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Something in the Water 1/2 (breasts)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Subject: Something in the Water (1/2) (big breasts, growth)
Date: Tue Jul 18 18:32:05 1995
THIS STORY WAS NOT WRITTEN BY ME!!!
I am posting it as a favor to the author, who wishes to remain anonymous.
Any e-mail received by me will be forwarded to the author.
Enjoy!!
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< 1/2 start here >
SOMETHING IN THE WATER
WARNING: This story is for those readers over 18 years of age who have
no objection to reading about young women's breasts getting bigger. It
is a work of fiction, of fantasy, even. Everyone lives happily ever
after. None of the events described in this story actually took place,
to the undying regret of the author. No sexual acts are described as
taking place between adults and minors. No young women explode. Nobody
gets raped or killed. If you get off on that sort of thing, look
elsewhere; I hope you find it.
None of the characters in this story are real. Any resemblance to any
real person, living or dead, is unintentional. Names are boringly
ordinary, but fictitious. I could have called my heroine Isabella
Warninck-De Weiss, but it takes too long to type, and the real Ms De
Weiss would come out of the woodwork and assert, quite reasonably,
that nobody would *invent* a name like that.
The story-teller is, unfortunately, much given to non-sequiturs and
elliptical maunderings. This simply would not do for rec.arts.erotica
and will certainly not please those readers who give up if some bird
hasn't already had her bra unhooked (a minimum of six hooks, please)
by this stage, and the story hasn't even started yet.
Just get on with it, why don't you?
SOMETHING IN THE WATER
by Some Sort of Dog
Chapter 1:- Job Description
I think this is called setting the scene. My name is Colin, and my job
is installing water-softening equipment in people's homes. Exciting,
right? It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.
Listen, I have to tell you about the job, it's central, pivotal even,
to the theme of the entire story, a story which is so weird that if
you had told me beforehand that it would happen, I would have
suggested that you take more water with it. Soft water, of course.
That's a typical example of a water-softener installer's joke. Which
is a pretty good reason to make a point of not seeking out
water-softener installers to see if they have had a similar experience
to mine. And if any water-softener installers are reading this, and
they have had a similar experience, they would be well advised to keep
it to themselves.
I first hit the little town of Skingsley in the Spring, a couple of
years ago. It's probably not worth looking up Skingsley in your road
atlas, by the way, I changed the name to protect the innocent. It was
- and by now is again - a quiet place, about ten miles from the
nearest industrial city, which is where most of the inhabitants work.
The sort of place where you sometimes tend to find husbands out at
work during the day time, with any luck.
I checked into the local hotel for three weeks. The way we usually
work, a hard-water area has been targeted by sales staff, and we
installers are given a number of leads which amount to virtually
certain sales. All we have to do is turn up, put on a courteous and
sincere manner, answer all the right questions with the right answers,
and fit the device in the lady's kitchen.
The softener, for collectors of such information, is a unique design
of electro-chemical recirculatory catalytic water softener. I am
forbidden to give more information than that to the general public,
and I am certain you would not want me to. You want one? Look in the
Yellow Pages.
The installation job takes between one and two hours, and we usually
make a return visit after a day or so, to check that everything is
satisfactory. Hence the idea of booking into the hotel for a few
weeks. It has been known for some installers to find other
accommodation, but the management of the company would prefer not to
know about any such private domestic arrangements.
Okay? You could probably do the job yourself now: you know as much as
I did when I joined the company two years ago.
Skingsley on a wet Monday afternoon is not likely to find its way into
many guide books. I had two calls to make, my first two after arriving
in the town that morning. The first job in a new location often seems
to set the tone for the whole of one's stay. This one *certainly* did!
**********
The customer's name was down on my job sheet as Woods. Usually that's
all the information I get, a surname. I parked the van outside a neat
little house with a white fence and a freshly-painted front door. The
number 33 and the name 'Woods' on a small plate beside the door bell
told me I had the right place. (We're taught to look out for little
things like that.)
The bell echoed inside the house somewhere. I rang again. Still
nothing. Not what we call, in the trade, a Good Start. Then I heard a
noise from inside, and the door was opened. A small blonde woman was
holding the door with one hand, a phone in the other.
"Sorry", she said in a soft, quiet voice, "I'm on the phone, would you
mind waiting ..."
'Sure, I thought, not at all', and gave a little wave which might have
meant 'Okay'. She carried on for a couple more minutes, then put the
phone down and came back to the door, full of apologies.
"The phone always rings at the wrong time ..."
"Always! Mrs Woods?" I asked, adopting my standard courteous and
sincere expression. She said she was.
"ACME Watersoftener Company", I said. Now, before we go any further,
the company is NOT called the ACME anything. Surely, no company is,
nowadays. I have changed the name etc etc. Carry on.
"Oooh good", she cried. Some people can get very excited about a water
softener. Sometimes I can be one of them. Mrs Woods was obviously
another. "Ms Woods."
"Sorry?"
"It's Ms. Miss, actually!" The woman was turning an attractive shade
of pink. It went well with her strawberry blonde hair which hung to
her shoulders. The rest of her was slim and not very tall, probably
about five feet nothing. Very slim, I noticed, as she glanced at the
plastic ID card I was holding out to her and held the door wider for
me to come in.
I picked up the cardboard carton which didn't have the words 'ACME
Keeps You Soft' on all six sides, and stepped into the house. With my
spare hand, I picked up my toolkit from the front step, and closed the
door with my knee. Just the result of another day's intensive training
at the ACME Corporate Learning Experience (ACCOLEX).
She led the way into the kitchen, where I sized up the layout at a
glance. "I would like it over there, up against that wall", she said.
Miss Woods was one of those women who could say things like that
without noticing that it caused the eyes of the other person in the
conversation to glaze over. I unglazed mine with an effort, and nodded
my approval at her choice. Exactly where I would have mounted the
little devil myself.
This would be one of the simpler installations, water supplies and
electrical power were all readily to hand, and there was easy access
all round. "Would you like a cup of coffee", she asked, "or would
later be better, when you're working?"
"Well, as I will be turning off the water and the power, perhaps now
would be better."
"Oh, yes! How stupid of me. I'll make it now, then."
What a nice lady.
'Pity about the tits', I thought, irrelevantly.
The installation was some sort of a record, at fifty-five minutes, and
we celebrated with another cup of coffee afterwards, while she
described the town and even gave me directions to a few of the more
hard-to-find street names. The coffee was something Dutch. I can't
remember the name. In fact, of course I can, but we can't have
everyone rushing out to buy the stuff, can we? In fact, as Miss Woods
told me, it was a very popular brand: the local shop had already sold
completely out of stock within the first week. That shows the power of
personal recommendation in a small, compact community.
It was certainly delicious, black with no sugar, as I took it, or
white with one spoonful, as Louise Woods did. It was as good a way as
any to celebrate the installation of a new water softener.
**********
The other call that afternoon was a bit of an anti-climax after that.
The only person at home was a man who wasn't at work because he had a
broken wrist. He was a computer systems engineer, he told me at
extreme length as I fitted his softener. It took ninety minutes,
although it felt like one and a half days. You will be grateful that I
have decided not to tell you in full and graphic detail about every
call I made during my stay in Skingsley. It's not that kind of story.
And for the rest of you, who are beginning to wonder why all the
women's tits haven't started growing yet; it's not that kind of a
story either. You will have to wait.
Fortunately, the hotel had a comfortable bar. I phoned Jessica at
home, asked about the baby and the dog, then drained my beer before
taking a leisurely dinner.
So, readers now know almost everything there is to know about Colin,
not the ACME Water Softener installation man. He has a Jessica at
home, looking after the baby and the dog, yet he is about to cut a
lust-filled and unfaithful swathe through the women of Skingsley,
after first inflating their breasts to the sort of proportions limited
only by the imagination of the author and his readers. What about the
much-publicised moral backlash against casual sexual relationships?
What about the serious health aspects?
Jessica is my sister, who is looking after her baby and my dog, whose
name really *is* Acme. Jessica is at home, her home. I rang her
because her husband died two weeks ago, and even with Acme about the
place, she gets awfully lonely on Monday nights.
Don't we all?
Chapter 2:- It Must Be Something In The Water
Skingsley in the Spring sunshine is to Skingsley in the rain as chalk
is to cheese. There was an unmistakeable bounce in my step as I strode
out to my small white van (which had no logo on the side to advertise
the fact that it didn't belong to the ACME Water Softener Company). I
had five calls to make, and all of them were within a mile or so of
Louise Woods's house. No time wasted driving around, looking for
little boxes optimistically named 'Mon Repos' and 'Dunwerkin'.
The major difficulty about writing a story based on the day-to-day
activities of a water-softener installer is that after a while, the
days tend to sort of merge into one another. I will, therefore - to
cut a long story short - tell you only about the interesting bits.
The most interesting bit about that Tuesday morning was Linda
Shoesmith, a tall, dark-haired, very attractive and amazingly
well-developed woman of about twenty-three or four. Her husband, or I
guess I should say, partner, worked in the city, at an insurance
office or something. Linda was bored, broad-minded and perpetually
horny, as I discovered within thirty seconds of dumping my toolcase
and the carton containing the water softener on her kitchen counter.
She suggested a cup of coffee 'before we start', then stood so close
her tits were mostly somewhere behind me. They were monumental. I
mean, I like them big, but even I know where to draw the line. There
must have been something wrong with hers. Tits like those shouldn't be
allowed. Not only did they occupy the whole of her rib-cage from just
below her shoulders down to her navel, they stuck out fully ten inches
in front of her. I could guess at her bust measurement, but I won't.
(Yes, I know that will infuriate the sort of reader who reads this
sort of story, but guesswork never was any sort of reliable guide in
these matters. Tell you what, if you're *very* good, we might measure
get to them later on in the story, if I remember to fit it in
somehow.)
The coffee was again the excellent Dutch brand, which I rather hoped I
would be drinking a lot more of over the next couple of weeks. Linda's
installation was a little tricky - although she offered me every
assistance - and what would normally have taken fifty minutes actually
took almost two hours. I was exhausted and drained as we sipped our
post-installation coffee in her kitchen afterwards, and she checked
her diary for a suitably vacant time for the return visit.
A call like that can set you up for whatever the rest of the day has
to offer, or it can leave you feeling down for the next three or four
hours. Perhaps it was the effect of the coffee, but within minutes of
closing Linda Shoesmith's front door, I felt ready to take on all
comers.
It must be time for another one of those little author's asides which
are so tending to break up the narrative flow round here. I DID NOT
screw Linda Shoesmith. All these sleazy, twee little double-entendres
are not my style. If I fuck a woman, I will tell you. You will be the
first - or more likely, the third - to know. I repeat, I DID NOT screw
Linda Shoesmith.
She screwed me. I never had to move a muscle. Quite how she managed to
be so ... well ... physical ... with all that lot hanging from her
chest, I do not know, but no doubt it's a question of sustained
practice. We performed our act on the living room carpet. The
television was on, but I cannot for the life of me remember anything
about the show. For me, this is a damning indictment of the quality of
British daytime television.
What I do remember was Linda's mountainous breasts flopping massively
against my face every time she bucked like a top of the range rodeo
rough-rider mounted on my (admittedly no-more-than-average) prick. I
never saw Linda's face throughout the entire process, although
afterwards - when she had rolled off with a sigh - we kissed wetly and
noisily for a while as she tried to remember if she had asked me my
name. To be on the safe side, she had addressed me as 'sweetie' from
start to finish. No doubt, the carpet-cleaning man would be coming
later in the afternoon.
**********
The only other call which has any bearing on the story was the last
one of the day, a Mrs Sargent, whose home seemed to be overrun with
teenage kids. She explained that they weren't all hers, although she
didn't seem totally certain which ones were. There were at least four
boys, and what appeared to be half a dozen averagely pretty young
girls, mostly called - as far as I could tell - Caz, Baz, Daz, Maz,
Taz and Raz.
(Impatient readers, and by now there must be several of you, have
already worked out what is going to happen. What you don't know yet is
how big they're going to get. You have a choice. Ride along with the
rest of us or skip to Chapter 6, but be warned, you will miss most of
the other important developments in the plot.)
Mrs S shooed them all out of the kitchen, and as it was raining again,
they gathered in another room upstairs, where - by the sound of things
- they were apparently busily breaking in a number of horses. Mrs
Sargent was yet another Dutch coffee fan, and again, we enjoyed a
post-installation cup. This time, unlike at Linda Shoesmith's, we
restricted our celebrations to a cup of coffee. I suppose she was
saving herself for her husband.
**********
The next few days were fairly routine, and Friday came around as
Fridays have a habit of eventually doing. I normally reserve my Friday
mornings for return visits, where I can, leaving the afternoon free
for a leisurely drive back home to work out the expenses and wind down
for the weekend.
So nine am found me knocking on Ms, or Miss Woods neat front door.
Again, she answered the door with a phone in her hand, but this time
she let me in straight away, and I watched her as she finished her
call. There was something indefinably attractive about Louise Woods
this morning, something I hadn't noticed on Monday. I couldn't place
what it was, but when she put the phone down and smiled up at me, I
felt definitely attracted to her. She was wearing a loose-fitting top
- a sort of extra-large sweat shirt - and tight jeans. But wasn't that
just a hint of a swelling breast beneath her top? Surely not, it must
be a trick of the light. On Monday, she'd had literally no breasts at
all.
Another angle, another glimpse of her in profile, and this time there
was no mistake. Louise did have tits! This was worrying. The other
day, she had worn a tight T-shirt. If she'd had anything at all in the
shape of breasts, they would have been highly visible. I watched her
closely as she made two large mugs of coffee and perched her neat
little rump on a high kitchen stool. Absolutely no doubt about it this
time. They were about the size of tennis balls. A remarkable
transformation, I thought. Obviously she was stuffing her bra, but if
she was doing it for my benefit, surely she should have remembered
that I had already seen her this week with nothing up top at all. Did
she think water softener installation men had no memory at all?
It appeared there was a slight leak from her installation, more a
weeping joint than a leak. I checked it over, gave the nut a little
tweak to tighten it, and told her I would call in on Monday afternoon
for a final look. That, she said, would be cool. Yes, she actually
said COOL!
On to Mrs Sargent's, where all was peaceful as the kids were all at
school. Her machine was working just fine, but she asked if I could
call back some time as her friend across the road was impressed by the
way the soft water saved on washing powder. God, I thought, this is
getting like a TV commercial. And it's SO kind to your hands. I asked
her if Monday afternoon would be okay, then set off for Linda
Shoesmith's.
Linda was ready and waiting for me. Her mountainous boobs were almost
exploding out of a low-cut tank top, and she was very obviously not
wearing a bra. In a way, I was glad I had left Linda until last this
morning. I, on the other hand, was clearly Linda's first job of the
day. She was enthusiastic, energetic and extremely loud. Half way
through - not that anyone was timing us, but you know what I mean - I
found myself thinking how nice it would be if Louise Woods had tits
like these, a thought which brought me rather more quickly to a climax
than would normally have been the case. I think Linda may have agreed
with that assessment, but being a pragmatic girl, she simply howled
like a mad dog and thought 'better luck next time'.
Another more-or-less satisfied customer. I left Linda's filled with
confidence and well-being as usual, and even remembered to buy a jar
of that Dutch coffee to take home with me. I was sure Jessica would
enjoy it.
Chapter 3:- They Just Grew!
Louise Woods had grown! It had been a week since my first visit to her
house. The first time, she had a completely flat chest. Five days
later, she had little tennis-ball sized breasts. Today, Monday, they
were like grapefruit. I could tell they were like grapefruit because
she was wearing what was arguably the skimpiest little top you ever
saw. The front dipped alarmingly, revealing a disturbing cleavage. The
sides were cut away low beneath the armpits, and the view was
incredible. She wasn't wearing a bra. Well, I thought, when did she
have an opportunity to buy one?
If she hadn't grown D-cup tits and if she wasn't wearing a skimpy top,
I might have noticed the abbreviated shorts she had on, and her
smooth, shapely, well-muscled brown legs.
But I didn't.
Louise stood there and smiled up at me. At first, she said nothing, as
if she thought I might not have noticed anything strange and she was
going to get away with it. But my expression must have given away my
innermost thoughts.
"You noticed my ... my..."
"You mean, your ...?"
"Yes!" she cried eagerly, "my ...!"
I supposed we were talking about the same thing. "Your breasts?"
"Yes", she said, blushing deeply. "My ..."
'Don't let's start this again', I thought. "What happened to them?" I
asked a little too abruptly.
"They just grew. Got bigger. Well not bigger, there was nothing at all
a week ago, but they ... just sort of grew!" That was helpful and
informative.
"They seem very swollen", I observed, "are they painful at all?"
"No, they feel ... in fact, they feel marvellous!" She hesitated. "Why
don't you feel them", she said quietly.
Well, all right! So I did. They felt marvellous, as she had said they
would. It must have felt good to her as well, because she started
breathing heavily and became very flushed. She drew closer to me, her
breasts pushing against my chest, well, my stomach, to be precise.
Then she turned her face up to mine.
"I don't understand where they've come from, or why, but I do know
that ever since I've had them, every single minute since they first
arrived, I have been incredibly horny", she murmured, incredibly
hornily.
I was beginning to understand exactly how she felt. Gently, I took her
in my arms, and she sighed as her nipples telescoped against me. I
remember little of the next few minutes, which is perhaps just as
well, because if I were to attempt to describe what went on, readers
would become unnecessarily jealous, if not sexually aroused. We found
ourselves half sitting, half lying in an armchair. It was upholstered
in a sort of uncut moquette, not exactly fashionable, but comfortable.
I could happily have lain there all morning. Fortunately, Louise had
other ideas. Taking me by the hand, she led me to the bedroom, where
she undressed completely. Those breasts stood up like there was no
tomorrow. So, for that matter, did I.
Then we all lay down on the bed.
Here we go again. Readers the world over are complaining that no real,
live woman would ever behave like Louise Woods has just done: that it
is the sort of behaviour you expect in a cheap paperback written for
sad men who need a wank in a tearing hurry. Which only goes to show
that you simply cannot afford to generalise about these things. She
did. I confess I was surprised at the time. Perhaps she just fancied
me. Stranger things have happened.
**********
After that experience, I was in no condition to face Linda Shoesmith.
I stood on her doorstep trying to think of a suitable excuse: a
headache, a pressing engagement in Glasgow, an itching sensation in
the genital area. I don't think any of those would have discouraged
Linda.
Fortunately, she wasn't at home. A small note had been pinned to the
door, but it had fallen down. I saw it when I looked down at my feet
in search of inspiration. It said, 'Colin: Sorry, can't make it.
Something big has come up. Call me ... L.'
Into each life, I thought, a little rain must fall.
**********
Mrs Sargent's house was in a turmoil when I arrived. There seemed to
be even more teenage boys than usual, gathered round the front door. I
thought of laying about me with a stout stick to clear my path, but
they saw me and melted away. Then I saw what they were all staring at
with such excitement.
A cluster of young teenage girls milled about just inside the front
door. I thought I might have recognised Caz, Baz, Daz, Maz, and Taz,
if not Raz. I didn't realise I had taken in as much detail the other
day, but I knew straight away that something was different. Last week,
these were normal kids of twelve or thirteen. This week, although they
were still twelve or thirteen, they were a little less normal.
Last week, some of them had little chubby tits. Some had little buds.
Some had none at all.
This week, without exception, their breasts had all doubled or tripled
in size.
Incredible, I thought. Then I thought, 'there's a lot of it about!' If
it hadn't been for the experience with Louise, I would have put it
down to an amazing mass attack of hysterical puberty. Now there was
what you might call a growing body of evidence that Something Strange
was going on round here.
I peered more closely at the girls, who looked back at me with the
expression of horror that young girls usually reserve for me. Mixed in
with the horror was an awareness on their innocent little faces that I
might find them attractive. In a way, I suppose, I did. I found them
fascinating. Fortunately, at that point, Mrs Sargent appeared behind
them, and asked me to come in.
"I dunno!", she wondered, "young girls these days! Did you see that
lot? Tits out to here, some of them, and all in the space of a week. I
dunno what's going on, straight I don't."
I supposed I was expected to express an opinion. "They grow up so
quickly, these days." That's usually a safe bet on these occasions.
"My three have all grown out of their little bras, and I only bought
Caroline's last month. I could try Danielle in it, but *she's* grown
herself a pair as well. It's ridiculous."
"And it's not just your three, it's the others as well", I said, at
the risk of revealing that I had been studying the girls more closely
than I should have been.
"I know! Maybe it's something in the water. They put all sorts of
stuff in the water these days. It's for your own good, they say."
An icy chill had gripped my entrails. This was Entrails Awareness
Week. I had installed something like a dozen examples of our water
softener in the area. In at least two of those houses, a total of
around seven females had suddenly found themselves with their tits
growing in a manner best described as exuberantly. A lovely word, but
a frightening concept. Could it be caused by the ACME, or whatever its
real name was? Oh, my God, please let it be something else.
I made a mental note to visit all of last week's customers, and look
closely at their chests. Like I said earlier, a tough job, but
somebody's gotta do it!
Chapter 4:- There's A Lot Of It About
This sort of thing can affect a man's concentration on his job. As
well as going round visiting all of last week's new installations, I
still had a crop of new ones to do. My relief at finding no further
examples of unusual breast development - apart from Louise and Mrs
Sargent's girls - was tempered by my alarm at finding that two of my
latest batch of new calls had young girls about the house.
One was a slightly chubby teenager with a pair of over-ripe
watermelons under her straining blouse. If *they* started growing any
more, there would be Hell to pay. In the other house, there was a
delightful and delicate little creature of about nine. Again, if Mr
ACME Frankenstein got to work on her, it might please some perverted
souls; but I would have been more content to let nature run its
course.
Back at the hotel, I phoned the office. Had they had any complaints
from customers about anything? No, of course they hadn't. What had I
in mind? Oh, nothing in particular, just complaints in general. Well,
it had been a long shot.
So I tried Davie, another installation man who had been on the same
course as me. Had he heard of any unusual effects of the water
softener, on women, perhaps? No? Oh, it was nothing, never mind. Yes,
we ought to meet up for a drink sometime. Bring the girlfriend. What
girlfriend? That was when I thought of Louise again.
No sooner had I put down the phone, but it rang. It was Louise.
There's telepathy for you. One day, it might replace the telephone
altogether. Meanwhile, they're still working on the system. They have
bandwidth problems.
"Colin? Oh, thank God it's you. I couldn't remember which hotel you
were staying in - I tried three before this one."
"It must have been important. How can I help you?"
"Well, I don't know how to put this. You know my ... my ...?"
Here we go again. "You mean your breasts?"
I could feel her going red over the phone. "Yes. How did you know what
I meant?" How did I know? I had thought of little else all day.
"Colin, you still there? They've grown some more!"
"Some more?" Not the most intelligent question, but on the spur of the
moment ...
"You know how big they were this morning?" I think that was what they
call a rhetorical question, so I left her to carry on. "Well, I went
out to buy a bra at lunchtime. I took my top off in the fitting room
at the shop and looked in the mirror. They were bigger still. I didn't
buy the bra, I rushed out."
"You didn't even get measured?"
"No, I know I should have done, but I was so embarrassed and confused.
No, but that's not the point. They're even bigger now! I could just
get both hands around one of them at lunchtime when I got home. Two
hands aren't big enough now, by quite a long way. Please, I'm scared.
Can you come round?"
I thought she would never ask.
**********
Louise flung open the door as soon as I arrived on the doorstep. Her
arms met around the back of my neck. Her tits were bigger; I could
tell just from the feel of them. At last, I freed myself and held her
at arms' length. It was worth it.
She was wearing a large blue man's work shirt. (He was probably the
extra-terrestrial who had been reported on the streets of Skingsley
earlier in the day. Students of English will recognise this as an
example of a Misplaced Modifier.) I wear a 44 and it would have fitted
me quite nicely. But nowhere near as nicely as it fitted Louise. The
top four or five buttons were undone, and the creamy slopes of her now
generous cleavage peeped out. With an effort, I avoided ejaculating
prematurely in my pants. (I can recommend thinking of the bank
manager. It worked this time, but it was a perilous close-run thing.)
Then I hugged her to me again. An hour or so later, we lay on her bed,
panting.
"They feel even bigger now!" If that was an attempt to get me hard
again, it was about ten minutes too soon. It was also a spectacular
success! She lay on her back, but rolled towards me as I tickled her
tummy, just above the downy pubic hair. In that position, her breasts
completely filled the space available.
"We ought to measure them ... measure you ... for a bra. It will save
time when you go to the shop tomorrow."
"I don't think I dare go back there again!" She sat up, her tits
lolloping into her lap on the bed. "Oh, look at them, they're getting
enormous."
I already was, and they were. "Have you got a tape measure?"
"Over there, in the dressing table drawer."
I fetched it, and helped her up from the bed. The result was
remarkable. From being a slim, flat-chested girl of five feet nothing
just a week ago, she was now a slim, huge-breasted girl of five feet
nothing. She needed to find a 32-G bra, and where was she going to
find one of those in Skingsley? Her measurements were about 41-19-31.
That put her well into Linda Shoesmith's league.
We dropped the tape measure after that, and our love-making was even
more abandoned than last time. By the time we came up for air, it was
dark outside, and Louise insisted that I stayed. She didn't need to
insist very hard. What a night! It rained, there was a thunderstorm,
and Louise clung to me until calm returned, both outside the window
and in her double bed.
By morning, there was a fresh, rain-washed appearance to the crystal
air outside. God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world. I
took a deep breath at the window, then heard a scream from the
bathroom. I ran. I don't often run, but I can move quite quickly at
times. This was one of them.
Louise was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, naked. I could
see at a glance what was troubling her. She was no longer 41 inches
and a mere G cup. This girl was much bigger. Her eyes were panic
stricken as she turned to me and I hugged her.
There is a time and a place for everything. This was not the time, nor
the place to get even an average-sized erection, as our naked bodies
mingled in the bathroom. Louise's huge tits were boring a very large
diameter pair of holes in my lower abdomen. She was obviously upset at
finding them so very much bigger than the night before, by an amount
we had not yet so much as dared to guess at.
First, we had to fuck. It was the most important business in the world
at that moment. Louise took over. It was like a meeting with Linda
Shoesmith, only with more enthusiasm, if you can imagine it. I
certainly had more. Louise was like a woman possessed. Even
afterwards, as we sat giggling helplessly at the top of the stairs, we
couldn't believe how wild she had been.
But if this went on, she was going to need a wheelbarrow for her tits,
and she would have to push me around in it as well. Her bust was up to
44 inches. If she was going to have a problem finding a 32-G, she was
not, repeat not, going to find a 32-K in Skingsley. I told her not to
bother trying, it could well be a 32-M by tonight! We had a subdued
breakfast. She wanted me to stay, but I told I had to do some work
today, or I would never get through my quota. Promising to ring her
mid-morning, at lunchtime and again at 3 pm, I set off on my travels.
**********
By lunchtime, Louise reported her bust measurement as 45 inches, but
that could have been an error of measurement either way. I told her
not to worry, and at 3 pm, she sounded quite relaxed. I was far from
relaxed, with a visit to Mrs Sargent's looming up. My first glance at
the house confirmed my suspicions and dread.
The crowd of boys round the gate was three deep. They looked at me
with envy as I pushed past them and went up the path. "Are you a
doctor, mister?" one of them asked. I became aware of the now-familiar
entrails.
Caz, Baz et cetera were all in the front room, sitting round the
dining table with dazed expressions. They looked up as I walked past
the open door to the room, but couldn't even summon up the required
expressions of horror. I had seen enough. The nearest girl to the door
(Caz, was it?), was sitting sideways-on to my view. Her tits stood out
like pineapples under her school blouse.
Mrs Sargent was sitting down in the kitchen, a cup of black coffee in
front of her. "Have you seen them?" she asked.
"Not really!"
"Come with me." And she led me into the front room and told her three
daughters sharply to stand up. They were well-behaved girls. They
stood up and faced me. The other three girls followed suit. My God,
they were enormous!
Dressed in the style of the moment, their school blouses hung outside
their skirts. Instead of following the contours of their breasts, the
blouses hung straight down from the peaks of the girls' huge globes.
It may have exaggerated their size, but even so, I could see that not
one of these kids was less than 40 inches up top. The older ones, Caz
and one of her friends, were more like 50! They looked at me as if I
was somehow to blame for their predicament. Yet they must have had
mixed feelings. As well as bewilderment at their sudden growth, there
was a certain pride as well. Caz slowly took a deep breath which
strained the imagination as much as it did her blouse buttons.
Quickly, I motioned for Mrs Sargent to come back into the kitchen. "I
think there may be a connection with the water softeners. There's
another woman in town who has grown enormous breasts; almost as big as
Caroline's, and ... and her friend. She was one of my customers, too.
What I can't make out is why there aren't a lot more women with the
same problem."
"Problem? My kids don't see it as a problem! As soon as they can get
used to carrying those things around, they're know they're going to be
the most popular girls in the school. If they stop growing, that is!"
"The other girls. Have their mothers had water softeners installed?"
"Not to my knowledge", said Mrs Sargent. "Not that I ever see their
mothers, the girls are always round here, drinking my coffee."
"Your coffee?"
"This Dutch stuff." She indicated her cup. "You know, you said you
liked it."
I knew. Louise liked it, too. But it didn't explain why Mrs Sargent
hadn't got bigger, too. And what about Linda Shoesmith? Jeez, if SHE
started growing! Stand back, world!" I couldn't think straight. I
would talk it over with Louise tonight. Already, I had as good as
checked out of the hotel. Another thought occurred to me. My sister
Jessica. She had a water softener, of course. She had some of the
Dutch coffee as well, now, ever since I took a jar back home for her
at the weekend. There would in any case be no visible results until
the next weekend. It could be an interesting trip home. I made a note
to myself to invite Louise home for the weekend. We might even find a
bra for her on Saturday morning, if she didn't grow too much more.
< end of 1/2 >
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Al, Some Sort Of Dog
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