Copyright ©2004 Some Sort of Dog
There's always something special about the first day of a new school year. Have I said that before? While the years seem to blur into one another, the faces and breasts of the girls coming and going like a kaleidoscope, that very first September day when we greet our latest batch of girls has a kind of freshness which somehow never loses its appeal.
Unusually for me, I had missed out on my customary pre-bedtime visit to the new First Formers' dormitory on the night before the first day of classes. These friendly little visits were designed to put the apprehensive new girls at their ease, for me to talk to them like a big sister, and to reassure them that it was perfectly all right to go to bed with their new friends where they could rub each other in the most sensitive places. These headmistressly visits also allowed me to check out the size of their tits with a view to possibly earning myself a couple of quid in the sweepstake when the new Form Head was appointed.
But as I say, I'd missed out. Jeremy, one-time childhood sweetheart and now school caretaker, had visited my room with something urgent which had arisen. One thing had led to another, and we'd ended up in the sack. In fact, we'd started in my office, on the stained green leather top of my desk, continued on the floor, then again on Miss Labia's desk in the outer office, once on the stairs, again up against the wall in the corridor, yet again going up the stairs to the staff domestic accommodation and only finally into the sack, by which time Jeremy was past his best. He didn't ejaculate in all these locations, that would have been silly, but he did manage it three times in the hour; not an unreasonable performance.
One way or another, though, I didn't like to leave him lying there so peacefully to drag my bow-legged way up to the Junior dormitories at the far end of the corridor. He might have woken up, wondering where he was. And if he woke up, he'd probably have another hard-on — briefly, at least.
For some reason I hadn't asked him what had brought on this raving bout of Uncontrollable Horniness. Young Jeremy's not getting any younger, after all. Once a week or so is our normal limit, the rest of the time he allows me to make my own sleeping arrangements. In fact, I suspect he organises his love life along similar lines, but I don't have a problem with that: there are more than enough girls at St Cat's to go around. And around. And up and down. Or just to go down.
Thus it was that my first glimpse of the new First Form arrivals was at Assembly. I announced the familiar hymn, Lord, Behold Us With Thy Blessing, then as the girls rose to their feet I ran my eyes over the serried ranks, starting with the older faces at the back of the hall then, on the principle of saving the best until last, slowly working my way down to the front.
Which was when my jaw dropped open. I even stopped singing, which it seems brought an all-too-rare moment of pleasure to those around me. I closed my eyes then opened them again, scanning the two front rows once more, from the gangway down the middle of the hall, eight little angels to the left, eight more to the right, then two rows of seven behind them. Thirty brand new First Formers.
And not a single bra among the lot of them.
I spun round — having to clutch at the lectern for support as my breasts threatened to swing me off my feet — and confronted my teaching staff. They must have been in on this. I was met by an array of wide-eyed, innocent faces. They were exaggeratedly mouthing the words like a bunch of smugly-smirking born-again happy-clappies, their heads tilted earnestly to one side or the other.
The last verse wore to a close and as the school sat down with a sound of scraping chairs I turned to face the front again.
Was the entire school guilty of this gross violation of school rules, or was it just the newbies?
No, it was just the newbies. Well, that was something, I supposed. I knew I should have visited the little darlings in their dorm last night, even if only for five minutes. If I had, I'd have stressed the importance of school dress regulations and made it clear that they'd all be meeting the corsetière first thing after Assembly, so if they had any worries about ill-fitting brassieres they could rest easy as their troubles would soon be over. But I hadn't visited them. I'd been too busy getting myself porked like some horny Third Former on her first date. And now they'd turned up for their first Assembly wearing no bras at all. This, in itself, was unusual. I'd have expected them to have worn whatever bras they owned. This being St Cat's, they were all well-developed little girls, so you'd expect them to wear bras from force of habit.
It was strange. I hadn't paid the new girls a bedtime visit. What if someone else had called on them? Someone bent on mischief, who had maliciously told these innocents that St Cat's girls didn't wear bras on the first morning of a new school year? I turned round again, a little more carefully this time, and sought out my deputy, Ms Megan Mountains.
"Smegs?" I addressed her sternly. "My office, immediately after Assembly!"
"What about the new girls getting measured?" she said with a cheeky little smirk. "They do seem to be in rather urgent need of support."
"I'll see you outside the bra facility then."
"Outside?"
"Outside!"
There was no way I was letting her in there. In fact, I doubted if I'd be allowed in there myself, headmistress or no headmistress. Miss Clitress insisted on being alone with her clients while she was measuring them. It aroused her. It aroused everyone, but Clit ruled her bra facility with a rod of iron.
But then I had an idea. Long-standing tradition said that the First Form's first ever real lesson at St Cat's was always Sexual Chemistry, in the SC Laboratory with their headmistress, from morning break until lunchtime. I cleared my throat and held up a hand for silence.
"There is a new school rule which comes into force today."
A buzz of conversation broke out among the girls. Behind me I could hear puzzled mutterings from the staff. Good. Keep the bastards guessing.
"The more observant among you will have noticed that the girls in the new First Form are not wearing brassieres." There were sniggers from the back of the hall, while a number of the new girls were making a nice attempt at blushing prettily. I continued.
"This is in accordance with the new school rule. The new intake of girls will not be required to wear brassieres on their first day at St Cat's. The aim is to allow the girls to relax and become settled in their new environment." In a more relaxed tone I addressed the older ones. "I'm sure you remember your first morning at St Cat's. Scary, right?"
Heads were nodding in agreement. I held up my hand again and silence fell. "Miss Clitress..." — at this point, one girl in the front row gasped loudly and blushed scarlet, not very prettily at all — "...Miss Clitress will, I am sure, be pleased to hear that she will be able to give her fullest attention to those of you who have grown bigger during the summer and who therefore need new bras as a matter of urgency. The First Form will be measured tomorrow morning, and their class..." — I consulted my copy of the school timetable — "...History, with Miss Mountains, will be rescheduled. The First Form's Sexual Chemistry lesson with myself will now occupy the whole of this morning. Thank you. Form Heads, please march your girls to their classes. You'd better make the most of it; new Form Heads will be announced at tomorrow morning's Assembly. School, dismiss!"
During my speech I had become aware of a noise behind me; a kind of feral howling, a bleak sound of despair and betrayal. Excellent!
I stepped down from the platform and approached the new First Form, who were milling around in an aimless kind of way. They didn't have a Form Head to lead them to their first class, not that she'd have known where to lead them if they did.
"This way, girls!" I proclaimed breezily. "Through that door."
They sat down, staring around them with big eyes at the weirdly shaped apparatus. I strode to the front of the class and picked up a piece of chalk, then wrote "Miss Chauntaille Gruntworthy" at the top of the blackboard, "Sexual Chmistry" underneath it, underlined it heavily and turned to face the girls, smacking the chalk dust off my hands.
"Any questions?"
"Please, Miss?"
"Stand up, girl, I can't see you!"
The girl climbed off her laboratory stool and stood up. Standing, she was six inches shorter than she'd been when sitting down so I could only see the top of her head. I certainly couldn't see her tits. All I could make out was that she had dark hair.
"Come up here, girl." She threaded her way between her classmates and stepped up on to the raised platform in front of the blackboard. I squinted down at this absurdly squat creature who couldn't have been much more than four feet tall. "Now, what's your name? Better still, write it on the blackboard."
"I'd rather not, miss."
"You'd rather not? I'm not asking you if you'd care to kindly write your name on the board, I'm telling you!"
"It's embarrassing, miss."
"Your name is embarrassing? What is it?" This was ridiculous. I bent down. An awful long way down. "Whisper it in my ear."
The class giggled at this spectacle. The girl crept closer and hissed in my ear.
"Doris."
"Doris?" I yelled. "There's nothing embarrassing about being called Doris! I mean, there is, but it's not that bad a name. Not really, anyway. A bit uncommon, perhaps. But there's certainly nothing funny about it," I added as the girl's classmates started falling about. I straightened up, took another doubtful glance down at the girl — who had a quite remarkable pair of breasts straining to get out of her blouse — and reached for the class register. Running a fingernail down the list of names I found the only Doris in the First Form. Surely the only one in the whole school. And most certainly the only Doris Bloggs.
"I see," I said, after repeating the girl's ghastly name to myself a few times. "Take your shirt off, please, Doris."
"My shirt? You mean ... get undressed? In front of...?"
"Why not? You're all girls. Unmistakeably. Very much so. God, you're all girls, all right!" I could feel the moisture spreading in my underwear. It wasn't my fault; I'm not made of stone. Thirty buxom First Formers without bras are bound to have an effect on a woman of normal appetites. "Go on, Doris," I urged her. "Climb up on the bench and take off your shirt."
"Up there?"
"Of course. You're far too short for them all to see you if you stand on the floor. Up you get."
She looked at me in disbelief. What was the matter with the girl? What kind of schools had she been to in the past? I couldn't imagine that a teacher hadn't made her stand on a desk and take her clothes off in front of the class before. I stood and returned her stare, both of us with arms akimbo. Slowly she shook her head, placed a stool next to the bench, and climbed up.
The girls gave her a bawdy cheer. She looked down at me one last time, saw that she wasn't getting a reprieve and loosened her tie. Then she undid the top button of her shirt. I made my way round to the front of the bench for a better view, and the girls made room for me. Doris stopped the action.
"Wouldn't it be better with the music, miss?"
"Music? What music?"
"Striptease music."
"I've got it on my phone," one girl shouted. She started pressing buttons then held her phone up in the air. A bumping, grinding beat started up, with clashing cymbals and a lascivious, horny trombone. The class joined in with rhythmic clapping.
It seemed to be exactly the cue Doris had been waiting for. She loosened the waistband of her skirt, plucked the tail of her shirt out and pulled the two halves apart so that the buttons came undone one at a time, starting at the bottom. She stopped before things went too far, unknotted her tie and whipped it off, whirling it round her head to ribald yells and whoops from the audience. Then she flung the tie away over the heads of the class and turned her attention to her skirt. It zipped up the side and had a single button at the top. Within seconds it was sliding down her surprisingly shapely, tanned legs. She kicked the skirt away and tugged at her shirt again, releasing one more button, then she released another button at the top, leaving just one button fastened. There was tit bulging out all over the place.
The phone music kept blaring maddeningly away, accompanied by tireless clapping. Doris's shirt was completely unbuttoned now but she was clutching it tightly around her swelling bosom, wagging an admonishing finger at her audience. She let go of the shirt and left it somehow snagged on her nipples, which seemed to be mightily erect, then began easing her panties down over her broad hips.
"Oh, my God, Dor!" one girl cried, and I could see her point. Doris wasn't just fully-equipped in the tit department, she had a quite magnificent bush. Her hips thrust towards us in time to the music, her arms went up and she linked her hands behind her head — revealing generous tufts of black armpit fur — and still her shirt stayed hung up on her nipples.
"Take it off!" a voice bawled.
The girls stared at me. The phone was turned off. The clapping died away. Doris was standing perfectly still on the bench top, her arms akimbo again. Then, perhaps to give her hands something to do, she fastened a couple of shirt buttons.
I had both hands down the front of my skirt and eight fingers in my love tunnel, leaving just two thumbs to take care of my clitoris. In the sudden silence, the squelching noises were simply obscene.
"Please, miss?" said Doris.
"Yes?" I croaked.
"When I put my hand up just now, I was only going to tell you that you can't spell "Chemistry".
She had me at an unfair disadvantage.
"Normally, Doris, I would award you half a million lines for being a cheeky, jumped-up little arsehole, but it's your first morning at St Cat's so I'll let you off. You may get dressed, thank you."
The rest of the class went fairly well after that. I had shown them who was in charge, in no uncertain terms, and if they'd noticed anything unusual in my behaviour they never mentioned it. The other twenty-nine girls came up to the front of the class one at a time and wrote their names on the blackboard. Just for information I made them add their bra sizes. These ranged from 26D-cup upwards, with an average of around G, H or J, although I think there might have been a certain amount of fantasising going on.
But there was absolutely no bullshitting when it came to the Form Head. Barbarella Sinkinson had displayed a tendency to hide herself away behind other girls, sitting in a slumped attitude trying to disguise the attributes which were what had brought her to St Cat's in the first place. This worked fine until it was eventually her turn to come to the front of the class. I consulted the register and there were just a couple of names left unchecked. I debated which one of the two to try first. There was an Arabella Mason-Dixon, which sounded vaguely familiar, so — after a couple of minutes of indecision during which the girls patiently sat and looked at me — I opted for the other one. "Barbarella Sinkinson," I called. And this creature plodded, lumbered, around her new friends up to the front, where I surveyed her for a minute or more, looking her up and down with something like disbelief. She was wretchedly skinny, apart from her bust, which looked as if it had been loaded into her shirt by a party of workmen with shovels.
Every year or so a potential Head Girl of St Cat's comes along. Many of them fail to continue their development, falling by the wayside with bust measurements at about the ten or eleven feet mark: big, but not even the faintest whiff of a cigar. The current Third Form had Sally Chung, of course — although strangely I couldn't recall seeing her yet this term — then they had Helvetica Bold and Valentina Nightingale, but they weren't in the same league as Sally when it came to sheer size. The Second Form had the incredible Jane Crapp, who would no doubt grow into a contender for the overall crown, possibly in opposition to the fast-growing, big-eating Andromeda Dawkes.
But Barbarella Sinkinson — as long as you measured her on the Dangle Table — was something else entirely.
"Fucking, fucking fuck!" I said as my eyes took in the phenomenal sight. "For fuck's sake!" I added. "Where the fuck did you get those dangling fuckers?"
The class made little sounds of dismay and blushed prettily at my coarse language. Barbarella herself began to cry.
I was standing in the midst of what was without doubt the most buxom First Form in living memory and here in pride of place was the undisputed Form Head.
"You're wearing a bra," I accused her.
"I have to, miss, they'd be dangling round my knees...."
"Miss? This morning you told us we didn't have to wear any."
"And they told us last night, miss. In the dorm just before the lights went out.
"They? You mean Miss Mountains?"
Barbarella looked blank.
"Tall woman? Dirty blonde? Pointed tits? Dribbles a lot?"
"A teacher, miss?"
"Of course Miss Mountains is a teacher! Whoever heard of a pupil called Miss Anything?"
"This wasn't a teacher, miss," said Doris, who was still unaccountably standing on the bench wearing only her shirt. "It was a girl."
"What was she wearing?"
"A nightie. Kind of a purple T-shirt thing with a hippopotamus on the front. A green hippopotamus wearing a bow tie. It was bedtime."
Over several years of teaching at St Cat's I have taught myself to quickly sift relevant information from garbage. "A girl, eh? I see!"
Nobody fools me as easily as that. Smegs must have borrowed a nightie from one of the girls to use as a disguise.
"Just write your name on the board, dear," I said to the Form Head elect. "And your bra size, of course."
"I can't, miss."
"You can't write? How old are you?"
"Eleven, miss. I can write, but there isn't room."
"Your name isn't that long, Barbarella. Well, okay, maybe it is. Just write Barbie Sink and that will leave room for your bra size."
Barbarella sobbed more determinedly.
"My bras don't have sizes, miss," she wailed. "And even if I took it off I wouldn't be able to get close enough to the blackboard. My arms are too short!"
"Don't be silly!" We'd had girls whose arms were too short to carry out certain tasks, but never a First Former. "Give it a try," I encouraged her.
Barbarella tried, and failed by six inches.
The rest of the class chimed in with suggestions. Doris told her to stand with her back to the board and write over her shoulder. Barbarella scrawled something illegible and gave up, complaining that she was squashing her boob with her arm. And anyway, whatever she had written was back to front and ran more or less vertically up and down the blackboard.
"Just think how far away from the board she'd be if she had a proper bra on, miss," said a slinky little redhead who had claimed to need a 30K-cup.
"What's your name, girl?"
"Trisha O'Halloran," she said, without the slightest trace of an Irish accent. In fact, her Pronunciation was so Received that one of the test tubes in a rack on the bench shattered.
I toyed with the idea of making her write out half a million lines for trying to arouse her headmistress with lewd talk, but decided to spare her as it was only the first morning. Besides, she had aroused her headmistress with her lewd talk. To business! There was much to do.
"Back to your seats, everyone. Get down off there and get dressed, Doris. Trisha, take this key and open the store room, over there in the corner. Three of you, bring me a box of industrial paper towels. That's it, those blue rolls. Put a roll on each work bench. These industrial paper towels are most useful. They are made of recycled paper and when they have been used they get recycled again. Does anyone know what we use them for?"
"Wiping our hands, miss?"
"Yes, anything else?"
"Wiping spilled chemicals off the benches, miss?"
"Yes, but what is the chief use of industrial paper towel? Anyone?"
I sighed. Silence from the class. They'd understand soon enough. Meanwhile it was time to move on.
"I need a volunteer."
A dozen hands shot up.
"You'll do." I pointed a finger at a short, chunky girl whose bra size was allegedly a 36G. "Keep a roll handy until I tell you to step forward. Now, two girls, please. Store room. Blue plastic bucket on the floor. With a lid. Fetch it, please."
The two nominees scampered to the store room then struggled back with the heavy bucket, lifting it on to my bench.
"Thank you. Now this ... contains Cream."
In Miss Lundberg's maths class the teacher was writing a lengthy equation on the blackboard, making frequent references to her notes.
Helvetica slouched at her desk, trying to adjust her bra straps through her shirt. "It was a complete waste of time," she said in a fierce whisper. "Your clever little plan backfired."
Valentina doodled several more babies in the margin of her exercise book. She'd no sooner given birth to her third than she was getting broody again. "How was I to know ol' Gruntworthy was going to make a new school rule saying that First Formers weren't allowed to wear bras on their first day?"
"She didn't say they weren't allowed. She just said they didn't have to."
"It's the same thing. Our pervy headmistress is teaching the newbies Sexual Chemistry right now. She's probably rubbing Cream on their tits."
"She just likes young girls with huge tits," said Helvetica. "Remember the year before last, our first night here in the dorm?"
Valentina laughed. "It's the same every year, they get in a fight over the new girls, her and ol' Mountains."
"They both want to be the first to get a look. Same as you."
"That wasn't why I went into their dorm!" Valentina protested. "I just wanted to wind them up. It worked, too! They all showed up at Assembly without their bras. But then ol' Grunt went and made a new school rule! What for?"
"I reckon it's that crazy computer again, the Fuckh Machine. You know how it alters reality all the time. How big were they, anyway?"
Valentina reddened. "How big were what?" she mumbled.
Helvetica smirked with satisfaction. "The First Formers' tits, of course. I didn't get a good look at them this morning."
"They're all massive! Not like our bunch. They're this ordinary crowd of little kids but they've got these huge boobs!"
"All the same size? How are they going to choose a Form Head?"
"I dunno. There was only one I couldn't see properly, and she was sitting in bed with a blanket wrapped round her. They called her Barbarella or something stupid like that. She's probably so flat-chested she was ashamed to show herself."
"I bet Miss Gruntworthy Creams her this morning. Just to show the class how that stuff makes tits grow."
"Does it?"
"How would I know?"
"You two girls! Pay attention! This equation on the board; can either of you tell me where I have made a deliberate mistake? Valentina, you're the Form Head, what is wrong with that equation?"
"Being Form Head's nothing to do with algebra, miss, it's about the size of our busts. Anyway, I'm not really Form Head, miss. Not if Sally Chung comes back."
Helvetica rescued her desperate friend. "Please, miss. Shouldn't it be xy squared brackets x minus y close brackets all squared, not brackets x+y squared close brackets?"
"What?" Startled, Miss Lundberg turned to the board. "Oh, shit." She began rubbing out the offending part of the equation. Several girls who had faithfully copied it into their brand new exercise books began to cry.
"We'll see about the new Form Heads tomorrow morning," said Helvetica. "If Sally's disappeared, it'll be you again for sure, especially if your milk's in."
Valentina clutched at her bosom. "Shit, what did you mention milk for? I'm leaking like the fountain in the quad!"
Things were progressing fairly well. It took a while to get the lid off the Cream bucket, but then I splodged a generous spoonful of it into a large beaker and set it on top of a Bunsen burner. I took a wooden spoon from the desk drawer.
"Now, watch carefully."
"Gosh, miss!"
I'm normally a clear-headed person, which was why I didn't panic the instant the wooden spoon burst into flames. I may have waved it around my head a couple of times before hurling it into the furthest corner of the lab but I did not panic.
"Fire!" one girl yelled stupidly.
Another, more resourceful, dashed across the lab and — pulling on what appeared to be a pair of fireproof gloves — retrieved the spoon then, like an athlete bearing the Olympic torch, she carried it proudly back to me, up the step on to the raised platform.
"I don't want it!" I yelled. "Take it away!"
"What shall I do with it?"
"Throw it out of the window, of course! Haven't you got a brain in your thick head?"
Twenty seconds later, the spoon was safely outside. There were sounds of cursing from out in the quadrangle and a bell went off somewhere in the distance but such things are normal at a busy girls' school.
"What happened, miss?"
"The spoon is supposed to catch fire when you stir the mixture," I told my thrilled audience. "Okay, in fact, in this case it caught fire before I started stirring. Even before I put the spoon in the beaker. I think we can safely assume that this is an excellent batch of Cream. Right, who's going to be first?"
They all looked blank. "First?"
"What for, miss?"
"I'm going to rub it on your breasts, of course!"
Embarrassed gasps, mainly because of my use of the B-word, I suspect.
"Doris? Tricia? No, Barbarella, come up to the front of the class, please. And Tricia, you may apply the Cream. It will all be valuable experience for you later."
The two victims approached the bubbling beaker with evident misgivings.
"Shirt off, please, Barbarella."
"Oh, miss!"
"Tricia can't Cream your breasts through your shirt, child!"
"Why me?"
"It's got to be someone, Barbarella!"
And I wanted to see those prize-winning tits naked, of course.
Her bra straps were interesting. They had been snipped in two a few inches above the top of the cups and extended with hairy post office parcel string. Presumably the purpose of this local modification was to allow her breasts to hang quite a long way down, thus making it look as if she wasn't wearing a bra. As if they could have fooled me!
"Right off, please."
The class was clearly impressed.
So was I.
"Fucking holy shit, Barbarella!" I blurted. "Those are...."
I didn't know what they were, apart from stupendously vast.
"Excuse me." I blundered to the edge of the nearest bench, sat down on it and parted my thighs. "Girl!" I shouted.
They all stared at one another.
"Girl! You with the industrial paper towel!"
"Me, miss?" said 36G.
"Of course you, who did you think I meant?"
"You didn't say my name, miss."
"I don't know your stupid name!"
"That's not my fault, miss!"
"Come here! With the industrial paper towel, you fool!"
She went back to her seat and fetched it.
"What do I do now?"
"What do you think, you dog-brained idiot? Take a handful of industrial paper towel and wipe me!" She began wiping. "Not my face, you halfwit!"
She worked out what I wanted after a while, with the help of some prompting from the rest of the girls.
"Wow!" she said. "And I thought mine was big!"
My ears pricked up at that.
The class gathered round. I was in quite an undignified position, sprawling on my back with my splayed legs dangling over the edge of the bench, while a whole class of schoolgirls jostled each other for a sight of my pudenda. I struggled to sit upright.
"Stand back," I told them. "There's nothing to see here. I mean down there."
"Will ours be as big as yours one day, miss?"
"I very much doubt it," I reassured them. I was more intrigued by the 36G girl, who was still nameless, and her recent comment. "Some girls have bigger ones than others, of course."
"We've seen Mandy's, miss," said one girl. "Her thingies hang down when she stands up. Do your thingies hang down as far as Mandy's when you stand up, miss?"
It was a good question, and the girls acknowledged it with nods of agreement. But I wasn't going to get into a contest. The size of thingies, as is the case with so many objects, is unimportant.
"They're not thingies, girls. We call them labia. It's a Latin word and it means 'lips'."
"Does that mean it's okay to kiss them, miss?" giggled Tricia O'Halloran. A number of other girls burst out laughing while several more held their noses and made noises of disgust. It was time to educate these ignoramuses in the ways of an English girls' school.
"Only at appropriate times and places, Tricia. On dates, for example, or in your dormitory at night — preferably after lights out — and of course, during Sex Practical classes, when you will all have the opportunity to practise oral-genital methods of pleasuring your lovers, either with members of the opposite sex, or in the course of straight lesbian relationships."
That shut them up.
There was a knock on the laboratory door.
"Ah, that will be the mid-session snacks," I said.
The girls looked at each other. "But we've only just had breakfast."
I waved through the glass door for the kitchen assistant to come in. "You have to eat to keep your strength up!" I told the class. "In fact, our research has confirmed that eating three square meals a day with hearty snacks in between, and having plenty of sex, is the best method of improving the bustline. Now, you all want to improve your bustlines, don't you?"
They stared at each other's bustlines. To be perfectly frank, for First Formers, it would be hard to improve on what they already had in considerable abundance.
"What do you mean by improve, miss?" said Barbarella Sinkinson.
"Make them bigger, of course. Bigger, fuller, firmer, rounder, more desirable."
"But mine are miles too big already! Why would I want even bigger ones?"
That did it. I had excused two girls from punishment already this morning. But this Barbarella girl had just struck a blow at the very heart of all that St Cat's held most dear.
"Barbarella Sinkinson," I intoned gravely. "You are going to be at St Cat's for seven years. Your punishment will therefore last for the whole of that time. Every year, before going away for the summer holidays, you will write out and hand to me personally one million lines, No Matter How Huge They Grow, A Girl's Breasts Can Never, Never, Never Be Too Big! That is seven million times in all."
The girls gasped at the enormity of this sentence. Barbarella herself looked stunned. I'd never awarded any girl more than half a million lines before, and now — at a stroke — I had upped the ante by a staggering fourteen times. My orgasm was so intense I saw stars, explosions and the red glare of rockets.
I awoke to the pleasing sensation of several handfuls of industrial paper towel rubbing against my nether regions. Three or four girls were busy with this task, the rest of the class were tucking into bacon rolls, with or without fried eggs.
Infinitely more pleasingly, they had formed themselves into little groups of three or four, and they were enthusiastically rubbing Cream into each other's breasts. Even Barbarella! She was applying Cream to a plump-breasted pouter-pigeon of a girl. Barbarella, presumably still numbed by the enormity of the task stretching ahead of her for the next seven years, was going about her duties in a mechanical way, but the pigeon girl was getting into it bigtime. It was her squeals, in fact, which helped to bring me back to my senses.
I was just in time to see the lab door open once again. A girl came in, glanced idly round at this orgy of breast-worship, saw me still sitting on the work bench and came over.
"Miss Labia says there's a gentleman to see you, miss. In your office?"
"Who is it?"
"She didn't say, miss."
"Damn!" I suspected Smegs of engineering this as a tactic of deception to lure me away from the First Formers so she could get in here and start exploring their panties. "Who's got a phone?" I shouted.
Eager to please, a dozen girls offered their mobile phones. I chose one with a lurid purple facia and dialled the school's number.
"Good morning, St Cat's High School for Growing Girls, Secretary speaking, how may I help you?"
"It's me. What's all this about a bloke in my office?"
"He's waiting for you to get your fat arse up here," said Miss Labia. "We've been looking for you for an hour. Why aren't you in the bra facility?"
"I'm the headmistress! I go where I like!" And I pressed a button on the phone to end the conversation. A merry tune started up and I became intrigued by a kind of snake which began tracing a sinuous course around and around the little display window. "Wow!" I shouted.
Two or three girls leaned across to help. "You press those buttons there and there and you can get in front of it and ambush it. Then if you press that button, you blow its head off."
I pressed the button.
"Good morning, St Cat's High School for Growing Girls, Secretary speaking, how may I help you?"
"Not you again!"
"He's still up here. He's the chairman of the School Governors."
"Sir Jeremiah? Why didn't you say? I'll be right up. Carry on, girls. Plenty of Cream, that's the way. Put your food down and use both hands. And if I'm not back by lunchtime, wash your hands before you go to the restaurant."
Admiral Sir Jeremiah Mason-Dixon — the erstwhile Mayor of Borcester — had been Chairman of the Board of Governors of St Cat's High School for Growing Girls for a couple of years. I'd always liked the old buffer, and I've always made sure he received copies of all the letters of application and their accompanying photographs. I never knew what he did with them at his age, but life can be full of surprises.
I paused briefly beside the fountain in the quadrangle, placed one foot on the low retaining wall, and adjusted my bra straps for maximum uplift, causing a posse of passing Second Formers to giggle and blush prettily. At that moment I became aware of a relatively small girl — a girl I didn't recognise — standing beside me and plucking at the hem of my skirt.
"Not now, child," I told her, somewhat testily. The girl was relatively small only in height, I observed. In bust circumference she was quite startling even by St Cat's standards. Her impressive size was made all the more noticeable by the fact that she was completely nude from the waist up. Her jutting breasts glistened with what looked remarkably like Cream. Her nipples bore witness to the chill in the September air. Putting two and two together, such an absurdly top-heavy child whose face was unfamiliar, she had to be one of the new First Form.
"Please, miss...?"
"Not now, girl. Later, in my room, okay?"
"You've got my phone, miss."
"Your what?"
"In your hand, miss. It's my phone. I'm expecting a text from my boyfriend."
"How old are you, child?"
"Eleven, miss."
I knew that, of course, but it was nice to hear her say it. "Eleven? You do have the most extraordinarily big breasts, child."
"I know, miss." She looked down at them and registered some surprise at finding them naked. Her surprise was mingled with what looked suspiciously like pride. And quite rightly so, too.
"Did I see you in Sexual Chemistry class this morning?"
"No, miss. I mean, maybe. Anyway, I ... my period started, and I didn't have any Tammies. So I texted Barry with the good news — he likes to be the very first to know that I'm not pregnant again every month — borrowed a box of Super Plus from one of the teachers and slipped into the class behind that girl who brought you a message to call your secretary. Then you asked for somebody with a phone, so I offered you mine."
"Which one?"
"Miss?"
"Which teacher was it who lent you the Tampax?" I had no need to ask, it was clearly Smegs, trying to get into the pants of the new girls before I'd even started teaching them the rudiments. "A tall woman, dirty blonde? Pointy tits?"
"No, a dark-haired one with huge boobs."
That could have been any one of us. "What's your bra size?" I demanded.
"I'm about a 26U, miss. But I don't really need a bra. Look!"
She hopped up and down on the spot a few times. She was right.
"I'm 47-17-27, miss," she added gratuitously.
"What's your name?"
"Arabella Mason-Dixon, miss."
"Mason-Dixon?" The name rang a bell but I couldn't remember where I'd heard it. "Go back to your class and get Creamed, Arabella. I'll be back with you by lunchtime." As I turned to go I felt her tugging at my skirt again. Damn, couldn't the child take a hint? But she was pointing at her phone with a stubby finger and two fat nipples. Reluctantly I handed it to her. She wedged it between her improbable breasts and wiggled away. As she retreated, I noted her small stature and the stupidly tiny size of her waist and hips: totally out of scale with those ridiculous tits. She seemed to have been assembled using the components of two entirely different people. The unlucky girl who got the other two halves had a pretty raw deal.
But girls of such outrageous proportions as Arabella Mason-Dixon enrich the life of an unashamedly bisexual head teacher.
So I was in rare good spirits when I arrived at my office, breezed magnificently past Miss Labia and marched into the inner sanctum with my hand outstretched. "Sir Jeremiah!" I said heartily. "How delightful to see you again!"
It wasn't him. It was somebody else. Furthermore, he was sitting in my revolving chair with his feet on my stained green leather desktop.
"This coffee sucks," he grated. In fact, he pronounced it 'cawfee'. He rattled the cup in the saucer for emphasis. "And this is my ninth cup. What kept you, Mizz Gruntworthy?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm the new Chairman of the Governors, replacing Jeremiah Mason-Dixon. Maybach Q Zeppelin the Tenth." He offered a hand but didn't get up. I forgave him his ill manners; it can sometimes be difficult to get up from that revolving chair, especially when your feet are on the desk.
"You're American," I accused him. "And what happened to Sir Jeremiah?"
"I'm afraid he has passed away."
"He's died? What of?"
"They found a bunch of pictures of St Cat's schoolgirls. Looked like he was jacking off to them."
I translated this statement mentally. The poor old Admiral. Still, he'd died happy. One hoped he'd completed his orgasm before ringing down 'finished with main engines' for the last time. No doubt it was the new First Formers who had done for him. It was just as well he'd only had their photographs to look at, if he'd seen them in real life he'd have let loose a full rippling broadside. A remarkable group of girls, I mused.
Surreptitiously I adjusted my underwear, which was by now so moist that I could feel juices trickling down the insides of both thighs. I wondered if Maybach Q Zeppelin X would consider handing me a roll of industrial paper towel from my desk drawer.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I've been teaching the new First Form," I said. "Sexual Chemistry."
"Hmmm. Any spectacular ones?"
"One or two," I said, toning things down a little. A bit of traditional British understatement is the best way to deal with these people.
He began shuffling through the papers on my desk. "Any ... statistics?"
"Any what?"
"Fig-yures? Bra sizes? Shit like that?"
"They haven't been measured yet. A new school rule. New girls now get their bras on their second day at school."
"'Kay. You mean they're not wearing bras now?"
I thought about my last view of these girls. They had decidedly not been wearing bras. "They've got their own bras, of course," I said. "But naturally, some of those don't fit too well. Some of them haven't had a new bra all summer."
Maybach Q Zeppelin X struggled to his feet. He was taller than I'd imagined, and considerably fatter. "I gotta see these chicks!"
"Now?"
"Why not? How big are their tits?"
"They're only eleven, Mr Zeppelin!"
"I've seen pictures and shit of all the other chicks. I gotta see the new ones. How big are their asses?"
"Their what?"
"Their asses. You probably call them arses."
"I call them bottoms. More specifically, back bottoms."
"They're too small," he decided unilaterally. "Big tits is fine, but we need big asses. Small waists is okay. I'm thinking hourglasses, capiche?"
I ran through the new First Form in my mind and hourglasses didn't immediately spring to mind. There was Arabella Mason-Dixon, for a start. Big tits, fine, but everything else was stupidly small. She wasn't going to float Maybach Q Zeppelin X's boat.
"It's the Admiral's granddaughter!" I blurted.
"You what?"
"Sir Jeremiah's granddaughter is one of the new girls. The poor girl!"
"How big are her tits?"
"About forty-seven inches. She wears a U-cup."
Maybach Q Zeppelin X mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. "'Bout a 26U?" he said without pausing for calculation. "What about her ass?"
I was learning the language. "'Bout twenty-seven."
"All right, we gonna knock this shit on the head right now. I wanna see her with at least a forty-inch ass. Is that forty-seven in a bra, or on the Dangle Table?"
This man knew too much for his own good. Worse, I didn't know enough myself. I only had the word of the girl herself — or her personal bra-maker — as to her measurements.
"It might be better to wait until tomorrow, Mr Zeppelin. Then I'll have a full list of the girls' measurements for you. And photographs...."
"Ah!" he'd obviously had a sudden idea. He raised a finger, luckily not the middle one. "I've arranged for a photographer to come. He's a good guy, highly experienced. First week of each semester."
"Term."
"Whatever. Each class. Group picture, all the girls. No individual pics. We'll sell them for ten pounds each."
"Sell them?"
"Sure! Great jay-oh material. Full lists of all their names, bra sizes, size of their undershorts...."
I assumed he meant knickers, or at the very worst, panties. Right now, though, I wanted this man off the premises before he burst into the Sexual Chemistry lab and started jaying-oh all over the room. That kind of thing ought to wait until a girl is thirteen, with a few Sex Practical lessons beneath her belt. About seven or eight inches beneath, to be precise.
"More coffee?"
"Shit!"
"It is, isn't it. Tea?"
That seemed to calm him down. He set off on a lap of the room and I seized the opportunity to flop into my still-warm chair and find my roll of industrial paper towel.
"We're gonna see some changes round here," he ranted, coming in for a pit stop after his first lap. He pounded his fat fist on the desk. "Bigger asses." Thump. "No more of this First Form, Second Form, Juniors, Middles garbage." Thump. "We're gonna have to use a system that everyone understands. Freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors...." Thump.
"Nobody understands that system, not even Americans. If you must have change just for the sake of it, we'll move into line with the rest of schools in this country. The First Form will become Year Seven. The Seconds will be Year Eight, and so on."
"Why Seven, for Chrissakes?"
"Because it's their seventh year of schooling, of course."
"It sucks."
"I'll get Miss Labia to type you out a conversion table."
He hummed and hawed about it but there was no way out. So he got his fist ready again for some more thumping. "A radically redesigned school uniform." Thump. "More international students." Thump. "Definitely more international students."
"What for?"
"They bring in more money."
"They cost us money. Overseas students get all their underwear free."
"You can change that rule when we rewrite the clothing rules. Which I will do when I see you tomorrow morning." Thump. He got back into his stride. "More girls from overseas. The biggest-breasted girls from everywhere in the world. Except France. We don't need no cheese-eating surrender monkeys. And they stink."
I tended to agree with that. Previous French students had given rise to a degree of armpit awareness.
"...And maybe Germany. I'm not sure about Germany."
"Oh, they have huge tits in Germany," I prompted him.
"Okay. Maybe we'll let the Germans in."
Given his surname, I thought that was pretty decent of him.
"How about Asia?" he demanded suddenly.
"How about it? We have a few Indian girls. Not a lot of Pakistani girls ever apply to come here...."
"What's with this India shit? I said Asian!"
"India is in Asia."
"No shit?" He seemed genuinely surprised to find that the sub-continent had apparently moved. "What about the other Asia? The real one? Japan?"
"We get a few enquiries from Japan, but not many. Their girls are rather small, after all." I indicated with my hands in what way Japanese girls failed to measure up.
Maybach Q Zeppelin X's face took on a strange look. "You don't honestly believe that crap, do you?" he said.
"It's common knowledge. We had a Japanese girl once, but she was exceptional. Most of them are like fried eggs."
"Bullshit!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow," he announced, just as Miss Labia came in with a cup of tea. She leered at him sickeningly as she stirred it with a spoon. A small wooden spoon. I ducked down behind my desk and prayed it wouldn't burst into flames. Even Maybach Q Zeppelin X turned quite pale and backed away towards the door. "Tomorrow morning we can work out the detail. And I'll have something to show you. Something very, very important. Have a nice day. Miss Gruntworthy. Ms Labia. À bientôt!"
He almost bowed.
I wondered whether to escort him off the school grounds, but he was unlikely to run into any of the girls as it was still thirty-five minutes before lunchtime. Let him go.
I grabbed the cup of tea from Miss Labia and took a gulp.
"Oh, this is shit!"
"I know."
There was just time to get my fat arse down to the Sexual Chemistry lab and resume my teaching duties.
"Right! We have half an hour. You've finished Creaming each other? Doris, Tricia, put the Cream away in the store room."
"It won't take two of us to carry it now, miss. It's empty."
A chill ran down my spine, presumably searching for my spleen. "You used it all? There was enough Cream in there for the whole school! It's not as if you needed it."
"Please, miss. What do you mean about needing it? What does it do?"
"I already told you. It makes your breasts bigger, of course. Bigger, fuller, firmer, rounder, more desirable."
"But we're huge already!"
"You are a little above average size for First Formers, I'll admit. We will find out how much bigger tomorrow, when you are measured for your new bras. And possibly for your new uniforms."
"Miss?"
"Yes, Arabella?"
"My mum will kill me if she has to buy any more school clothes, miss. It isn't easy when you're only four feet six tall and 47-17-27 and wear a 26U-cup bra."
An ugly murmur came from the rest of the class.
"I was sorry to hear about your granddad, Arabella," I said.
"Thanks, miss. Mum never let him anywhere near us. She said he was a dirty old wanker who couldn't keep his filthy maulers off little girls. Especially little girls who are only four feet six tall and 47-17-27 and wear a 26U-cup bra."
I was beginning to think it would be rather nice if maybe she didn't say that too many more times.
"Now, before lunch, we're going to play a little game. All of you take off your shirts and bras, climb on to the benches and lie on your backs. Then I'll come round and measure you all to see who is tallest."
Barbarella, naturally, had an objection. "Why can't we stand up and you put a pencil on top of our heads and make a mark on the wall, then you measure the height of the mark, miss?"
"Barbarella. How would you like your punishment to be fourteen million lines instead of seven million?"
Barbarella began sobbing again and the class gasped at my sheer ruthlessness.
"Do as I told you, undress and lie on your backs, please. No, you can keep your skirts and panties on. Thank you."
No further arguments. Within a minute, all thirty of them were on their backs and I strolled up to the nearest with two long rulers. I laid the first one along the peaks of the girl's nipples then used the other ruler to measure the height of the teats above the bench.
"Ten inches," I told the girl. "All of you, remember the number I tell you. The highest number — The Tallest Lying Down — will receive certain privileges."
And I moved on to the next girl. And the next.
Barbarella Sinkinson, despite her gigantic breasts, was so skinny, and at the same time so pendulous and floppy, that her bust contributed nothing to her height at all. She registered only six inches and was thus, easily and quite shamefully, The Smallest Girl In Class Lying Down. With her tits spreading all over the bench she was by far the widest, but that wasn't the object of this exercise.
The clear winner was Arabella Mason-Dixon.
She seemed most pleased when I announced it. "Does that mean I'm the new Form Head, miss?"
"Not exactly, no. For that, you all have to lie on the Dangle Table with your boobs hanging over the edge for five minutes."
Several girls winced and said "Ouch!"
"At a guess, I'd say Barbarella Sinkinson would win that particular contest by several feet."
"But mine are much nicer than hers," Arabella persisted. "Look at them!" And she stuck out her chest, sending girls ducking and backing away in case they got one of her nipples in their eye.
"They are very nice, and very big indeed, but the Dangle Table is what counts."
"But I had a bet with my little sisters."
I stared at her. I'm not normally a betting woman, but I like a flutter from time to time. This statement demanded more explanation. "Your little sisters? What about them?"
"What about them, miss?"
"Yes, what about them?"
"I've got three, but I'm the eldest."
"You mean you had a bet with these young children about the size of your bust?"
"Clytemnestra said she bet she'd have been Form Head if she'd been here instead of me."
"Clytemnestra is your younger sister? You mean she's even bigger than you?"
"Of course, miss. They all are."
The rest of the class jeered and poured scorn but Arabella insisted. "I know I'm only four feet six tall and 47-17-27 and wear a 26U-cup bra," she said, "but all my sisters are shorter and slimmer and have bigger ones than me. Honestly, miss!"
"Nonsense! I've heard enough of these tales and I am going to punish you." As the class roared its approval I announced the punishment. "You will write out ten thousand times, I Must Not Encourage Gambling Amongst My Younger Sisters, Even Though They May Be Slimmer And Have Bigger Breasts Than Myself. How much slimmer, and how much bigger are they, anyway?"
Arabella didn't seem unduly put out by her punishment. "They're triplets, miss," she said, which vaguely struck me as cheating. "They're a year younger than me, and they're quite skinny. A bit like Barbarella, only their boobs are much firmer. And bigger, of course."
"Oh, of course! And I suppose you just happen to have a photograph of these ridiculously-developed triplets in your purse!"
"How did you know, miss?" She produced a dog-eared picture and I almost tore it from her hand.
"But...?"
"Oh, that was taken two years ago. Their boobies are much bigger now!"
I had a whole year to wait before these insanely-stacked triplets arrived at the school. They'd be coming to St Cat's, of course, as granddaughters of their dirty old wanker of a late grandfather who fancied little girls. Especially little girls who were presumably only four feet six tall, had smaller than 17-inch waists and 27-inch hips, and who wore bigger than 26U-cup bras.
"Make that a hundred-thousand lines, Arabella, and hand them to me by tomorrow morning!"
"Okay, miss. I'll give them to you in the bra shop."
Barbarella had turned pale. "You don't want my first million tomorrow, do you, miss?"
I considered this kind offer for a while.
"Let her off, miss!" Arabella pleaded, and a rumble of voices joined her.
"Let her off? You mean, cancel her punishment?"
"Yes, miss. What did she do wrong?"
I couldn't honestly remember but it must have been something pretty bad to earn seven million lines — or was it fourteen million? The girl Doris remembered.
"All she said was that hers were big enough and she didn't want them to get any bigger."
"She's right, miss," said Arabella. "They're down past her panties! They're nearly as big as my little sisters'! How big is the Head Girl of St Cat's?"
I didn't really know who the Head Girl was this year. Not yet. It could be any one of a dozen candidates. But from past experience, the Head Girl always had at least a twelve foot bust these days. "About 144 inches," I said airily. "Maybe 150."
"Well, there you are," said Arabella. "Poor Barbarella will never be Head Girl...."
"What do you mean?"
"Because once my little sisters get here, they'll always have bigger busts than poor Barbarella, so she'll never be anything better than a Form Head. So she's right; if she can't be biggest in the whole school, what's the point of having a twelve foot bust anyway? It will only get in the way. She won't be able to walk!"
Barbarella was sobbing by now. She looked quite pathetic. Arabella could be right. "Are you sure about your little sisters? They're really coming to St Cat's next year?"
"Maybe not all of them, miss. The uniforms are so expensive. But at least one of them will be coming."
"Which one?"
"If it's only one, it will be Clytemnestra. She's biggest."
"Oh? How big is she now?"
"We don't know, miss. We haven't got a Dangle Table at home, and anyway our tape measure isn't long enough."
I slumped on to the edge of the work bench and spread my legs. Several girls sprang eagerly forward with rolls of industrial paper towel. Their efforts were clumsy and ill-coordinated, but they made up for that with enthusiasm, dabbing, wiping and mopping.
"Barbarella," I said gravely. "I'm going to pardon you. Just a hundred thousand lines by tomorrow morning. Same as Arabella."
"Thank you, miss!"
Arabella whispered something in the skinny girl's ear, making her blush. More whispering. And more. More blushing.
"You mean now? In here?"
"Of course not, silly! Tonight, in bed!"
It was none of my business what girls got up to after bedtime, but I was pleased to see that the Form Head — the girl with the Longest Breasts — and the girl who was Tallest Lying Down were becoming an item. The Arabella-Barbarella connection. On only their second night.
"Look at her nipples, miss!" said Arabella.
Barbarella, the only person in the room who couldn't see them, let out a squeal and tried to cover the ends of her breasts with her hands. By the time she succeeded, the whole class was in uproar. It was time to put a stop to all this.
"That's it!" I yelled. "Everyone get dressed. You've got five minutes before lunchtime." I dismounted from the bench and made necessary adjustments to my soggy underwear.
At that very moment, as the girls were loading themselves into their bras and grabbing for their shirts, a staggering noise came booming in through the open window. I clapped my hands to my ears. So too, I noticed, did Arabella Mason-Dixon and a couple of other girls.
"Ouch!" Arabella complained. "Why does that clock have to be so loud?" She consulted her mobile phone. "And it's five minutes fast."
"Three minutes," said Doris.
"Four," said the girl known as 36G.
"It must have still got some treacle in it," I explained. The rest of the class, who had of course heard nothing, were backing away from us with troubled expressions on their faces. "But since it's already struck twelve, we may as well break for lunch now and see if we can get to the front of the queue."
"Come on!" said Valentina Nightingale to her bestest friend as they skulked along the dimly-lit corridor and paused outside the door to the First Form dormitory.
Helvetica Bold had stopped a few yards short, shaking her head. "Why do we need to?"
"For a laugh. Winding up the Juniors after lights-out is what St Cat's girls do." She pushed at the door and it opened. Then beckoning to Helvetica she followed her gigantic milk-laden breasts into the room.
There were sounds of giggling in the darkness, then a timid voice whispered, "Who's that?"
"It's a ghost!"
"It's the bogey-man!"
"A man?" squeaked an eleven-year-old voice. "Gosh!"
Valentina turned on her half-a-yard-long Maglite and waved the beam around the beds until it encountered an old-fashioned alarm clock on one of the girls' bedside lockers. It was just five minutes short of ten o'clock.
The booming of the quadrangle clock took Valentina and Helvetica completely by surprise. "Shit! It's five minutes fast!"
"That's your fault. It's never been right since you messed about with its insides."
Three shadowy figures had sat bolt upright in their beds. "How can we sleep with that thing clanging away all night?" one demanded.
"Somebody shut the window," said another.
The third girl dived back beneath the covers of a bed which seemed curiously full. Valentina advanced across the dorm and spread a pool of light on the mounded duvet.
"How many of you in there?"
Arabella surfaced, picking a pubic hair off her tongue. She peered beneath the sheet before replying. "Only two. Including me. Who are you, anyway?"
"I'm Miss Nightingale. Show some respect. Both of you get out of this bed and stand to attention!"
Two pairs of surprisingly large naked breasts heaved into view, and their owners cowered behind them, shivering.
"Fucking hell!" said Valentina. "Look at those things, Vets!"
"I'm looking, I'm looking!"
"Do either of you two give milk?" Valentina asked in a fierce whisper.
"Milk?"
"Milk? We're not cows, we're girls!"
"Your tits are big enough for cows. They're way too big for First Formers."
"We can't help that," said Arabella, who couldn't see the size of the nighttime visitors' udders in the darkness beyond the torchlight. "I can't help only being four feet six tall and 47-17-27 with a 26U-cup bra."
The spotlight flickered across to Barbarella. "What about hers?"
"We don't know her size. But she's going to be Form Head tomorrow."
That figured. Valentina nodded in agreement. "She's got to be milked," she said, aiming the light at Barbarella's nipples in turn. "The whole class has to suck her tits every night until she starts milking. It's a school rule. All Form Heads have to give milk."
"Does it hurt?" Barbarella quavered.
"On the contr'y," said Valentina. "I come like a firehose when my milk lets down. It feels fucking great!"
By this time, the rest of the girls were sitting up and paying attention.
"Do we have to suck her tits?" a voice asked.
"You don't have to, but you should. It tastes amazing. Try some of mine. Hold this, Vets." She handed the Maglite to Helvetica and hauled a blimp-sized breast out of the bodice of her nightie. There were shocked gasps.
"It's huge!"
"I'm a Form Head, of course," said Valentina proudly. She was determined to make the most of her brief reign, which would surely end when she became fed up with lactating and handed over her Sash to Helvetica. Either that, or Sally Chung would come back to school and blow them both totally out of sight with her bust which was unreliably reported now to be more than fifteen feet, double the circumference of Valentina's monstrously bloated orbs.
"You said you were a teacher," Arabella accused her.
"No, I didn't. Now, do you want a drink of this or not?" She aimed her left breast at Arabella dangerously. Droplets of milk were already appearing and dribbling down the massive curve of its lower surface before dripping the last couple of feet to the floor.
"Yes, please," said Arabella, who was up for anything to do with sex, and that certainly included suckling at the biggest tit she had ever seen in her life — despite allegedly having triplet little sisters less than four feet six tall, with more outrageous vital statistics than 47-17-27 and needing bigger than 26U-cup bras. "How do I do it?"
"It's easiest if you sit on the floor, then your own tits won't get in the way."
Arabella sat down, reached out with both hands, opened her mouth and took a shower bath of milk all over her hair and face and jutting breasts. "Wow!" she gurgled.
"Oh! Oooh, woo-woo-woooh!" Valentina whooped as she let go. "Fucking hell!"
"Gosh!" Arabella yelped, enjoying a relatively minor cum of her very own.
Twenty-eight other First Form girls began playing with themselves beneath the bed covers. Only Barbarella was unoccupied.
"You can suck your own," Helvetica told her. "It works just as well. So they tell me, anyway."
"Don't you do milk?" said Barbarella.
"Me?"
"You're very big."
"I know."
On the floor, Arabella's milk-bath was continuing. Valentina was now giving her both barrels and had added a squirt or two of girl-cum to the mix.
"Leave some for the babies," Helvetica warned her.
"She's got babies?" several girls gasped.
"Lots. Dozens. She's been having them since she was nine. Come on, Tee, let's go back to bed. We've got Sex Practical tomorrow."
"I'm having Sex Practical now!"
The whole of the First Form was having Sex Practical. Orgasms were breaking out on a broad front. There were unladylike grunts. Nipples were erect, clitores throbbed achingly, puffy labia were slick with juices, slimy little hands were being wiped on taut bellies or on coarse, crinkly mats of pubic hair.
"Come on, Tee!"
Valentina, a cumbersome and top-heavy girl these days, could offer no resistance when the powerful more-than-six-footer Helvetica dragged her off balance and frog-marched her to the doorway.
Behind them came the faint sound of thirty sighs as thirty hands reached for the industrial paper towel.
What with one thing and another I'd completely forgotten that Maybach Q Zeppelin X was supposed to be at the school the next morning. So when I presented myself at the door of the bra facility I was surprised to be confronted by signs of a disturbance.
The girls of the First Form — I wasn't ever going to be able to think of them as Year Seven — were conspicious by their bralessness. They were clustered around a taller male figure, instantly recognisable as the new Chairman of Governors. He was like a kid let loose in a toyshop; a pig in shit. All about him were huge young tits.
"How ya enjoyin' Saint Cat's, girls?" he boomed like an All-American Santa Claus.
"It's great, sir!" That was Arabella Mason-Dixon who had crept so close to him that she had to bend over backwards to look up into his face, a position which placed her nipples about six inches above the top of her head. Her shirt had untucked itself from her skirt and she looked like a right dog's breakfast. With virtually no hips at all the only thing that prevented her skirt from slipping off altogether was the belt knotted tightly around her miniscule waistline.
Barbarella was staying extremely close to her new girlfriend, and it was noticeable that she was wearing a bra again this morning. I was tempted to award her a few billion lines, a task which would keep her busy writing until her fiftieth birthday, but it would be too much of a pain in the bum having to read them all.
"Ah, Miss Gruntworthy," the Chairman boomed. "Jes' makin' the acquaintance of some of your delicious young ladies."
I rather wished he'd let me be the judge of their relative deliciousness, but his compliment thrilled the First Formers, many of whom hadn't done it with a real man before, and quite fancied their chances of getting a result here.
At that moment the bra facility door opened and Miss Clitress poked her head out. "Girls only!" she screamed. "No teachers! No men!" Then she held the door open about six inches wider, as if that would allow thirty girls as top-heavy as these to pass through. Somehow, like mice, which can crawl through a gap under a door only a fraction of an inch high, the First Form disappeared inside and we heard the sound of half a dozen heavy bolts being drawn.
"She'll keep them in there all morning," I told Maybach Q Zeppelin X. "We'd better withdraw to the office. Cawfee?"
He paled noticeably. "Erm ... no, thanks." He opened a fat briefcase and produced a curious rolled-up paper document. "The new dress regulations, I drafted them last night."
I took it suspiciously. "I suppose you want the staff's comments on this? It will take us a few days."
He seemed surprised. "No. Those are the new dress regulations, period. I already spoke to the retailers in Bore-cess-ter and they're getting their butts in gear. You'll be able to regularitize and implementorize these rules by next Monday. See to it."
And he was off, stalking across the quadrangle at quite an impressive speed for one of his bulk, although he was still scanning left and right for any stray girls who might not yet be in classes. He passed from view, narrowly missing the sight of a girl from the Fourth Form who appeared from behind the bra facility, trying to get to grips with her wheelbarrow. The girl's front wheel collided heavily with the wall of the fountain, and she gave a squeal of fright as her barrow turned on its side and her shirt split down the back. She crawled a few yards away from the scene of the accident on hands and knees before dissolving in tears.
I turned and walked off. This was not an occasion for mawkish sentiment. I could have helped the unfortunate girl to her feet and given her a few words of encouragement but that kind of thing would never help her learn to drive a wheelbarrow laden with a hundred pounds of wobbling tit.
Safely in my office with the door shut I sat down to study the new dress regulations. Maybach Q Zeppelin X had certainly been busy; it was typed on an absurdly long sheet of paper, like a toilet roll only better quality. I summoned Miss Labia and demanded coffee.
"Get it yourself," she retorted. Her eye fell on the fat roll of paper. "I suppose you're going to want that lot duplicated for the notice boards?"
"How do you know what...?"
"I typed it for him," she said with a little sigh and a flutter of her eyelashes that made me feel quiet nauseous. "Of course, I translated it first. So it's all ready to be published."
"But I haven't read it yet."
"What difference will your reading it make? You won't be able to change any of it." She pranced out, only to return ten seconds later with a mug of hot, fresh coffee which she placed carefully in the middle of my desktop. She added a new roll of industrial paper towel. "You'll quite enjoy reading it all anyway. Right up your straße, it is."
That sounded vaguely fascinating. I made myself comfortable and unrolled the first few inches.