing. "It's no use, Miss. I can't see down there. Tuck me in,
please!"
Seething, Smegs tucked the sweater into her shorts. Her
baggy sweater had never been so overstuffed in its life. Now, it had tits. It had nipples,
too, and areolae, clearly outlined. Michaela might just as well have been nude.
"It will do, I suppose." Michaela wobbled to the
door. "He-heee! At least, this sweater stops me jiggling. Well, not more than a foot
or so. See ya later, Miss, okay? In the morning, right?"
"Right!" Smegs flung herself on the bed. Another
bloody early night. She lay, tossing, seething hot, then toddled off in search of
Anastasia.