MICHAELA MEADOWLARK knocked on the door of Jeremy's shed. About a minute passed before
he appeared, wrapped in a towel.
"Who's that?" he peered out into the darkness.
There was no reply. He stepped outside. "Who's there?"
Michaela dodged out from behind the door, stood on the
doorstep and reached up to place a hand across Jeremy's eyes from behind his back.
"Guess who?" she snarled gruffly.
Jeremy wrinkled his nose. "Megan? Is that you?"
"Bitch!" Michaela jumped wobblingly down off the
step and stuck a thumb in her mouth. "Rotten ratbag," she said. "You're
supposed to have been expecting me."
"I'd given up. When you didn't show up, I decided on an
early night." He groaned inwardly. No sleep for him tonight, not with this little
slut for company. "Go on, then. Get your arse inside." Little slut she might be,
but Michaela was a most inventive little slut. He followed her in and she pressed her lush
body against him.
"Woooh, naughty Jeremy's knobby is sticking into
Michaela's tummy," she murmured, wriggling gently yet effectively. "I thought
Jeremy was tired!"
"Jeremy is tired, but Jeremy's willy wants Mikki's
pussy," he chanted the well-rehearsed formula.
"Mikki's what pussy?"
"Mikki's big pussy!"
"Mikki's what pussy?"
"Mikki's wet pussy!"
"Mikki's what what pussy?"
"Mikki's big wet pussy!"
"Mikki's what WHAT pussy?"
"Mikki's giant wet pussy," sighed Jeremy,
getting it right at last.
"You never get it right, do you?" she stood
back and stroked him through the tented towel. "Undress me, Jeremy, please."
Michaela was a well-brought-up girl. 'Always say please,'
her parents had taught her, and now, she was always scrupulously polite when asking a boy
to take her kit off.
"You're fantastic, Mikki," Jeremy sighed, as he
tugged the sweater out of the waist band of her shorts and pulled it over her head with a
soft plop. "God, you look even bigger!"
"Do you think so?" Michaela regarded herself with
justifiable pride. "Will I get to be as big as my sister? She's five years older than
me, so I've got plenty of time. I know I'm only eighty inches, and lots of the girls are miles
bigger than that, but mine are all perfectly natural — no Sexual Chemicals — AND
I'm only four feet six tall! Corinne's titties didn't get to this size until she was
nearly twenty, and I'm only seventeen. I could end up twice as big as her!
Would you like that, Jeremy?"
Whatever Jeremy thought about this catalogue of evidence,
there was part of him that thought it was a great idea. The towel, unequal to the strain,
unwound itself and fell to the floor.
"Ooooh, I think you do, Jeremy. Naughty boy. You are a
naughty boy, wanting little Mikki's titties to be the size of ..." she struggled to
think of something big enough to compare Corinne's breasts with. "... bigger than my
sister's." She grasped him in both hands, bent slightly forward and inhaled a foot or
so of him.
"Jeez!" he gasped. Then he closed his eyes.
'At least, whatever I do with this one,' he said to himself, 'she's legal!'
"It's not easy with a cold, Shannie!"
"What's not easy?"
"Going down on you. I keep getting scared I'm going to
sneeze in there."
I considered the thought. It sounded fair enough to me.
"I can think of worse things."
Corinne laughed, but sat up in the bed. "Maybe an early
night wasn't the best idea, was it? We're both wide awake."
I nodded. I felt edgy, and Corinne seemed preoccupied.
"What's the matter?"
"It's this snotty nose. I can't breathe properly. And I
keep wondering where that laptop could have gone. And I'm doing sums in my head."
"You can always do sums and fuck me at the same
time."
"I know, but these are hard sums. Simultaneous
equations and stuff. To five places of decimals. I'd better write down some more
answers." She put the light on and added another vast list of numbers to her note
pad. "Anyway," she said, without pausing. "Your mind is elsewhere, isn't
it?"
"Mine? Elsewhere?"
"Shannie's gone red again! Go and see him!"
"See who?" My face burned like a torch.
"Oh, come on, Shan. Get up, get dressed, go and see
Jeremy and have a good fuck! It will do you a world of good."
"I can't! He's a man."
"You can fuck men, Shan. It's what they're for.
Go on. Live a little."
"I don't know what to do," I muttered unhappily.
Corinne took my chin in her hand. She even stopped writing.
"Jeremy will know what to do, love. He's had most of the girls over sixteen in St
Cat's. They'll have taught him how to do it. St Cat's girls are taught to expect nothing
but the best of service. Right? Right, get up. Dry your love-tunnel, go and get dressed,
dab on some perfume, and go and see him. Do I need to come with you and hold your
hand?"
"No."
"Go on, then."
I got out of bed.
"Jeremy!"
"Mikki!"
"Oo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-WOWOWOWOWOW! Two
hundred and eighty-seven, eight, nine, ninety, ninety-one, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, NINE!"
"You are so multi-orgasmic, Mikki! One more?"
"I'm not a sex-maniac, Jeremy! Oh, yes! Suck them,
swallow my nipples. They're growing, Jeremy. My tits are so HUGE!"
Jeremy ran his hands over them. He had to admit it. Michaela
was telling the truth.
"How long have you been in here, Mikki?"
"Sorry. Did you have another appointment? I'll get up
and go if you ..."
"NO! Lie down. I was just wondering if it was midnight
yet."
"Why midnight?"
"Cos the school rules say you're supposed to count your
orgasms on a daily basis, but at the end of the day, you're supposed to start again. I was
wondering if you were going to reach three hundred before midnight. You're my record
girl."
Mikki leaned on one elbow and grinned at Jeremy.
"Darling. It's four in the morning. I reset to zero at midnight. If you had been
paying attention, you would have heard me change from five hundred and thirty to one back
to zero when the quadrangle clock struck twelve."
"Five hundre ... how many of those were mine?"
asked Jeremy with a hint of pride in his voice.
"They were all MINE, sweetheart. You haven't
done so badly yourself, for your age!" She rubbed her breasts ruefully. "They are
getting bigger, you know. I can feel it. We'll have to measure them in the morning. Would
you like that, darling?"
The bed covers gave clear evidence that Jeremy would have
liked it.
"Oh, yes!" She dived into the musky darkness under
the duvet. "Guess what I've found!" she giggled, licking it from bottom to top.
The distance from the bottom to the top seemed to increase with each lick.
"Shhhh!"
"Glubblmhnnnrr."
"SSSHHH! Mikki, shut up!"
"Mmmmnbll ... telling to shut up?" she enquired
shrilly, emerging into the fresh air.
"SHHH! There's someone at the door."
"Whaaa ...? Who would ...? I've got to go, I'll get
expelled ..." Michaela leapt out of bed, her rebounding breasts like great white
whales in the gloom of the shed. She began looking for her clothes.
There was another knock. There really was someone at the
door.
It was me.
I heard scuffling and squeaks from inside. He had a girl in
there. Anastasia, probably, although it hadn't sounded like her voice shouting 'NINE!' as
I came through the woods. Higher-pitched, it was, and not so cut-glass. Not Smegs, either,
and not husky like Clit's. More like Corinne's, although that was impossible, even for a
genius like Cee. Even she wasn't capable of having sex in two places
simultaneously.
I'd better rephrase that.
No, on second thoughts ...
It was all quiet in there. Too quiet. I knocked again, and
there was a scampering of footsteps from just on the other side of the door. Something
fell over inside, and there was a lot of shushing.
Then the door opened a few inches.
"Who's that?" Jeremy stood in the moonlight, with
a towel round his waist. Whatever happened, it was too late to back out now.
"It's me," I hissed.
"Who?"
"Shan, of course!"
"SHAN?"
"Shhhh!"
"Sorry. Shan?"
He was still saying it in a tone of stark disbelief. I ought
to have felt insulted.
"Yes, it's me. Can I come in? It's cold."
"Sorry." He stood aside and I scurried through.
The shed smelled sexy.
"I've interrupted you, I'll go." I turned to
leave.
"No. Please stay. Did you want to talk about
something?"
"Talk? No, not really." Or was that a polite name
for it? Did they always refer to it as 'talking'? I thought back over all the occasions I
had heard people talking about talking. Did that mean they were always talking
about ... sex? God, how embarrassing. I might even have used the word myself. They
would all have been laughing at me behind my back. My flesh crawled with embarrassment. It
was one of my evenings for blushing deeply. Or mornings, now, although God knew what the
time was.
The quadrangle clock struck four. "Thanks, God, but it
wasn't really that important."
"I'll go, Miss, it's all right," came a whisper
from the darkness.
"No! Please stay, Mikki!" Jeremy sounded close to
panic.
"Mikki?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"Michaela Meadowlark?"
"Yes, Miss." She sounded scared this time. Use of
the full Sunday name meant Trouble.
"Put the light on, Jeremy," I told him. There was
a pause, then the bedside light came on.
We all stood and stared at each other.
Clit woke up. Her head thumped. She ached all over. She idly wondered why she was lying
on the floor of the toilet, her head pillowed on her bathrobe. "Oh, poo!" She
climbed stiffly to her feet. "Never again. Never, ever again!"
Numbly, she picked her way out into the workshop. Funny how
that Rob had disappeared like that without trace. Almost as if he had never existed.
'Corinne will remember him,' she thought.
"No, she won't! Corinne would never be seen dead in the
village pub! Wild horses would never drag her in there. What am I thinking about?"
The laptop was beeping at her. The Fuckh data was still on
the screen.
"Strange. Even stranger. Michaela. Michaela Meadowlark!
How did I never realise until now that Corinne had a sister at St Cat's?"
An image came clearly to her. A tiny girl in the Upper
Sixth. Not too much brain, but fucking great tits. "I am going mad," Clit
decided firmly. She closed the lid of the computer, staggered to the settee and curled up.
Within seconds, she was asleep again.
"I only came over for sex, Miss. I am seventeen, Miss!"
"We're not talking about statutory rape, Michaela, we
are talking about school rules. You are supposed to use the sex boys for sex, not the
caretaker."
"But they're all under sixteen, Miss. It wouldn't be
legal, would it?"
"I suppose not." Why had I never thought of that?
It called for a word with Moggie. What about the older girls? Why were there no older sex
boys for them? "I shall take it up with Miss Thunderbolt," I told her. Michaela
opened her eyes wide.
"Thanks, Miss." She sounded surprised.
"Cup of coffee, Shan?" Jeremy asked casually.
"Only if you were making it."
"We were just about to have a cup, weren't we,
Mikki?"
"We WERE??? Oh, we were."
"Well, then. No sugar for me, please. My hips are still
shameful. Shameful."
We sat around making polite conversation for a while. The
clock struck four fifteen. We must have made an odd trio: Jeremy was wrapped in a towel; I
was in my preggo dress — the one I'd been given by one of the more fecund First Form
girls whose mother had given her an ultimatum: no more babies until you are fourteen or
you're out of that school — Michaela, somewhat disturbingly, was stark naked.
"It's been warmer today, Miss."
"Yes. Soon be summer."
"Before we know where we are," said Jeremy. We all
nodded like little old ladies.
"What have you been up to today, Mikki?" I
asked, making polite conversation.
"Oh, fucking, mostly. I spent all day in bed with Miss
Mountains. She's very good."
"Oh, yes, she's excellent," I agreed.
"A bit smelly."
"Oh, absolutely."
"But in a very sort of sexy way."
"That's right."
We all nodded and fell silent again. The clock struck four
thirty.
Michaela stood up and stretched. Jeremy and I watched her in
admiration. Such giant breasts on a girl of only four feet six tall. Truly unnerving. I
wondered how long it would be before her bust measurement reached twice her height, always
a landmark in a St Cat's girl's career.
"I'd better be getting along, then, Miss. You two will
be wanting to get to bed."
"No!"
"NO!"
I don't know which of us sounded the more scared.
"You don't want to?" Michaela looked nonplussed.
How could anyone not want to go to bed? Then realisation dawned. "You're a lesbian,
Miss! Sorry, I thought you were bi like everyone else at St Cat's!"
Jeremy looked at me. He had clearly been thinking along
those self-same lines himself.
"It's all right," I said, "I just had an
urge. I mean, I just felt like a bit ... that is, I fancied a spot of..."
"Oh, Miss! You should have said. You want a threesome!"
I looked helplessly at Jeremy. Jeremy looked helplessly at
me. Michaela was turning back the bed covers. "Right," she said brightly.
"Which one of you two wants to go in the middle?"
Michaela lay there, contentedly watching us. Finally, I persuaded Jeremy to get into
bed next to Michaela. He lay on her left side, nearer to me. I lay down next to Jeremy,
politely turning my back toward him in case he thought I was being pushy. Somebody turned
out the light. We lay there. The clock struck a quarter to five. Then Michaela got up, and
came round to my side and got into the bed. I was now in the middle.
We all moved over, and I lay on my back in case either of
the other two got the wrong idea.
A hand suddenly appeared on my stomach, its fingers walking
up and down. I should explain that in turning on to my back, my breasts had rolled to lie
beside me on the bed. Whose hand? I decided it must be Michaela's, and turned to my right,
away from her. Immediately, like a pair of gun barrels, there were Michaela's nipples
trying to bore holes in my back. Her little hand, cheated of its walkies on my tummy,
tried its luck between my legs. I heard Michaela's gasp as she discovered my
cavernousness.
"Christ, Miss, they all said you were big, Miss,
but you're even bigger than me!"
In the dark, I blushed prettily and clung to Jeremy for
protection.
"Aargh, who's that?" he bleated.
"Me, who do you think?"
"What do you want? "
"She's feeling me up! She's got half her arm in my
thingie."
"What did you expect? She's bisexual."
"Well, I'm not!"
"Get your crotch off my arse, then," he said
unkindly.
"Oh, excuse ME!"
The clock struck five. Outside the window, the birds were
wide awake. Was sex always this difficult? It was a wonder the human race didn't die out.
I rolled on to my back again and began to cry.
"Shan! Don't cry."
"Don't cry, Miss."
"Hold my hand, Shan."
"Hold my hand, Miss."
I held their hands. "Why don't I just get out of here
and leave you two to get on with it?"
There was a babbling chorus of protest. I gathered they both
wanted me to stay. A strange thing was happening. Both my hands were moving away from my
body. The left one was being coaxed away by a tiny soft hand, slightly clammy. The right
one was being coerced by a much larger hand: horny — if that was the word I was
groping for.
The left one encountered a pretty gigantic breast. I could
tell it wasn't one of mine, it was fatter and fuller. Probably bigger, too. Whoever owned
it, it certainly had the mother and father of all nipples on the end. That's Michaela's, I
thought, with unerring instinct.
The right one glissaded across a flat muscular belly,
covered with stiff, crinkly hair. It had passed a hip bone and was swooping down into a
slightly damp valley. A hairy valley.
The left hand had been dragged away from that enticing
nipple, down to a similar valley to that on the other side. God, it was hot down there.
Practically steaming. And every bit as hairy as the other one. Like a silken tropical
forest.
Meanwhile, my right hand had reached what I could only
assume was its destination. Oh, my God. What a horrible piece of apparatus. Jeremy
had guided me to the spot and left me to it. I snatched my hand away with a squawk of
alarm, but he grabbed it and took it back.
Meanwhile, that silken forest was flooded. I'd thought I
was a wet girl, but this was ridiculous. I dipped a finger in. Michaela twitched
vigorously and clamped her hand down on top of mine.
Back on the other side, I was becoming familiar with the
apparatus. It was slightly familiar from the incident in the IT lab. How Anastasia had
ever wrapped her mouth round that lot was a mystery to me. Since Jeremy wasn't going to
let me get away, I might as well do a bit of exploring. It seemed to consist of a central
stalk or trunk, which rose vertically. It was velvety soft, yet hard inside. Attached
loosely to the bottom end were a number of roughly spherical things, about the size of
plums. They were harder than plums, I discovered. In fact, plums would have squashed if I
had squeezed them as much as that: these hardly squashed at all. Jeremy seemed
uncomfortable for some reason.
Michaela wasn't uncomfortable at all. My left hand was
inside her up to the third knuckle. She may have been smaller than me, as she had said,
but perhaps she was just being modest. A good fault in a young woman. The thumb wasn't
inside her, but I was able, with a bit of twisting of the wrist, to put it to good use.
"Oooh, Miss!" she sighed.
It was time to take a look at this tree trunk thing. I felt
a bit like Jack and the Beanstalk as my hand slithered up and up and up. It wasn't quite
endless. In fact, the end felt pretty interesting. Funny how it seemed to be trying to get
away as I grabbed at it. If it hadn't been so slippery, it might have been easier. I
snared it in the end.
"Aaaargh! Shan!"
This was fun. I was bisexual after all, technically
speaking. I couldn't wait to tell Corinne.
THE CLOCK struck five fifteen.
My services seemed to be much in demand, all of a sudden. On
the one hand, as it were, Michaela was thrashing and bucking around in a manner most
ill-befitting a well brought up young lady. It felt as if I had my hand in a bucket of
something warm and wet and very much alive.
"Oh, suck me, Miss! Lick my clitty, put your tongue
inside me! Woo-woo-woo-woo-WHEEE! Three hundred and forty-one!"
"Suck my cock, Shan. Quickly!" The urgent
request came from somewhere on my right.
"I'm sorry, Jeremy," I explained, "but
Michaela asked first. It wouldn't be fair to her if I sucked your thingie, would it?"
I gave it a consoling little rub to make him feel better. To judge by the noise he made,
it seemed to have the desired effect. Clambering on to my hands and knees, I pointed my
nose in the general direction of Michaela's womanhood, and homed in. It didn't exactly
require state-of-the-art radar. I arrived with a soft splash.
"Oh, Miss! Three-hundred and forty-two, three, four
...!" She wasn't faking it, either. I regretted not wearing a face mask and snorkel.
By the time Michaela reached the three-fifty mark, I was well into the swing of things. A
tasty girl, Michaela. I decided to drink some, in case she flooded the bed, or the
caretaker's shed, or the whole of St Cat's.
"Oooh, Shan!" That came from somewhere behind me.
If I hadn't been so busy, I'd have replied. Awfully rude of me. But then I realised that
no reply had been expected. Something was touching me down there between my legs. It felt,
more than anything, like the muzzle of a collie dog, sniffing around, its wet nose probing
eagerly, the way collie dogs do.
Then it did something unusual, something that no collie dog
of my experience had done before. It slipped its nose inside, deeper and deeper. With a
twinge of alarm, I pulled out of Michaela's bubbling honeypot to shout a warning.
"No, boy. Naughty. Out of there, you'll drown."
Its only response was to stick its nose even deeper inside,
although it kept taking it out again, presumably to take a quick breath. Meanwhile,
Michaela was clamouring for my return, so I had to dive back into her muff. I felt, rather
than heard, the seismic effects of her three hundred and sixtieth climax as the dog
attacked me with ever increasing passion.
'It seems to have a very long nose, this dog, even for a
collie,' I thought. Surely no dog in the world had a nose as long as that ...?
"Ooooh, Shannnn! Whoo, Whoooo, Whorrrrrrrrrrrgh!"
'That's not a dog,' I told myself. "Woo. Woo-woo-woo.
Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-WOW!"
"Ooh, Miss, I'm telling! You're supposed to give a
number!"
"Oh, fuck off, you little tart," I advised her,
turning to embrace Jeremy.
His face was bristly, like a pan scourer. Mine, I guessed,
was slick and pungent with Michaela's free-gushing girl juice. But our mouths opened and
our tongues explored each other as I clung to the short hairs at the back of his head and
he cupped my shoulder blades, one in each of his caretaker's hands.
I'm not good at description. I ought to have mentioned that
in turning to embrace Jeremy, I had half rolled to the left and raised my right leg over
his head so I was facing him with my legs extended on each side of his narrow hips.
Or maybe I got that wrong: it wasn't my right leg at all,
and possibly not his head, either. If there had been an imaginative artist present, he
could have illustrated it. A single picture, after all, is worth a thousand words. The
artist would have needed quite a bit of imagination, though. It was dark quite in there.
Even if it hadn't been dark, there was still no sign of a
collie dog. Nor was there any sign of Jeremy's apparatus, but there was no doubt at all
about where it was. Up to the hilt and throbbing mightily.
So this was what it was all about!
"That was just like the first time," Jeremy
sighed.
"Only fifty times better," I said.
The clock struck half past five.
"I'll go and make some coffee," said Michaela.
"What did you mean, Jeremy? Just like the first time?" Michaela handed him a
mug. He took it without interrupting his slow thrusting. I was back on all fours again.
"I'll put yours here, Miss, for when you're ready. What
did you mean, it was fifty times better? Have you two done this before?"
"Thanks for the coffee, Michaela," Jeremy panted,
thrusting deeper and faster. "Wouldn't you like to go and see if Miss Mountains is
awake yet?"
"It's not quarter to six yet. She never gets up before
..."
"Michaela!"
"Yes, Miss?"
"Now!"
"Yes, Miss."
The door closed behind her in a crestfallen way. We heard
her five minutes later when she came back for her clothes.
"What did you mean, Jeremy? The first time?"
"I dunno. What did you mean, fifty times
better?"
"I don't know either. I just got this funny feeling.
Something about your car."
"The Jaguar? That's funny. I felt the same thing!"
"I wonder. I wonder, if we'd get the same feeling if we
..."
"You want to try?"
Men do ask the most stupid questions.
"You look very fit, Shan. If I didn't know any better, I'd be tempted to say you
had a well-fucked look!"
I blushed prettily.
Corinne giggled and wiped up the remains of her breakfast
eggs and bacon with a slice of thick crusty bread. If I ate like that, it would all go
straight to my bum. Shameful.
"I suppose that will be the end of me as a lover,
then," she said, pouting slightly, "now you've discovered the joys of straight
sex?"
"Who says I've discovered the joys of anything?"
"Let's say a little bird told me."
"That bitch Michaela! I'll throttle her."
"Ah, so you have been well-and-trulied by Jeremy. He's
quite good, apparently. At least, Mikki says so. She ought to know, I suppose. She hasn't
seen her computer, she said, by the way. Although she said there wasn't much on it, just a
few games. A lot of money, just to play games with. Still, it might turn up." Corinne
sighed. "I'd swear her boobs get bigger every time I see her. She'll be bigger than
me, soon, at this rate. They're as big as yours, already."
"I don't know what causes it. All these girls with huge
tits."
"Mine are perfectly natural," pronounced Corinne,
"aren't yours?"
"Of course they are! If these were implants, they'd
hardly hang right down here, would they?" I was having a bad boob day. Some days, I
can't do a thing with them.
"Have a word with Clit. I'm sure she's got a latest
design up her sleeve."
"I might just do that. I can't slummock around in
dungarees and thick sweaters all the time, just to disguise them. She's back at school,
I'll have a word with her."
There was a soft knock on the door. I opened it.
"Clit! Talk of the Devil!"
"Hi, Shan. I was wondering if Corinne was here."
I held the door wider and let her in. She caught sight of
Corinne, tucked up in bed, surrounded by boxes of Kleenex.
"You've got a cold? I haven't seen you since yesterday
dinner time, when I left the pub with Rob."
"I came over all shivery, yes. Down at Flossie's and
Bert's. This is his coat. Who's Rob?"
"Aaaargh!" Clit slapped a hand to her head and
staggered back a few paces. "You too? You can't remember, either?"
"Either?" Corinne looked puzzled. "Who else
can't remember? And can't remember what?"
"Rob can't."
"Then that's two of us. Although I still don't know
what it is I'm supposed to be remembering. Why don't you ask this Rob, whoever he
is?"
"He's disappeared. I brought him back here for a shag,
and he went to the loo. I haven't seen him since. He left the seat up. Naturally, I
thought he'd bumped into you!"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Corinne looked
flushed and indignant. "I don't make men leave toilet seats up."
"You were eyeing him up in the pub, weren't you? You
can't deny it. You couldn't take your eyes off his pants. You were creaming
yourself."
"I ...? ME ...?"
"Corinne?" I added for good measure. "Why
would she be interested in him?"
"Oh, the usual reasons. Seven or eight reasons."
She held her hands a few inches apart, like a fisherman. Not as ambitious a fisherman as
young Anastasia, I remembered.
"How thick is he?" I asked, and wondered why the
other two looked at me so strangely. Then a thought occurred to me. "Hey, did you say
his name was Rob? Not Rob Archer?"
"He never mentioned his second name," said Clit.
She sniggered unpleasantly. "You'll be telling me next YOU'VE had him!"
I was sure of myself. "No, but if that was who he was,
Anastasia disappeared him."
They were both looking at me strangely again.
"Anastasia did what?" Clit looked at me,
wide-eyed.
"She zapped him. She wrote him anyway, and she never
even saw hide nor hair of him, she said, so she was going to zap him and write somebody
else."
Clit had backed away nervously.
"Are you feeling okay, Shan?" Corinne asked
softly.
"Never felt better. Does getting fucked always do that
for you?"
"How would I know, darling?" Corinne smiled
sweetly.
Clit's mouth had dropped open. "Maybe Jeremy's seen him
around. I'll go and..."
"Don't go disturbing Jeremy," I said. "He's
asleep, the poor boy."
"Shan's just fucked him into oblivion," Corinne
giggled.
Clit was getting close to panic. "I think I'll just go
and look for Rob down in the village ..." she stammered, and backed out of the door.
"I don't think she listened to a single word I said.
Shit, I forgot to ask her about my new bra."
Corinne shook her head. "She heard the bit about you
and Jeremy, all right. Hey, do you think she's colour blind? That lipstick, and that
shirt!"
"And those slacks! You'd think a designer would have a
bit more style ..."
"And more colour co-ordination ..."
"Her hair, too. Does she cut it herself?"
"With a knife and fork?"
"A blunt knife," I said, completing the damning
indictment.
"What did she mean about this Rob?" Corinne asked.
"And what did you mean, about Anastasia zapping him?"
"Cee? What do you know about computers?"
"Oh, a bit, you know. I can get by. Why?"
"There's something I think you ought to see."
Anastasia wasn't wearing her combat outfit this time.
"I left it off, Miss," she explained. "I only
put it on to keep Michael at arms' length. You know what he's like?"
"Who?" I said
"Who?" said Corinne.
Anastasia looked puzzled for a moment, then her eyes
narrowed, and she made a note on a pad. It seemed to have about ten pages of notes on it
already.
"You remember about my camouflage clothes, Miss?"
she asked me, her pencil poised.
"Of course! You were standing there with a banana up
your ... in your ..."
"A banana?" Corinne shrieked, blushing deeply.
"Up her ... in her ...? Anastasia, really!"
"And what was I wearing?"
"Hardly anything," I said. "You had your army
top off, and your army pants round your ankles, and your German Army paratroop's boots
..."
Corinne completed the inventory. "And a banana up her
... in her ..." She seemed fascinated by the idea, somehow.
"She ate it afterwards," I said. Corinne's breasts
shuddered with horror.
Anastasia was writing it all down. "Thanks, Miss. Verrrry
interesting!" She scratched her head. "What about what I'm wearing today,
Miss?"
"I was going to have a word about that, young lady. You
know St Cat's is a broadminded school. We are not against nudity as such. But it is air
conditioned in here, and your nipples are ... well, rather extended, aren't they?"
Anastasia looked down in their general direction. "Are
they, Miss. I can't really see from here. They're round the corner, sort of thing."
"Take my word for it, Anastasia, they're practically
obscene!"
Anastasia blushed prettily. "Gosh, Miss!" She
turned her toes inwards and lowered her eyes. "As good as that?"
"At least, they're not a foot long any more," said
Corinne.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I hoped you
might know what I meant!"
Anastasia wrote that down as well, then tucked her pencil
into her cleavage. This put a whole new slant on the pencil test. "I'll get dressed,
then, Miss," she said.
I suppose a bikini was better than nothing, even one made of
spotted fur.
"Is that real ocelot, Anastasia?" Corinne
demanded.
"Of course, Miss." Anastasia was indignant.
"What is an ocelot, anyway?"
"Don't you do biology?"
"We don't do pretty little animals, Miss. It's all sex.
It think Miss Mountains is obsessed with shagging, Miss."
She leaned forward and shook her chest gently, displacing a
shower of pencils and assorted stationery. Perhaps the most impressive item was a two foot
long steel ruler. It fell to the floor with a resounding noise. How she had managed to
hold all that lot between her breasts with them hanging freely was anyone's guess.
It took Anastasia several attempts to persuade her breasts
to stay in the cups of her bikini bra. Each cup must have consumed at least two whole
ocelots. Fortunately for the wildlife of the planet, the pants were so appallingly brief
that they didn't even have one complete spot. They drew my eyes like a magnet. Thankfully,
once Anastasia stopped loading her bra and lowered everything down so it hung from the
creaking shoulder straps, her panties disappeared from view.
Anastasia sat down at the computer and Corinne and I
gathered round the monitor.
"Right," Anastasia said. "I'm really learning
about this system now, Michael or no Michael."
"Who?"
"Or no who?"
"You'll find out."
It was beginning to sound really ominous.
"Hey, Miss! Michaela, wriggling with excitement, burst through Smegs's door.
The teacher let out a cry of alarm and stuffed a body into
her wardrobe. She slammed the door then leaned her back against it. "What do you
want? Don't you usually knock before you come in?"
"You said your door was always open to me, Miss,"
said Michaela, happily bouncing on the bed. "Guess what!"
"What?"
"Who was that you just stuffed into the wardrobe,
Miss?"
"That's not why you came in. You were going to tell me
something else. Something important."
"Bodies in wardrobes are important, Miss. Get her out
and let's see who it is."
"It's not a body, Mikki."
"What is it, then?"
"It's a doll."
"A doll? But it's as big as a ..."
"It's a full-size blow-up doll. A Super-Smeggy
DollŽ."
"Full size? Oooh, Miss! Get her out."
Smegs stepped away from the wardrobe door, reached in and
brought her out. She leaned the doll against a chair, where it sat down in a jaded manner.
Together, Smegs and Michaela studied it.
"She's beautiful, Miss. Look at her face. Her eyes and
everything. Her little mouth opens ... oooh! Ever so wide!" Michaela slid two fingers
inside. "Gosh!" she said, impressed. "Is this the only one you've
got?"
"She's the prototype. Her name's Kia. She's made in
Korea."
Michaela inspected the doll intimately. Does she really blow
up? With air?"
"Sort of. But she's double-skinned, so she's full of
warm gooey liquid ..."
"Ooooh, MISS ...! Woo-woo-woo-woo ..."
"... but you pump her up with air on the very inside,
so she gets bigger in different places ..."
"... woo-woo-WOW! Five hundred and six! Whoooofff!"
Smegs had to step back smartly. She wiped the doll's face with a towel.
"Careful!" she shouted, as Michaela pulled up her
panties again. Smegs smoothed Kia's black hair, trying to dry off the worst of Michaela's
copious ejaculate. "You have to connect a hose to the right valve, depending on which
bit you're blowing up. The air inflation valves are all hidden. In there."
"Gosh, Miss! Nobody would think of looking in there.
Which bits of her can you blow up?"
"In this version, just the breasts, belly and bottom,
in any combination. You can use a portable hand pump, or take her to any garage and blow
her up with an air hose."
Michaela gently caressed the doll's breasts, whilst having
another orgasm, more or less in passing.
"Can I see the rest of her, Miss. Down there?
Please?"
"No! You came in to tell me something, not to look at
Smeggies' rude bits. What was it?"
"Oh, it was nothing compared to this. It was just Miss
Gruntworthy."
Michaela slipped her hands beneath the doll's plump bottom
and lifted it bodily. There was a squidgy, liquid noise, which might or might not have
come from the doll.
"What about Miss Gruntworthy?" said Smegs,
intrigued. "What's she been doing?"
"Not what's she been doing! It's who!" Michaela
fondled the doll's front bottom, which was generously furred. "Oooh!" she said.
"Woo-woo-woo."
"Who? Michaela, stop coming and concentrate. Listen.
Who has Miss Gruntworthy been doing?"
"Only Mr Jeremy. They were shagging this morning. I was
helping at first, but then I left them to it. She's pretty good at it for a lezzie: at
least, she is, now she's learned how to do it properly. Woo-woo-woo!" she added,
extending several fingers into the doll's realistically moist love tunnel. "She's all
WET!" she squealed.
Smegs sat down on the bed, her mouth hanging open. Of all
the ...! She stood up and stalked to the door.
"Computers!" she stormed. "I hate fucking
computers!"
The door slammed so hard it almost fell off its hinges.
Michaela shrugged, grabbed the life-sized, realistically heavy doll under its
realistically-hairy armpits, and lugged it on to the bed. Realistically closing its eyes,
it spread its legs and lay back, preparing to think of England, or possibly Korea.
Michaela looked around the room, and her eyes lit up as she saw what she wanted. Just
inside the wardrobe door was a portable air pump.
MICHAELA STRUGGLED along the corridor with Kia over her shoulder, looking like a
firefighter rescuing a naked woman from a blazing building. The impression was greatly
heightened by the fact that Michaela was wearing Smegs's cast-off firefighter's uniform.
It didn't really fit too well, Smegs being six feet tall and Michaela only four feet six.
Her feet slopped about in her boots, which pointed out
sideways almost at right angles. The helmet came down over her ears and rested on her
shoulders, so she navigated by memory, lurching from side to side of the corridor,
colliding with each wall in turn and occasionally with both at the same time. Only the
tunic fitted, although she was unable to fasten more than a couple of the buttons, so she
was probably the only firefighter ever seen with a two-foot deep cleavage.
She had elected not to wear the trousers. The tunic came
down to her thighs, after all. Well, almost her thighs. Maybe the top of her thighs. Or
halfway down the chubby cheeks of her bum. And a corresponding height in front, if one can
imagine such a thing.
She clattered down the echoing corridor in her boots, her
accoutrements dangling and jangling from her shiny leather belt, her radio blurting bursts
of noise, and came to the stairs. There was still a fifty yard hike to the dorm, carrying
this ridiculously heavy Kia. Michaela stopped, panting heavily, and sat down on the top
step.
The first thing to do was to plan the route. There were two
pairs of double doors, followed by half a dozen stone steps. It was pouring with rain
outside, and she had to cross the corner of the quad to get to the dormitory building.
Then she had to get Kia up the stairs. It was going to take half an hour, and it was
coming to seem less and less of a good idea.
The double doors burst open, and three men in oilskins came
in, looking as if they had just disembarked from a passing trawler. Rainwater streamed
from their hair and foul weather gear. They swore continuously and monotonously at each
other, before turning and going back outside.
Michaela brightened. Two of the trawlermen had propped the
double doors open with fire extinguishers. Obviously, they were delivery men. They had a
van out there in the car park. Michaela glanced down at the doll. Kia stared back up at
her with unblinking adoration. 'She trusts me,' Michaela thought. 'I owe it to Kia. I'm
going down.'
She stood up, and heaved Kia upright, ducked her shoulder
and let the doll flop backwards, bending from the waist. The poor thing let out a sigh of
rubbery resignation as Michaela started down the stairs.
Meanwhile, the trawlermen had manoeuvred the school's grand
piano out of the back of the van and down the wooden ramp, and had begun to manhandle it,
effing and blinding, up the six wet stone steps.
Michaela negotiated the bend in the staircase and now had
the doorway firmly in her sights. She was doing quite well, all things considered. Kia was
heavier than Michaela was, and taller. As Michaela stepped off the bottom stair and set
off across the parquet floor — polished by countless generations of schoolgirls'
leather soled shoes — she felt Kia's leg between her feet. Off balance, hindered by
her enormous boots and even more enormous breasts, she tried to steady herself, but she
was out of control. She gave a despairing cry and accelerated toward the door.
The nearer two of the three still-swearing trawlermen looked
up and saw, coming in their direction, a petite yet vast-bosomed firefighter, apparently
rescuing a naked woman of slightly oriental appearance. Trawlermen who deliver grand
pianos are well used to seeing life in the raw, but this was a new one on them. First one,
then the second, let go of the piano and fled. This left just the one man at the back,
trying to push the piano up the steps. Head down, swearing and grunting, he had no idea
that he was alone. The piano, unrestrained, bore him backwards down the steps into the
rain-drenched driveway.
'At least,' Michaela thought with relief, 'I won't crash
into that fucking piano!'
Anastasia completed her explanation. "And you invented this all by yourself,
Staze? You're a bloody genius!" Corinne's praise was one hundred per cent genuine
Anastasia blushed prettily. "It's all quite logical,
Miss. Anybody could have done it with the powerful computer on Fuckh."
"Strange name for an island full of sheep," mused
Corinne. "Why do we have a link to that computer anyway?"
"Miss Thunderbolt heard about it, and she wanted access
to a powerful computer to do all the number crunching for the data monitoring for all our
girls."
"She must have tremendous influence. Who owns the Fuckh
computer, anyway?"
"The government," Anastasia tapped the side of her
nose. "It's all Top Secret."
When the phone rang at the local taxi office, and the proprietor took the message; that
a young lady wanted a taxi from St Cat's down to the pub in the village; he wasted no
time. The proprietor of the local taxi firm — Ezekiel Jones, Taxi's and Discrete
Funeral Directors [sic] it said on the sign outside his office — had a
weakness for young ladies from St Cat's. Most of them had huge tits.
It was one of those wet days when every taxi was out, miles
away. Never mind, the brand spanking new hearse had just been delivered from the
coachworks. It gleamed blackly outside, raindrops beading on its paintwork. Anyone who
took his last journey on earth in this impressive vehicle would surely feel his heart
thump and swell with pride.
The proprietor of the local taxi firm, whose name was indeed
Ezekiel Jones, stepped out of his office, rested his proud hand gently on the door handle
and opened the pristine driver's door. He was about to get in and sit on the pristine
driver's seat, when he realised he was improperly dressed. He stepped back into the office
and took his top hat from the the filing cabinet.
Going back to fetch his top hat had cost Ezekiel Jones
thirty seven seconds. Although he could not yet know it, the clock was now ticking
inexorably down to zero.
"There's everything on that list. There are things there you'd never dream of." Corinne ran a capable-looking finger down her list, and shook her head. "Will you look at that, Shannie.
Sxl_Ornttn: CORINNE>>F=090,M=010
That's me!" she said with pride.
"That's you all right, but how did it know? Who told it
that?"
"It just knows. If it didn't say that, I'd be
something else. I could change it to the other way around..."
"NO! Don't you dare! We share a bedroom. I
couldn't have you sneaking boyfriends in all the time. It would be so embarrassing."
"I didn't think you'd mind, now you've re-invented sex
with Jeremy ..."
I blushed crimson, and Anastasia looked up at me curiously.
"It's not like that," I muttered. "We just
went to bed and cuddled. It was cold in his shed."
"Oh, yeah? Michaela said the windows were all steamed
up when she left. She said if Jeremy'd had nylon sheets on his bed, they'd have melted.
She said that when you had your face in her pu ..."
"Miss Meadowlark! Not in front of the students,
please."
"Oh, Miss," Anastasia pouted, "don't
be a spoilsport. I wish I'd been there."
"There wouldn't have been room, dear," Corinne
giggled, "Jeremy's only got a double bed. With Miss Gruntworthy and Michaela in
there, there wouldn't even have been room for one of your boobs, never mind the rest of
you!"
Anastasia blushed prettily and turned her attention back to
the monitor. She was grinning to herself.
Ezekiel Jones, taxi proprietor and always discreet director of occasionally discrete
funerals, purred down the road beneath the dripping trees. His 2.8-litre V-6 throbbed
politely ahead of him, while the radio played music wholly inappropriate to a hearse.
He looked forward, as ever, to visiting the school. Even
during holiday times, there were likely to be huge-bosomed girls and women about the
place. Huge-bosomed women and girls had been Ezekiel's downfall in the past, but lovers of
huge bosoms never, ever learn.
It had been twenty-five years ago, in the Valleys, in the little ex-mining village of
Pant-y-Moc, that Ezekiel had fallen from grace. The eldest son of prospering funeral
director Nine-Inch Thomas, he had been besotted with the virginal and hypertrophic
daughter of the local minister. Big Rhiannon Bevan's breasts had developed to such a
gigantic size that her father kept her locked away indoors all week and allowed her out of
the house only on Sundays, when she attended chapel three times, keeping her eyes downcast
lest she meet the gaze of the slobbering youth of the Pant-y-Moc Primitive Methodists.
Big Rhiannon was ever in Ezekiel's fantasies, as daily he
passed her house, imagining her slaving away at her school work with her private tutor,
the Widow Bisexual Griffiths. Nightly, Ezekiel dreamed that Big Rhiannon waited for him,
lowering her breasts from her upstairs bedroom window for him to drink her sweet milk from
her mouth-filling nipples. Ezekiel had a vivid imagination.
These dreams and fantasies persisted even after Ezekiel had
been comprehensively deflowered by the three improbably buxom youngest daughters of Incest
Davies, the rival funeral director; three daughters alleged to have nineteen children
amongst them. Nineteen and counting.
Only when all three daughters had started showing all at the
same time did Nine-Inch Thomas call his son Ezekiel unto him and banish him for ever from
Pant-y-Moc. Incest Davies had been outraged that his precious barely teen-aged daughters
had chosen to breed with someone who was not Family. Nine-Inch Thomas was outraged that
Ezekiel had slept with the opposition.
It was on a Wednesday that Ezekiel Jones stole the Reverend
Redemption Evans's Austin Twelve and drove East. Fate had led him to a village only half a
mile from St Cat's. Cleverly changing his name to Jones, Ezekiel had never looked back,
although he had never lost his fascination with huge-breasted and pregnant girls. But
that's another story...
He twirled the wheel and turned into the drive of St Cat's.
Clit, waiting under the bus shelter near the main entrance
to the school buildings, thought, 'about fucking time too. What has he been doing, writing
his fucking memoirs?'
Two trawlermen stood aghast as the grand piano gathered pace
down the steps, trundling indifferently over their fallen comrade.
Michaela, still busily tripping over her feet, scampered
briskly out of the double doors with Kia in her arms and plunged out into space.
To Ezekiel Jones, a skilled and experienced driver, the
scene unfolded before him in slow motion. His customer, a short-haired woman with
refreshingly large breasts, was waiting under the bus shelter. He had started to make a
wide sweep which would bring him to rest with the passenger door directly opposite the bus
shelter. That, he knew, was what real taxi driving was all about. Style. All
decent funeral directors had style. A delivery van was parked in the centre of the car
park, and Ezekiel would need to drive all the way round it. He began his turn, palming the
wheel and bringing a sighing whirr from the power steering.
He spotted the piano too late to do anything. He couldn't
accelerate out of the way, or the hearse would have slid broadside on the gravel and
struck the side of the delivery van. All he could do was apply the brake, sit tight and
wait for the inevitable.
Later, Ezekiel Jones would replay the scene in his own mind.
Now, he sat transfixed as a grand piano rocketed toward the side of his vehicle. And
riding in state on top of the grand piano, remarkably, was a small long-haired fireman
with no trousers and truly huge breasts, accompanied by a pleasingly pneumatic
young lady with no clothes and a slightly oriental appearance.
A grand piano makes a tremendous noise when it hits the side
of a hearse. A not entirely unmusical noise; but not music to the ears of Ezekiel Jones,
whose upbringing had been in the Welsh valleys in a tradition of four-part 'aarmony.
Ezekiel's mind was too preoccupied to consider the musical
aspects. When he braked, his top hat had come down over his ears and eyes, and
simultaneously with the impact of the piano, both airbags inflated within milliseconds to
save him from damaging the windshield with his head. The hearse shuddered, and the long
side window shattered into a million sparkling gems as a heavy body sailed through and
made itself comfortable in the space where the back seat wasn't.
"Ooops! Fucking shit! Sorry!" Michaela remembered
her manners. "Hello."
Slowly, Ezekiel Jones turned and looked over his shoulder in
disbelief. Michaela smiled at him politely. Kia remained inscrutable, staring straight
upwards.
"Your friend? Is she ... dead?"
"My ...? Oh, Kia! No, she's all right. At least, I hope
she hasn't got a puncture, I'm only borrowing her for sex." She prodded Kia
experimentally, then became uncomfortably aware of the driver staring at her. She covered
her left breast by pulling her tunic over it, but the right one still thrust out like a
pink beacon. The driver was staring at it from a distance of about twelve inches. She
removed her helmet and hung it over the end of her breast. For some reason, it felt quite
pleasant. "Oh, woo-woo-woo ..." she said, fumbling for her crotch.
Ezekiel Jones had led a sheltered life. Nothing in his
upbringing, in four-part 'aarmony, could have prepared him for this. He lapsed into
merciful unconsciousness.
"He's gone to sleep," said Michaela. "How
very rude."
Clit appeared at the window, stepping carefully amidst the
wreckage of the grand piano. She looked about her in wonder. Two trawlermen were bending
over an inert body on the ground. In the front of her taxi, which appeared to be a hearse,
for some reason, sat a sleeping Welshman with a top hat jammed down over his ears. Both
airbags sat there, inflated, wobbling gently like a pair of giant schoolgirls' tits.
Meanwhile, in the back, a girl was apparently giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a
pretty woman with no clothes and a slightly oriental appearance.
It was the sort of scene conjured up by the mind of someone
under the influence of recreational chemicals.
The girl looked up. She was a small, attractive girl. Mostly
small, Clit revised her estimate upwards, catching sight of Michaela's twin airbags.
"Hello, Miss Clitress," the girl said politely.
"Who are you?"
"You know me! I'm Michaela Meadowlark."
"Let's do something to my sister." Corinne leaned forward eagerly. "Make
her pregnant!"
"Pregnant?" I gasped. "Cee!"
"Why not? We can change her back again. Make a copy of
her pattern, then when we change her back, we can just get rid of the altered pattern and
substitute the old one."
Anastasia looked from one of to the other, a troubled frown
on her face. "Miss. I don't know if that will work. I mean, even if we do save
her old pattern ... look, I'll do it now ..." Anastasia hit a few keys and a lengthy
list of parameters appeared on the screen with Michaela's name at the top. "There,
it's saved. But I still don't think it will work. Once we change her history, make her
pregnant, for instance, other things will change as well. There will be a boyfriend, for a
start."
"Nahhh. Not Michaela. She'll screw around with any
bloke. It could be anyone. Go on, Staze. Give her a baby!" I knew that expression on
Corinne's face. Once she got enthusiastic like this, there was no stopping her. Corinne
would not be denied.
Anastasia looked up at me with helpless appeal. What was the
matter with the girl? "Go on, then," I told her. "Make Miss Meadowlark's
sister pregnant. Give her twins!"
"Twins!" Corinne squeaked. "Oh, Shannie! When
will they be born? We can't wait until next January. That's ages!"
"You don't have to wait at all, Miss." Anastasia
shrugged and spread her hands expressively. "She can have the baby ... babies ...
tomorrow, if you like!"
"I keep forgetting, yes," Corinne giggled.
"Whenever we say she has them, she has them. Make it a couple of months' time. She
can have them in June. Can we choose what she has?"
"If you like. Or you can trust to luck like everyone
else does." Anastasia clattered away at the keys.
"What are you doing now?" Corinne asked her.
"Just getting ready to run our protection macros. You do
want to know about it, don't you? If I don't do a protect on us all, Michaela will get
preggers but we'll think she always has been. Well, not always, but for seven months.
Besides, if we're going to change her back ..."
"Exactly," said Corinne. "We won't be able to
change her back if we don't know that we just changed her. Go on, then. Protect us."
Anastasia did. She hit Enter and sat back.
"Is that it?" I asked her.
"Is that what?"
"Nothing happened."
"What did you expect, Miss? Nothing's changed. On the
contrary, in fact!"
Anastasia was getting to be such a little smart-arse lately.
"Right, then, Staze." Corinne was getting
impatient. "Give her those twins."
"Coming up, Miss. But don't say I didn't warn
you."
There was a flash of lightning and almost simultaneously, a deafening clap of thunder.
Clit ducked involuntarily and glanced in the direction of the school. Too far, she would
get soaked. She opened the front passenger door of the hearse and clambered into the seat
next to the driver. He was still asleep. Clit turned in her seat and looked into the back.
Instantly, Clit spun back round and looked out of the front
again. Disbelieving, she twisted the rear view mirror so she could see into the back. Once
more she froze, gazing rigidly out through the windshield. There was a van parked there,
and three men in oilskins, looking as if they had disembarked from a passing trawler, were
opening the back doors. Inside, there seemed to be a grand piano. Presumably, they were
delivering it back to St Cat's after it had been repaired.
She risked a glance over her shoulder and turned to face the
front again with a shudder.
"What's the matter, Miss Clit?" Michaela asked in
her sweetly innocent little voice.
"Several things, Michaela. I want some straight answers
to some straight questions. Where is that woman you were kissing? Why are you sitting in a
seat instead of lying in the back of a funeral car? Why has a hearse turned into a taxi?
And why ... why, Michaela ... are you suddenly pregnant?"
"OH, YOU'RE so silly, Miss Clitress." Michaela Meadowlark squirmed in the
back seat of the taxi. "Are you coming with me to the gynaecologist, Miss? Mr Jones
always takes me on Tuesdays during school holidays. We're just waiting for Miss Mountains.
She's coming as well. Not to the hospital, she's getting a lift to Borcester to collect a
parcel from the train station. It's the first prototype of the new life-size Smeggie Doll.
Made in Korea."
Clit stared fixedly out of the front windshield. She had
already looked over her other shoulder and noted that this was indeed a taxi, not a
hearse; that the side window was not broken; that Michaela was not snogging a naked
Japanese woman in the back; there was no grand piano lying in a thousand pieces scattered
around the car park. Clit did not dare look round again in case Michaela was not really
wearing a fireman's uniform tunic, with her helmet hanging on one tit. What if she turned
round to find Michaela, clearly seven months gone and HUGELY preggers, was wearing
a floral smock or something dreadful like that?
"Wake up, Mr Jones," Michaela chirped. She punched
him on the shoulder
"Wha ... where am I?" The driver pulled his flat
cap from over his eyes. "Duw, Miss Mikki, I was well away that time. Dreamin', I was,
isn't it?"
"We're still waiting for Miss Mountains. This is Miss
Clitress, who makes all our specially huge bras." Michaela indicated Clit in
the front seat. Ezekiel Jones leapt in his seat.
"I never 'eard you getting in, Miss Mattress, sorry.
You comin' to town, too, Missy?"
"Yes. I was the one who phoned you half an hour ago. I
thought you were never coming."
"We've been yur twenty-five minutes, Missy. I dunno
what you're talkin' about. Every Tuesday durin' the 'olidays, I takes little Miss Michaela
yur to the hospital. She's due in two months. I bin tellin' my missus, she be expectin'
twins. I mean, look at the size of her."
Michaela blushed prettily. Clit did as she was told, and
turned round to look. Her jaw fell open. Michaela was not wearing a floral smock or
anything dreadful like that. The truth was far, far worse.
"Miss Clitress, what's the matter? Oh, Mr Jones. This
is always happening with her. She keeps passing out, all the time!"
"Come on," Corinne was practically hopping up and down in her excitement. It
was an absorbing spectacle. "Let's go and find Michaela and see what she looks
like."
"How do we know where she is?" I asked. We both
looked at Anastasia.
Anastasia shrugged. "We don't. That's why I had to zap
my Rob. I never even saw him."
"Lets go up to our room and have a bite to eat."
Corinne seemed restless. "We can call the dorm from there and see if she's about
anywhere." She was already halfway out of the door. That is, one breast was almost
halfway out of the door.
"Come on, Staze," I said, following Corinne with a
sigh. "We'll find you something to eat as well."
Anastasia cheered up and took my hand. We followed Corinne
up the corridor.
"No sign of her anywhere." Corinne slumped in the chair. "What's the use
of making a girl pregnant if you don't get to see what she looks like?"
There was a pounding on the door.
"Who can that be. Come in!"
Clit came in, looking wild-eyed and slightly insane.
"I've got to get out of this place," she whimpered. "I'm going mad."
Well, that confirmed it, at least.
"What's the matter?" Corinne asked her.
"Matter? When I wait half an hour in the rain for a
taxi, and there's grand pianos running into hearses and hearses turning into taxis, and
trawlermen in delivery vans, and girls getting pregnant in ten seconds, and funeral
directors turning into ..."
"Pregnant?" Corinne pricked up her ears,
metaphorically. Well, she might have literally pricked them up, but they were hidden under
her hair so I couldn't really say for sure. "Pregnant? Was it my sister, by any
chance?"
"You should know!" Clit remarked darkly.
"She's your sister. Gone off down the clinic with twins. She wasn't pregnant
ten minutes ago, she was snogging some Japanese bitch in the back of a funeral car!"
"Rumiko?" I said. "She's not back at St
Cat's, is she?"
"Not Rumiko. A flat-chested girl. Only about a bloody
F-cup, for Chrissakes."
Not Rumiko, certainly.
Anastasia was beginning to look haunted. She had her 'I told
you so' expression on her face.
"Miss? I think we've got a problem. We forgot to
protec..."
"It's all right, Staze," Corinne interrupted her.
"We'll get it sorted out. Eat your beans. Now, then, Shannie. Could you take Clit
back to her room."
"Sure. Come on, Clit. In fact, I need measuring for a
new bra."
She shook my hand off her arm. "Don't try to humour me!
You're as bad as the rest of them," screamed Clit. "Get off!"
She leapt up, struggled with the door handle, then shot out
of the door. We heard her footsteps scampering away. Shortly afterwards, they came
thundering back, passed the door, and disappeared in the opposite direction.
"Sorry, Staze," said Corinne. "I didn't want
her to know we'd forgotten to protect her pattern. She seems to have seen Michaela both
before and after. It must have been quite a shock for her. Dunno what all that stuff was
about grand pianos and hearses, though."
A heavy rumbling sounded outside the door, accompanied by a
babel of intensive cursing. I opened the door, and a grand piano trundled past,
accompanied by three fluently-cursing trawlermen.
"It was a grand piano," I explained. "Three
trawlermen just pushed it past the door."
"Ah, good!" Corinne seemed pleased, as if another
piece of her four-dimensional jigsaw puzzle had just dropped into place. When she thinks
on this exalted level, I just leave her to it.
"What time did we make Michaela pregnant, Staze?"
she asked, her brow furrowed with thought.
"I don't know. Maybe ten minutes ago. Why?"
"Just something Clit said. It didn't make sense at the
time, but ... I don't know, maybe it will come to me later. Finish your beans. Have some
more." Anastasia eagerly wiped her plate and held it out for second helpings.
"Is there any way, in this system of yours, of getting a record of all the changes
that have occurred in the past ... say, twenty-four hours?"
Anastasia went red. "I think so," she said
hesitantly.
"You think so? You don't know?"
"I think there is." A thought came to her. "I
think there is, but it takes a long time for the machine to come up with it. Yes, it can,
I'm sure, now."
"So we could ask the machine, and it will tell
us?"
"Yes, only I don't know how to ask the machine."
"But you invented the ..." Corinne looked
exasperated. "Never mind, love. Grab yourself some fruit and let's all get back down
the lab. I've got an idea."
Ezekiel Jones jumped out of the driver's seat and scuttled round to the opposite back
door. He flung it open and offered a hand to help Michaela out on to the footpath. Smegs
got out of the other door unaided and came round to watch.
A crowd had gathered from somewhere. How could they know?
Was there some kind of jungle telegraph that brought news of Ezekiel Jones's taxi
bookings; his weekly arrangement during St Cat's holidays to deliver the hugely-pregnant
Michaela to the Royal Borcester Hospital?
Probably. There must have been a dozen or more men in
slightly grubby raincoats gathered in a huddle on the ramp in front of the Gynaecology
entrance. Video equipment was in use. The audience was not disappointed. Nor, from his
much closer viewpoint, was Ezekiel Jones. From somewhere, he produced an umbrella, which
he erected over Michaela's head and escorted her to the very doors of the hospital.
"See you later, Mikki," Smegs grinned. "I'll
be back here in an hour, Zeke."
"Right-o, Missy." Ezekiel tugged at his cap. Then
he turned his full attention to Michaela.
She was a truly staggering sight.
The Senior girl had always been well-developed, of course.
Her older sister had probably the biggest breasts in the entire world, and certainly the
biggest at St Cat's. Michaela, with her advancing pregnancy, had become more and more
outrageously huge-busted, and she received due respect from the other girls at the school,
who were aware that she owed her development entirely to Mother Nature.
Mother Nature had now received a helping hand, as if she
needed it. Michaela's breasts, at seven months, would surely have descended to somewhere
considerably beyond her crotch, but there was something in the way. Twins. Michaela was
carrying what could well have been twin hippopotami — admittedly, fairly small
hippopotami — in her bulging belly, which now rode fully two feet in front of her and
descended to the level of the middle of her powerful thighs. Her breasts, instinctively
realising that they had no chance of getting past that lot, chose a route down each side
of the vast swelling mound. The effect of all this was to make Michaela well over four
feet wide. She was easily as wide as she was tall, in just about every direction.
She should, perhaps, have worn a maternity dress of some
sort. Miss Clitress was well-practised at making such clothes, although rarely on such a
lavish scale. Michaela, an independent girl, didn't want to wear a maternity dress.
"I'm seventeen," she pouted, "I don't want to dress like an old
woman!"
So she dressed like a young woman. Her bra was not one of
those wonderfully supportive ScatBraŽ creations. It was made almost entirely of lace.
Well, okay — not entirely. The body band and straps were the usual ScatBraŽ
aerospace quality materials, although in a tasteful creamy yellow. The cups, though, were
lace. Heavy duty lace. They enclosed her breasts like a second skin, like great bags which
made no attempt at support, they were there simply to cover the breasts and render them
decent. To be fair, they did this pretty well, although the great dark twelve inch circles
of her moons brooded massively over the mammoth lower swells of her gigantically swollen
pear-shaped whoppers. The impact of the chill, damp air had teased her nipples into
sausage-sized erection.
The onlookers gasped. And yet how did the admiring crowd
know all of this intimate detail of Michaela's most intimate foundation garment? It was
such a pretty bra, Michaela had decided, it was a shame to cover it up. So she wore
nothing over the top. All she wore, in fact, apart from that bra, was a pair of only
slightly baggy white shorts, which hugged her chubby buttocks and crept eagerly into her
innermost crevices. She had unzipped the front of her shorts to allow the twins full
access to the fresh air. Thankfully, to avoid embarrassment, the front of her shorts was
invisible. Those twins were very much in the way.
In fact, she was wearing something else besides that
overloaded bra and shorts. A yellow ribbon was tied round her hair, pulling it into a pony
tail which hung tantalisingly down her back, dancing around the cleft of her bottom.
On her little bare feet, Michaela padded heavily up the wet
pathway, with Ezekiel crabbing along behind, holding his umbrella in one hand and his
groin in the other.
"I've had a good life," he reflected under his
breath as he studied Michaela's immensely rebounding breasts from behind. They arrived at
the door and he lowered the umbrella.
"Thanks, Mr Jones," Michaela sighed softly,
leaning sideways across her belly and breast to kiss Ezekiel's stubbled cheek. She touched
him with her little fingers. "See you in an hour, okay!"
"To save time," Corinne said eagerly, "let's try and get the changes
made over the last half hour. Try typing something, Staze!"
Anastasia typed a string of commands, which the computer
either ignored or made sarcastic little comments. "It's no use, Miss," she
sobbed. "I don't know how to do it."
Corinne put her arm round the girl's shoulder, her hair
tumbling about Anastasia's face. "Keep trying, darling. You're doing a great job. Try
some more commands. What was it you typed a while ago, that time when it said you'd forget
your head if it wasn't screwed on?"
"It was this, I think." She typed something which
I couldn't see.
"Okay, now tell it not to be such an arsehole,"
said Corinne.
Anastasia looked up in surprise, but typed it anyway.
"How d'you spell arse-hole, Miss?"
"Try it both ways, in case it reads American. THERE!"
It was working. The computer spilled out a list of commands
that filled the screen.
"Try that one!" Corinne pointed. We all waited.
Then with a perfunctory BEEP, the computer asked how far back we wanted to go with our
search for changes.
"Tell it thirty minutes. No, make it an hour!"
And at last, out it all came. Not easy to decipher, but it
was all there. Screen after screen of it scrolled past.
"Print it out, Staze. We'll read it back in the room.
Bring the first fifty pages, we'll get the rest later." She gave the delighted
Anastasia a big hug. "You're a genius, darling," she laughed. "Come on,
Shannie, let's put the kettle on."
"She didn't invent the system, but she certainly knows her way around it. The big
question is, if Anastasia didn't invent it — and let's face it, it's far beyond the
brain even of the brightest thirteen year old — if Anastasia didn't invent it, who
did? Who is the genius behind it all?"
"God knows. Moggie? Clit?"
"Closer to the mark, but neither of those is capable of
it. Even Anastasia's brighter than them. No, whoever it is must have a brain as big as a
planet." She shuddered.
"What's the matter? You ought to be back in bed, you
know." I felt her forehead. She still had a temperature.
"I'll go to bed once we get somewhere with this. But I
had a funny feeling just then. As if I knew someone with a brain that could do this.
Someone very close to me, but I have no idea who it could be."
"Close to you? Family? Your Mum or Dad?"
"More like a sister or a brother. But not Michaela!"
We both giggled at that, until Corinne shuddered again. I
brought her Bert's coat and wrapped it round her shoulders. "Hey, we need you fit and
well if we're going to get to the bottom of this. Snuggle up in this coat, and I'll make
you a nice hot drink."
"Well, there it is, look. In black and white."
It certainly was. Yards of it. It would take all night to
wade through all this data. It occupied a great thick wad of fan-folded paper.
Anastasia was shuffling though the pile. She tore off
several sheets, then several more. The rest she thrust at Corinne. I've pulled out some of
the routine stuff and I'll go through that, Miss. You can have the really interesting
bits."
She could have fooled me. I was asleep in seven minutes.
It was all the excited squeaking that woke me up.
"What's going on? What's the noise all about?"
"Sh-hhhhhhh!" Corinne held a finger to her lips.
"You've woken Grumpy Gruntworthy."
Anastasia exploded into her hankie, her eyes streaming.
Corinne had to rub her back until she recovered, red-faced. She still burst into helpless
giggles every few seconds.
"We changed Michaela, Shan, but it's amazing, all the
other things that have changed at the same time. They're all down here. When Michaela
became pregnant, guess where she was!"
"How would I know? I thought Anastasia said we didn't
know where people were."
"We do once we call up the full changes list. She was
in the back of a taxi. But before that, it wasn't a taxi!"
"It wasn't? What was it?"
"Don't know, but it had to be changed into a
taxi before Michaela could be pregnant in it! But Clit said she had been waiting half an
hour for that taxi. She mentioned a hearse. I wonder if it hadn't been a taxi until we
made Michaela pregnant, it had been a hearse, and Michaela was in the back of that."
"You've lost me. Why should Michaela have been in the
back of a hearse?"
Corinne shook her head, peering round her coffee mug.
"Not a clue. But maybe it had something to do with that grand piano. There's
something in this data about three men with a grand piano, but it doesn't make any sense
at all. We don't need it to, though. It just shows how all these changes of reality work
themselves out. There's other little bits, we'll never know what they're about. Something
about a top hat. Another thing about an airline flight from Korea delayed by an hour. All
caused by us making Michaela pregnant. Tell you what, Shan! Whoever designed this system
invented a lovely toy!"
I didn't understand more than one word in ten, but it was
making Corinne happy, so it was okay by me.
"It's as if there were a whole stream of parallel
universes, all shifting and developing at the same time, and what we are doing is hopping
from one to another all the time. Not an infinite number of parallel universes, but one
hell of a lot. A finite number. It seems as if the system looks at all the alternatives
and chooses the best one to match the results it wants. So, we wanted Michaela pregnant.
There was another universe — of course — where she was pregnant, but some
small things needed changing, like taxis and grand pianos. Compared to a girl suddenly
being seven months gone, these were comparatively minor changes, so it changed them!
Fantastic! Whoever designed this system, she was an absolute genius!"
"Or he," I said.
Corinne looked at me strangely. "I just had that creepy
feeling again," she said.
"HER NAME'S Kia, Mr Jones," said Smegs, by way of introduction. "She's
from Korea."
"I swear I seen her before somewhere," said the
taxi proprietor. "Maybe back 'ome in the valleys. We 'ad a take-away Chinese shop
there. One girl worked in there. Stonkin' great tits, she 'ad. They used to stick out
yurrr somewhere." He demonstrated with both hands. Smegs sighed heavily and looked at
her watch. She had heard Ezekiel Jones's life story so many times. She wanted to get back
to St Cat's and play with her life-size Smeggie-Doll prototype.
"Duw, she was a big girl. You could stand behind her
and see both her tits stickin' out a foot on each side. Nearly as big as Rhiannon Bevan's.
Only about five foot tall, too. I remember one night, round the back of the Zion Hall
..."
"Here she comes," Smegs announced with relief.
Michaela was waddling down the path toward the taxi. The rain had stopped and the late
afternoon sun twinkled on the puddles. No need for Ezekiel's umbrella.
"I 'ad to leave the valleys, you know? My Dad, he
'ad a bus company, just two little buses, but I got raped by four of Incest Davies's
girls. Bloody great tits, they 'ad. Twenty seven kids between them, an all in the family,
too. Incest Davies had a bus company, too. Last I yerd, they'd both been taken over by the
bloody Western Welsh..."
"All right, Mikki?" Smegs wanted to hug
Michaela, but her arms wouldn't have reached far enough round her. It would have been like
trying to capture a bar of wet soap between two fingers.
"Lovely, thanks, Miss. Hi, Mr Jones. He gave me a
terrific internal! I'm still quivering inside. I came by the bloody gallon." She
climbed unaided into the back of the taxi and subsided on to the back seat. Smegs went
round to the front.
"... an' I stole Pastor Bum-Blaster Bevan's Morris
Sixteen and drove East. Well, South first, then East. No bloody M4 in them days. No
nuthin'. Just the pits, and the slag 'eaps, for miles an' miles an' miles, far as the eye
could see..."
"There's a taxi just pulled up outside." I lowered the curtains. "I bet
that's her, back from the hospital."
We all jammed up together in the doorway, with thirty-eight
feet of bust among the three of us, but we got ourselves sorted and spilled out into the
corridor. Smegs was just coming through the double doors, carrying a naked woman of
slightly Oriental appearance over her shoulder.
"Gosh, Smegs! Who's that?"
"This is Kia. You're not having her." She cuddled
the doll and backed away. We would certainly have gathered round and grabbed Kia out of
Smegs's clutches, but there was a further distraction. Michaela came in.
"Wow!" Corinne gasped. "That certainly
worked."
"Bloody hell," I said.
"Oooh. Woo-woo-woo!" murmured Anastasia. I
didn't know Anastasia was into preggo girls. We live and learn, of course.
"Hi, Miss!" Michaela greeted me. "Hiya, Sis.
I had a lovely session with the doctor. I came in absolute floods! Woo-woo-woo!
Two-thousand-four-hundred-and-ninety-six!"
"Michaela!" I chided her. "That's far too
many orgasms for one day. You'll damage something."
"I know, Miss," she sighed happily. "Isn't it
exciting?"
Smegs had taken advantage of the diversion to slip away up
the stairs, dragging Kia by one leg. They disappeared round the corner and I heard her
door slam distantly. Smegs was obviously in need of relief. So was Anastasia. She gazed
helplessly at her vastly pregnant schoolmate and slowly lay down on her back on the hard
wooden floor, spreading her legs to an angle of about a hundred and fifty degrees. We
averted our gaze and carried on our conversation as well as we could with all the noise
going on. Anastasia quickly reached her magic three figures and pressed on toward her
hundred and first of the day.
"You were in Mr Jones's taxi, Sis?" Corinne raised
her voice above Anastasia's appalling din.
"Yes, of course."
"Not a hearse?"
Michaela backed away a pace or two. She glanced at me
nervously.
"Hearse? No! Why a hearse?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Woo-woo-woo..." howled Anastasia. Sweet child.
It's so good to see them enjoying themselves.
"Woo-woo-woo-WOW!
Two-thousand-four-hundred-and-ninety-seven!" Michaela came out in sympathy.
"Come into the bedroom, you two," sighed Corinne,
leading the way. "Bloody schoolgirls. They're at it all the time."
Michaela followed, her thighs glistening, and after a few
seconds, Anastasia, seeing her source of inspiration disappearing, got up and trailed
behind us. She slumped on the couch and took up where she had left off. Michaela stood
behind the couch, pressing herself against the back of it and allowing the twins to hang
out into space. She moved her hips gently in a preoccupied manner and balanced first one
breast, then the other, on the back of the couch, one to each side of her body.
The sight of that was enough for me. "Woo-woo-woo,"
I said.
"Michaela, please!" Corinne scolded. "You're
exciting Miss Gruntworthy. Put your breasts down and stop rubbing yourself off against the
back of the seat."
"Not yet, not for a minute!" I pleaded, just in
time to stop her spoiling the fun. Anastasia, Michaela and myself came thunderously within
a second of each other as Corinne clenched her fists and appealed to the ceiling for
strength. I think the girls were waiting for me to say something. They both looked
expectantly at me after announcing their own score, but I wasn't giving that information
away.
Silence fell at last, and apart from the muskiness of the
atmosphere, you would never have suspected that three women had just climaxed with such
violence only seconds before. Corinne pressed a mug of coffee into my trembling fingers,
then she tossed Anastasia a bunch of grapes and raised a quizzical eyebrow at Michaela.
"Could I have a corned beef and egg custard sandwich,
please?" the girl asked dreamily. "With plenty of grated Double Gloucester
cheese and crunchy brown sugar?"
"Go and make it yourself, then," Corinne suggested
crisply, and Michaela lumbered away into the kitchen. Anastasia scuttled after her,
anxious to help.
Somewhere upstairs, we heard Smegs's unmistakeable voice as
she achieved an orgasm with the aid of Kia. Just an ordinary Tuesday evening at St Cat's.
"Are we going to change Michaela back now, Miss?" Anastasia sat on the couch
with a plate of beans on toast and looked up at Corinne with dog-like devotion.
"Back? Why?"
"Change me back?" Michaela looked worried.
"What are you talking about?"
Anastasia looked at Michaela, who was half sitting, half
lying on the couch, leaning back with her belly rising magnificently. She had finished her
bizarre sandwich and was now gnawing on a chunk of coal. "Oh, nothing."
Anastasia reached out and sank a probing finger into the nearer of the older girl's
lace-covered breasts. "In fact, I quite like her the way she is."
Corinne edged away and backed out of the room. She sometimes
goes to the loo when the conversation takes an awkward turn like this.
"What's all this about?" Michaela demanded.
"You can't change me. Change me into what?"
"Nothing, Mikki," I reassured her. "Anastasia
was only winding you up. She does that sort of thing. What did the doctor say? Is
everything all right with the twins?"
"Golly, yes. They're going to be huge. My
boobies are ever so full, now, too. That's why this bra's so nice. It doesn't support
them, it just keeps them from flopping down round my knees."
I studied them. The lacy bra didn't seem to be stopping
anything. It just wrapped itself round Michaela's breasts like a coat of paint. Tighter
than a coat of paint: the flesh was actually trying to squeeze itself out through the
holes in the lace.
"I hope it doesn't explode," I said. Anastasia
edged nervously away, the whites of her eyes showing through her glasses.
"I'm getting it made bigger. I'll see Miss Clit and get
an extra panel let in, down here, and down here." She demonstrated with a finger that
looked tiny next to the mountainous great thing. "That ought to see me through until
the kids are born. I might need a nursing bra then. I'll be breast feeding, of
course."
"Oh, of course."
"When did you get that bra, Mikki?" Anastasia
asked innocently.
"Last month, why?"
"I just wondered. Miss Clit was acting a bit funny
earlier. Do you think she's going mad, Miss?"
"Probably her time of the month, dear. She'll be all
right. You go and see her in the morning, Mikki. I'll come with you if you like. Mine's
been getting a bit tight." I patted the sides of my breasts. They hardly moved. There
had been a time when they would have gone 'SQUELCH', but now they just sat there while my
fists bounced off them. For a moment I regretted that I wasn't wearing my ScatBraŽE with
its readout. I felt bigger than ever before. My thighs and hips were still shamefully
vast, but my waist felt trim and compact.
The two girls were watching me.
"You okay, Miss?" Anastasia sounded anxious.
"I'm fine, thank you very much. Don't be rude."
Corinne came back in. It was my turn to escape to the
toilet.
"Hurry back, you!" she said. "We're going
back down to the lab to play."
"Where are the girls?" I asked Corinne.
"Michaela says she doesn't like computers. She's
probably upset about losing hers, and doesn't want to be reminded about it. She went
upstairs. God, she huge, isn't she! As she went round the bend in the stairs, she
looked wider than she is tall."
"She is, probably. She's only four foot six, after all.
What about Staze?"
"On the phone. It sounded like her Clark. She went all
red, so I left her to come down when she's finished. We do still need her: there are one
or two things she can do with this system that I can't. It's easier just to let her sit at
the keyboard and do all the typing, while I have the ideas." Corinne took my arm.
"Or WE have the ideas! What shall we change next?"
"Don't ask me! I can't get my head round all this
changing history stuff. I'd screw everything up if I tried it."
"You'll soon get the hang of it, love! You'll see.
We'll be able to change the whole world ..."
"The whole world doesn't need changing, Cee! I think we
ought to do small things and work up slowly. And never mind what Anastasia says, I think
we ought to turn Michaela back."
"Oh, don't be a scaredy-cat, Shannie. Mikki looks
lovely and fecund, the way she is. It's nice having a little sister as huge as that. Just
think, she's only seventeen! She'll have two lovely bouncing babies in a couple of
months. No, let's leave Mikki alone and do something else. I think Clit."
"Clit? What about her?"
"Oh, I don't know. We'll think of something. She isn't
very happy, with all these things changing all around her. We're going to have to bring
her to terms with Michaela and everything. That's why I brought the printouts. We'll
change everything back that seemed to be worrying her. All those grand pianos and hearses
and things." Corinne slapped the thick wad of paper against her hand.
"Just be careful. I need a new bra tomorrow, and if
Clit's goes mad, we're going to be in dead trouble. There'll be girls coming back from
holidays needing new bras, or pregnant. Clit is indispensable."
Anastasia's voice was cracking. "You can't be serious, Clark. Not her. Not
Michaela!"
Clark sounded helpless. "I'm sorry, Staze. But I didn't
keep it to myself. I did tell you."
"But now, after all this time! It's been seven months.
You must have know for six months at least. You could have told me. But you kept it to
yourself all this time. You don't love me at all."
"I do! That's why I'm telling you. It's not easy,
sweetie."
"Don't sweetie me, arsehole!" Anastasia stormed
into the phone. "All this time you've been screwing me, knowing you made Michaela
pregnant. With twins!"
Clark wondered quite what difference the number of babies
made to the matter. It wasn't as if he had made Michaela pregnant twice.
"I hate you. You're a typical boy. I gave you my body
and you spat it back in my face."
Clark tried to visualise that scenario. "Darling
..."
"Shut UP! I'll never speak to you again. Nor fuck you,
either," she added as a slightly regretful afterthought. "What do you say to
that?"
"Sorry."
"You're sorry!"
"Yes. I came to St Cat's looking for you, and you
weren't there. Mikki chatted me up. She made me do it. I didn't want to."
"Now I've heard everything. That little girl
overpowered you, a great big strong boy, and made you fuck her."
"You know what she's like, Staze," Clark whined.
"I don't know what she's like, that's just it,"
Anastasia said, and realised exactly that. She really and truly had no idea what Michaela
was like. It wasn't like Pansy, or Suzanne, she knew how they would react under the
circumstances, but Michaela was just a big blank. Spooky. Anastasia knew nothing about
Michaela at all! "She made you fuck her," she taunted Clark, with a sneer.
"Three times!"
"Three t...? You shit-house. You still haven't
explained why you didn't tell me about it until now."
"That's it, Staze. I don't know. It was almost as if I
didn't know until today. A couple of hours ago, I got this feeling. I thought, I've got to
call Anastasia and tell her. It was a funny feeling."
"Oh! Funny, was it? We'll see about funny. You just
wait!" And she put the phone down.
Anastasia's heart was filled with revenge. Clark could wait
for his turn. First, that bitch slag slut with the huge preggers belly.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with her. But
whatever it is, it's going to be a doozy!" Pausing only to seize a bunch of grapes
from the fruit bowl, she stormed out.
Corinne perched on the stool and stared at the monitor screen, quivering with
anticipation. "We'll have fun with this, Shan. Once we learn how to work it, we can
do anything! What do you fancy? Bigger boobies?"
"Bigger?" I clutched at them and shook them
around. Oddly enough, I was happy with them the way they were. "These will do like
this. A smaller bum and thighs would be nice. Mine are shameful!"
"Oh, Shannie. No problem. We'll make you nice and
unshameful again. How about being as tall as Smegs? Or as short as me?"
"No thanks. I'm fine being five feet six. It's nice
being a little bit taller than the Juniors. And my body works quite well, too. I'm pretty
regular these days, I don't suffer from PMT..."
"Okay, okay! I get the picture. No need to rub it in,
just because I'm an awkward bitch every time the moon is in its second quarter. But what I
mean is, we don't need to worry about anything any more. If we don't like it, we can
change it."
"What about changing Michaela back? Anastasia was
right, you know. You can't just leave her pregnant like that. She might have a baby!"
"But she will, Shan. Two, in fact! I can't wait
to see my little nephews or nieces. I've never been an auntie before. Auntie
Corinne!"
"What about Clit?"
"What about her?"
"She's not right, Cee. She's often grumpy, but she
sounds as if she's going mad. It must be something to do with all this history changing.
All that stuff about taxis and pianos."
"Right. We'll take a look at her as soon as Anastasia
gets down to the lab. I think if she saw Michaela immediately before we made her preggers,
then again immediately afterwards, and she noticed the difference, what does that
mean?"
I didn't feel too sure. "It means she was
protected," I suggested hesitantly.
"That's right. She was protected, same as us, but we
knew what was happening: she didn't. It would come as a bit of a shock, wouldn't it?
You're talking to a girl and she becomes seven months pregnant right before your eyes! We
should have warned her"
"How could we warn her? She doesn't know about
the system. We couldn't say, 'hey, hang in there, Clit, Michaela's just going to get
preggers.' She'd go mad. In fact, she probably has, already."
Corinne had been thinking. Her expression cleared.
"Right, here's what we'll do. You need a new bra. So does Michaela. As soon as
Anastasia gets down here, we'll get her to make some changes for us. But we won't be here.
We'll be down in Clit's bra factory, so we'll see them happen. We'll be protected, so
we'll see them happen. But Clit won't be protected any more, because Anastasia will
unprotect her."
My head spun. Other things were happening, too. While she
was thinking out loud, she had a hand down the front of her shirt, making some adjustment
to her bra. How could she do that and talk at the same time? The girl was truly a genius.
Anyway, besides my head spinning, my spleen was doing a tarantella. In a way, I suppose,
that makes me a bit of a genius, too, but I'm not in Corinne's league.
"You mean," I said, we three, you, me and
Michaela, all go down to Clit's. While we're there, Anastasia will protect your pattern
and mine, and Michaela's, and at the same time, she will unprotect Clit's?"
"You've almost got it right. But she won't be
protecting Michaela's. We need Michaela as a subject. Anastasia will make a change to
her."
"Another one? Shit, Cee. All these changes to Michaela,
we'll lose track of what we've done to the poor child."
"Nahhh!" I wish she wouldn't say that. It sounds
so ... American, somehow. "Nahhh," she said again. "We can always get the
record of changes and undo everything later. Trust me, she's my little sister. Would I
turn her into some kind of mutation, like ... like ...?"
"Michael Jackson?"
"I was thinking of Frankenstein's monster, but your
idea is just as good. Right, off you go, love. Fetch Michaela. She'll be up in Smegs's
room playing with that rubber dolly. I'll see you and Michaela down in the bra factory in
ten minutes. No, make it eleven and a half."
God, she's so capable! I set off with my spleen a-jangle,
feeling decidedly moist. If Corinne kept on behaving like this, I was going to need a
change of underwear. Every three minutes for the rest of my life.
I knocked on the door of Clit's workshop. It opened about an inch and Clit stuck her
nose out.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"Hello, Clit. I need a new bra. So does Michaela."
"Go away," Clit suggested. But she didn't close
the door. "What's wrong with your bra, anyway?" the door opened another two
inches.
"It's got too small. Or I've got too big for it. It
amounts to the same thing."
Clit thrust her whole head out and looked me up and down.
She sniffed. "You'd better come in," she said. She looked suspiciously at
Michaela as if she expected her to turn into something unpleasant. "Her, too?"
"Yes," I said. "You can see what her bra's
like. It doesn't offer much support."
"It wasn't meant for support," Clit said.
"She had it made specially for slutting around."
"It looks very nice," I said, and Michaela mewed
softly.
"A matter of opinion," growled Clit. "Come
on, young lady. Heave your tits up on the bench, and let's measure you!"
Clit stood with her hands on hips and watched while Michaela
heaved one breast up on to the workbench. "Could you hold it there, Miss, while I
lift the other one up as well?"
Trying not to look too eager, I pounced on her right breast,
which was balanced, wobbling, on the bench top, in its lacy confinement. She gathered up
the other breast in both arms, and swung it in the general direction of the bench. It
flopped on to the bench and she struggled to keep it there. The problem was that her
pregnant belly was so enormous, she couldn't get close enough to the bench, so her breasts
were trying to slide off. My side was all right, as I had it in both hands, but Michaela
couldn't control 'hers' at all. That bra didn't support her much, but it held her breasts
in, just enough to stop them resting comfortably on the bench.
I looked at Clit and panted, "can you measure them now,
Clit? We can't hold them here all night."
"No, too dangerous. If one of those falls off, it could
crush me. It's Health and Safety regulations. I'm not touching them until they're properly
secured."
"Properly se...? Clit, for Chrissakes! This is a
pregnant woman we're talking about here. Measure her bust!"
Clit was in a bolshie mood, but she took her tape measure
from around her neck and stepped forward, grumbling. "Hold them there. If either of
those things falls off that bench, she's out!"
Michaela looked at me in panic, and struggled to keep
herself on the bench. "Hurry, Miss Clitress," she whimpered.
"I'll do this in my own good time," Clit muttered,
but slung one end of the tape round the girl. It looped round her, slithering on the shiny
bench top, and Clit dextrously caught the end. There seemed to be yards of it. The
bra-maker muttered and huffed and puffed as she held the ends of the tape together.
"Christ!" she said as she consulted the numbers.
"How big?" I begged.
"Big enough!" Clit glowered. "Another fucking
bale of special stretch reinforced satin and heavy duty velcro. She's a custom size. It's
her belly that gets in the way."
"She can't help being pregnant, Clit!"
"She wasn't until about three o' clock,"
Clit mumbled, under her breath. "Come on, then, get the fucking things off my
bench!"
I helped the poor girl lower them to safety. She put a thumb
in her mouth and sulked, over by the wall.
The door opened and Corinne came in. One look at her and I
dumped about a gallon of juice into my drawers.
"Sorry I'm late," she said. "I had a little
accident in my pants and had to change." She ventured no further explanation. Quite
why she was wearing a smart business suit with a crisp white blouse, I had no idea.
"Why are you wearing that excruciatingly tight,
figure-hugging dark navy blue suit with white accessories, Corinne?" I asked her
faintly.
"Oh, this? It was the first thing I found when I opened
the wardrobe. Have you been measured yet?"
"Not yet. We just did Michaela. It was hard to keep her
on the bench with her belly being so huge. Is Anastasia all ready?"
"Yes. She's going to do the protecting and the
unprotecting, and then the change in..." Corinne looked at her watch, an enormous
diver's thing about a yard in diameter, made of stainless steel. "Two minutes,
nineteen seconds. Just carry on as if I wasn't here."
Oh yeah? With juices trickling down into my shoes? "I
love you, Cee!" I whispered.
She giggled. "Silly girl! Come on. Clit's waiting to
measure you."
"Any time you're ready," said Clit, tapping her
fingers on the work top. I inched forward, my shoes practically overflowing, or so it
felt. "Jesus H," Clit snapped. "You're old enough to control your
emissions. You're as bad as a Junior who's just invented sex." The tape looped around
my chest. "Hmph! Okay, thanks. That will do." Clit pulled the tape away with a
snap and hung it round her neck.
"Is that it? One measurement?"
"That's enough. I know your other measurements. I've
done the crucial one."
"How big am I?" I almost wailed.
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it doesn't," Corinne said.
"Nothing matters. We can make you any size you like, any time."
I shook my head at her, wanting to tell her that she
shouldn't say anything about it yet. But the lights suddenly flickered and went out
"IF THAT happens again, I'm resigning!" Clit yelled and slammed a pile of
boxes down on the bench. She opened the top box, whipped out a bra with huge, sack-like
cups in burnt-orange, and tossed it to me casually. "That's your size. Don't bother
trying it on."
"What about Michaela's?" Corinne asked, with a
little chuckle. I looked over to where Michaela had been.
"Where's she gone?" I asked.
"She's on the loo," Corinne said. "Here she
comes." She winked at me and nodded toward Clit.
Michaela was coming back. Corinne, over by the door, saw her
first.
"Gosh!" she said.
I saw her a moment later. "Bloody hell!"
Clit screamed. Corinne looked at her in concern. Something
was wrong. That was when I realised what it was. Clit was not supposed to notice. Clit was
supposed to be unprotected, so any changes would appear to her to be the way things had
always been.
And there had been changes to Michaela. She was now at least
eight months gone. Her belly was almost explodingly huge, at least six inches further
ahead of her than before she went to the toilet. Her breasts, which I recalled wrestling
with on the bench so recently, were no longer encased in that lacy bra. Just as well. She
would never have got them in there, not in eight months of Sundays. They were VAST!
Corinne was gnawing on her knuckles and staring at Clit.
Strangely, Clit had buried her face in a pile of special stretchy satin. She was refusing
to come out.
"Is my bra ready, Miss Clitress?" Michaela asked
sweetly.
"Don't be stupid. Fuck off!"
"Oh, it's all right. Here it is now," Michaela
said, opening a box. "Just my colour, too." She held up a delightful pale-pink
nursing bra with mammoth cups.
Clit looked up, peering out from her pile of material.
"Aaaargh!" she said. Her finger pointed at Michaela, wavering, then she
burst into tears and dived into the satin again.
Corinne beckoned me over.
"It's not right, Shannie. Staze was definitely
unprotecting her as I came out. Something's wrong. Come on back. Time for a council of
war. See you later, Clit," she called loudly, jerking her thumb to a wondering
Michaela and opening the door. I followed them out with a final glance back at poor Clit.
I wanted to comfort her, but I didn't know how.
"Well, Anastasia, what went wrong?"
'Not very good marks for Human Resources Management, Miss
Meadowlark,' I thought. Anastasia looked up at her, cringing.
"What do you mean, Miss?" she whined softly.
"Look at Michaela!" Corinne pointed to her now
almost perilously pregnant little sister.
"You told me to change her, Miss."
"That's not the problem. She looks great."
Michaela looked puzzled, but she blushed prettily anyway.
Her nipples, I noticed, extended slowly. There was no difficulty seeing them, she was,
after all, topless.
"Michaela's not the problem. It's Miss Clitress."
"I didn't change her. I just unprotected her."
"You did, huh?" Corinne said unpleasantly.
"So why is she having a mental breakdown now?"
"I did, Miss. Look." She pointed at the screen. I
bent over and looked, so did Corinne. Our cheeks brushed together, and I dumped another
ten gallons of girl-juice in my long-suffering pants. There it was, on the screen:
Protect CORINNE
Protect CHAUNTAILLE
Unprotect MISS xxx CLITRESS.
Proof positive.
Corinne looked dumbfounded. She picked up her wad of
printout paper, then had an idea.
"It's getting late. Staze. Get a printout of all the
changes. Go right back to ... last week. Make it last month. Or back to the start of this
whole thing. Print everything!"
She was getting mad with power!
"We won't have enough paper, Miss." Anastasia was
a practical girl.
"Get all the printers on line, load them up with new
paper, and get it going. Tell Mr Jeremy to get his arse down here and check the printers
tonight. He can reload them with paper if they run out. He can claim overtime if he likes.
I'll square it with Moggie. Come on, Shannie. Let's get back to the room, I need a good
fucking!"
How absolutely crude she was getting! Disgusting, horny
little slut. I would have followed her reluctantly out of the lab, just to show my
disapproval. Instead, I was already stripped and lying on the bed in a cloud of perfume
when Corinne came in.
"What kept you?" she said, shrugging out of her
power jacket and starting the marathon task of undoing all her blouse buttons. The
insistent ringing of the phone disturbed her.
"Hello? Who? Oh, hi, Clark. I'll just get her."
She undulated to the doorway and bellowed in her best fishwife voice,
"Anastasia!"
The girl arrived seconds later.
Watching Corinne undress was always fascinating, but this
time, I had a distraction. While Corinne undulated in front of me like Salami and the
Dance of the Seven Veils, Anastasia was sprawled in an armchair with the phone under her
chin, picking her nose and inspecting the proceeds minutely through her huge glasses. Her
cut-glass voice carried clearly to me.
"I know you were in Greece, but that's not the
point. She's having twins."
She dug in her other nostril.
"But no, Clark. I know you didn't make her
pregnant!"
I sat up straight and listened. Corinne wobbled into my
field of view again.
"I know you didn't. But you would have done, if
you'd had the chance. I know you would. You can't deny it. You'd have said she made
you do it. Probably six times."
Anastasia prised something out of her nose. I had to look
away. She slammed the phone down. "Rotten bastard boys," she opined.
"What's the matter, Staze?" I held out my arms to
her. Corinne paused with her skirt halfway down her thighs and stood with her hands on her
hips.
"Well!" she said indignantly. "Who wanted to
go to bed and fuck?"
"You did," I pointed out. "But Staze has got
something interesting to tell me. Haven't you, darling?"
The Junior girl came and sat on the edge of the bed, sobbing
slightly. "He would have fucked her, Miss, wouldn't he? He says he wouldn't."
"He might not be the father, Staze, love." I
stroked her hair.
"He isn't! He was in Greece with his mum and dad. But
when we made Michaela seven months gone, he DID fuck her. Six times. Now we've made her
due in two weeks, he was away when she got preggers, but that's not the point. If he had
been here, he would have fucked her. How can I ever trust him again?"
I cuddled her. She was big and wonderfully soft and warm and
enormously bosomy, and she smelled of girl-juice. "Let me make you some beans on
toast," I said, getting up. "While I'm doing that, you can watch Miss Meadowlark
getting her kit off."
We were awakened by a pounding on the door.
"Go and see who it is, Shannie," Corinne murmured
sleepily.
Grief, the things we do for love. I untangled myself from
Corinne's limbs and breasts and hair, crawled out of bed, stepped into a plate of
something unspeakable and hopped to the door.
"Jeremy!"
I didn't want him to see me like this. I was wearing only a
T-shirt which didn't come down quite far enough to cover anything. I clung to the door
frame and balanced precariously on one leg, trying to remove beans on toast from between
my toes. Everything worth seeing was hanging out of the bottom of my shirt: my cavernous
love tunnel was winking wetly at him like an old friend. This particular pose was not best
calculated to make my hips and thighs any less shameful, and although my breasts have
improved in fullness and firmness, they do need a bra to hold them above the level of my
pubes. I needed brushing down there as well. It was only seven o' clock and already
turning into a bad pubic hair day.
He grinned at me, and I felt a trickle of something moist
run down my inner thigh. No way of stopping it, my breasts were in the way.
"Hang on, Shan, don't move," he said.
"Thanks," I said, as he wiped the drop of juice up
with his finger. He placed it in his mouth with every appearance of enjoyment. I wanted to
kiss him and taste my own juices. "Oh, shit, now look what you've done! You'd better
come in while I mop up the mess."
"What about the wheelbarrow?" He indicated a
barrow out in the corridor. One of the St Cat's barrow fleet of common-user
breast-barrows. Along the side was neatly lettered:
St Catherine's High School for Growing Girls
For Girls' Breasts ONLY!
It was piled high with stacks of paper.
"Printouts," he explained. "I've been up all
night. It's still printing out down there. If it's okay with Miss Meadowlark, I'd like to
go to bed now."
"Sorry? Oh, to sleep." His eyes were red, but he
still looked good enough to eat. "We can get Anastasia to go down to the lab, as soon
as she gets up. You'd better stack all that lot in here. Corinne will want to read it when
she's got a minute."
"What is it, Shannie?" Corinne called from beneath
the covers. She sat up and I delivered another gush of juice. Jeremy politely did not
mention it, but wiped the worst of it off the pile of printouts with a tea towel.
"Can I come with you, Jeremy?" I whispered to him.
He gulped. I don't think he'd quite got used to my not being a dedicated lezzie any more.
"Don't start making dates with him, Shannie,"
Corinne warned. She has ears like a dog. Not long and floppy, but she hears everything you
say. "You've got work to do!"
"Yes, Cee."
Jeremy squeezed my shoulder. "Some other time, all
right? I am rather tired right now. I'd need all my strength to cope with you."
I blushed prettily, and the uncomplaining Jeremy wiped up
again, then tossed the soggy tea towel in the laundry basket. We kissed briefly.
"Later, then."
"Yeah, later!"
It was much later, when Corinne called me over to the bed. It was completely covered
with paper. Corinne was on her hands and knees with her back toward me and her little
bottom in the air. I was reminded of Smegs's sleeping position.
"Aren't you going to get dressed today?" I asked
her, sounding like her mum.
"Later, maybe." She was otherwise occupied.
"Look at this bit here. Earlier this week. Can you believe it?"
It was all in that indecipherable shorthand. "What's it
say?"
"Somehow, Michaela had only existed for about three
days!"
"Three days? But she's eight and a half months
pregnant!"
"She is now, yes. But this is history, remember. Three
days ago, she was somebody else. I'm just going through the other entries before that to
see if anyone disappeared at the same time. I've found Rob, that's the bloke Anastasia
wrote and zapped. It's round about then, I'm sure."
I watched her neat little finger nail as it scratched down
the paper. Then it stopped, and jabbed down vigorously. "There it is. I've found it!
Oh, SHIT! NO! Shannie!"
"What's the matter? Cee, what's up?"
She rolled over and stared at me, sitting on the bed. Her
face was white. She was trembling, right down to the quivering ends of her magnificent, magnificent,
MAGNIFICENT tits.
"It's Michaela. She's my BROTHER!"