Chapter 1

Nancy Bosomworth applies for a mysterious job. What's it all about? This is a ridiculous fantasy, in which some unusually well-developed young women are strongly featured. Please don't attempt to read it if you are younger than the characters in the story.

"Just a few more questions, Miss Bosomworth," the young man's flat voice sounded tinny down the phone. He was reading from a script, filling in her answers on a form. "Confirm your age, please."

"I already told you. I'm still twenty-three."

"Thank you. Your height, please?"

"Five feet three, I think. But what's the relev... ?"

"And your weight? In pounds, please."

"I don't know. About eight stone, I think, but..."

"In pounds, please."

"Whatever eight stone is," Nancy snapped crossly. "A hundred and twelve pounds."

"Thank you. And your measurements? In inches, please."

"What?"

"Your measurements? In inches, please."

"What business is it of yours? If you're so interested, why not invite me for a proper interview? Then you can measure me yourself. If you dare!"

"Thank you. Your measurements? In inches, please. Hips first, then waist, then bust."

Nancy almost slammed the phone down. Then she caught sight of the ad in the local free weekly paper again. She needed the money. She needed this job, whatever it was. "Hips, thirty-four," she said, mentally paring off the odd half inch.

"Thank you. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"Waist, please. In inches..."

"Twenty-three."

The young man accepted this without comment. "Bust, please. In inches..."

"What did you expect it in? In feet? Yards?"

"In inches, please."

"Thirty-five. And my bra size is 32D, if you're bloody interested."

"Thank you. Kindly attend for a formal interview at our offices on Tuesday morning at ... ten thirty. Dress is informal. Thank you for calling, Miss Bosomworth. Good day."

Nancy stared at the purring phone. "Hello?"

Nobody there. Had it been a dream? A nightmare to be more precise. The stream of questions, as if the young man's voice had been a recording, barely reacting to her responses. A robot. A machine. And yet, it had reacted in a way, repeating certain questions, thanking her, moving on down the list...

Tuesday morning. Dress informal! A ridiculous image came to her of a line of interviewees waiting in turn in an outer office, in ball gowns and tiaras. She'd wear a skirt and blouse. Her only presentable blouse. The last time she'd worn it had been for that disaster of a date with Ronald. He'd tried to get his drunken hands into her bra in the taxi coming home, but had forgotten what he was trying to do and ended up being sick into her cleavage. Three months ago. At least, that taught her not to date one's boss; not to mix business with pleasure. Pleasure?

The ad wasn't very informative...

Young Ladies Wanted For Short Term Contract

(Initially six months)

Excellent remuneration package includes accommodation, meals and essential clothing. Applicants must be physically fit, well-spoken, independent, unattached, with clean driving licence.

No previous experience necessary but keyboard skills and familiarity with word processor and spreadsheet software would be an advantage, as would restaurant (front of house) experience.

Full on-the-job training available on site. This contract may lead to further employment of a highly lucrative nature.

Must have no objections to working with animals of various sizes, and children.

Sports facilities will be available to employees during the earlier part of the contract period only, dependent on employees' individual progress and circumstances.

Previously unsuccessful applicants and employees should not re-apply. Initial application by telephone, please, at ANY time.

Weird or what? Animals of various sizes? And that man who had wanted to know the answers to all those ridiculous questions. Her shoe size? Hat size? She never wore a hat, except for weddings, and she didn't seem to get invited to those any more, not now she couldn't afford toasters (Not Morphy-Richards!!!) and fondue sets and even crockery (chunky, hand-painted, in French farmhouse style).

Whatever it was, Nancy desperately needed the money. And maybe some of that highly lucrative employment that might come later. She'd have some of that, too. Whatever it took, Nancy was up for it.

"Do sit down, Miss Bosomworth. I'm Grenville Washington. First of all, let me apologise for that ghastly telephone interview. We're still refining Richard, I'm afraid." The tall, silver-templed and distinguished man smiled and pressed a button on a small console to one side of his desk.

A metallic voice boomed out. '... In inches, please. Are you sure? Your waist, please... ?'

Nancy stared. "It is a machine?"

"You guessed? Clearly it needs more work. But yes, a sophisticated machine, trained to recognise speech patterns from a wide range of female voices. It rejects males. And it can recognise all likely responses to its bank of questions. Most of them, anyway."

Nancy blushed, trying to remember if she had sworn at the young man on the phone.

"Now, Miss Bosomworth. Excellent name, by the way. Most appropriate, as you'll realise later. Perhaps I can call you Nancy? You'll have been wondering what this is all about?"

"Well, naturally, it's all a bit mysterious..."

"We have to be somewhat devious, to weed out undesirable elements. Anyone who gets as far as this interview is doing extremely well."

"She is?" Nancy felt a surge of excitement. Some anxiety, too. "What will I ... what will the successful applicant have to do?"

"There will be more than just yourself ... that is, more than just one successful applicant. We are looking for several young women who fulfil our requirements. You... they ... will be placed in a group who then progress through our initiation procedure. We expect the group to become smaller as time progresses." He seemed to consider this last statement for a while. "Let me put that another way. It won't actually get smaller, but there will be some inevitable wastage. Those who are unsuccessful will be returned to society, after being required to sign a commitment not to divulge anything of what they have seen. The aim of this interview is to reduce this wastage to a minimum. It is an expensive training course, so we do our best to hand-pick our teams. Yes, you'll be part of a team, Nancy. Still interested?"

Nancy felt part of this team already, although she hadn't a clue as to what game they'd be playing. "I'm still interested!"

"Good! Now, you gave your measurements to Richard, but ... would you mind standing up, please? Now turn round, slowly. Thank you. 36-23½-34½, and one hundred and seventeen pounds?"

Nancy gasped.

"A lady is entitled to a little self-deception. What's half an inch here or there? Or five pounds? Trivial, I assure you. Oh, excuse my rudeness. It's only for the purposes of your uniform. It will be specially tailored by our seamstresses, so we have to get it right. Given your relatively well-developed bust, the one-piece items of apparel, you will agree, might pose a problem. Black underwear all right? Fine!" Mr Washington picked up an expensive-looking fountain pen. "Now, how soon can you start? No pressure, but if you could make it by tomorrow morning... ?"

"Tomorrow? But I couldn't poss..."

"Of course. You have ties, relationships. Perhaps next Wednesday, then? We have another intake starting then." The pen was poised over the paper.

"Tomorrow would be fine," Nancy surprised herself. "What time?"

Mr Washington smiled to himself. "Eight o' clock, please. There is a bus journey involved. Excellent! Capital. Now, if you'd just sign here? And here. And this one. Not many more, this one here. And this. And this!"

"What will I need to bring?"

"Nothing! A book, if you like, a teddy bear if you sleep with one. Clothes, no problem, your uniform will be ready for collection in the morning. Everything else you will find when you arrive at your destination. In fact, we do insist on the bare minimum of luggage." He stood up and extended his hand, indicating that the interview was at an end. It had taken precisely fourteen minutes. There'd be another dozen girls to see before lunchtime. "Miss Bosomworth, welcome to the Washington Enterprise Experience! Enjoy your stay!"

There was a bus journey involved, as Mr Washington had told her. It wasn't a regular service bus, or a long distance coach. There was a minibus waiting, exhaust steaming, in the icy rain outside the office; a twelve seater, with a bored or half asleep driver picking his nose behind the wheel. Just inside the entrance to the office building, a disturbance was taking place. Three apprehensive girls, muffled against the weather, were standing numbly with their overnight bags while a tall, regal-looking creature was protesting about something in a painfully loud voice.

"Excuse me." Nancy tried to squeeze inside to find shelter, but she barked her shins on an enormous leather suitcase just inside the door.

"Do you mind?" said the tall woman, directing her ire at Nancy for a moment. "That is mine, you know."

"I'm sorry. I didn't see it."

"It's big enough! Are you blind or something?"

"It's too big," said a male voice from further inside. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. You were told not to bring baggage. You won't need it."

The three spectators rolled their eyes in close harmony and grinned at Nancy. "Nothing like getting off on the right foot," the nearest one whispered.

"Is that Miss Bosomworth?" asked the male voice, which now had some kind of an American accent. "Good, you're all here. You can start getting on the bus if you like." He appeared at last, a hunky PE-instructor type of person in jogging pants and a white rollneck sweater. His baseball cap was worn the right way round but tilted up at a perky angle. "Now, Miss Whatever-Your-Name-Is, we can store your oversized cabin trunk here for you, or we can have it sent home, but we cannot and will not accept it on the minibus. Whatever's in it, you don't need it where you're going."

The tall woman drew herself up a further three or four inches. "Well, I never!"

The rest of the girls sniggered delightedly behind their hands. Nobody said 'Well I never', not even maiden aunts from Broadstairs. If this woman joined them at their mysterious destination, life wasn't going to be dull. Hell, perhaps, but never tedious.

"I shall report you to Mr Washington personally!"

"You will report me to Mr Washington personally, or you will report me personally to Mr Washington? Whichever, go right ahead."

"I certainly shall. What's your name?"

"Randall Washington. I'm Grenville's brother. Please excuse the colonial accent; I was brought up in New York. He sent for me to run this enterprise, and run it is what I intend to do. Now, Miss..."

"Taunton-Deane, as you know perfectly well."

"Miss Taunton-Deane. Lavinia. Six feet and half an inch. 42-23-38." The other girls exchanged shocked glances and the woman's eyebrows rose in outrage, but Randall continued without a pause. "If you'd care to unpack your trunk and choose a reasonable selection of its contents to take with you, we will provide a suitable container." And from behind his back he produced a Tesco Bag For Life. "Here you go, Lavinia! Tough, durable plastic. Recyclable. If the handles come off, take it back to any Tesco store and it will be replaced at no charge to yourself. I can give you..." Randall wore a rather pretentious stainless steel watch on the inside of his wrist. "Six minutes. Your colleagues will perhaps lend a hand..."

"They most certainly will not!"

"Up to you," Randall sighed wearily. "They'll wait for you on the bus." And he slid nimbly past the fuming Lavinia Taunton-Deane to the door. "Walk this way, ladies!"

Lavinia Taunton-Deane had maintained a snooty silence all the way here, on her own at the back of the bus, while the others gradually got to know each other and exchanged the odd pleasantry with Randall Washington, who was sat up front with the driver. Most of the time, they couldn't hear any of the conversation between the two men, although they could guess at its content from the regular cackles of laddish laughter. Randall leaned against the passenger door with one arm flung over the back of his seat, half turned so that without moving a muscle he could study his passengers; apart from the girl sitting directly behind him, and the sulking Lavinia at the back.

Nancy had read about men who undressed you with their eyes, but it hadn't really happened to her before, until now. Randall's amused gaze just passed straight through her sweater and was probably examining the clasps of her front-loading bra. Were the other girls experiencing the same feeling? She studied them once more as the bus toiled its way up a long incline.

To her left, and immediately behind Randall where he couldn't easily see her, was Caroline Rossiter. It was strange; she thought of all her new companions by their full names. There was a good reason for this, the name badges that Randall had distributed as they climbed aboard the bus.

"Pin these on," he had said, tapping the left side of his chest. "All our people wear a name tag all the time. These white ones are only temporary; you'll get your first proper badge this evening."

Wondering, and giggling foolishly, they had pinned the plastic oblongs to their sweaters, with Randall jokingly issuing directions to ensure that the badges were worn just so: on the upper slope of the left breast.

The upper slope of Caroline Rossiter's bosom was like an Olympic downhill skiing course. She was a big-breasted girl. In fact, they all were. Wearing a D cup bra, Nancy wasn't used to having the smallest bust in any group of girls, but she certainly was here. Caroline tossed her dark reddish hair back over one shoulder, rubbed the steam off her window and stared out at the increasingly snowy fields. Her breasts bounced softly but very heavily inside her dark green military sweater. She seemed reserved, a little shy. She had replied in a pleasant and friendly manner to Nancy's remarks, but had long since lapsed into silence.

Not that it was quiet on the bus. Apart from the coarse guffaws from the lads up front, the other two girls kept up a ceaseless chatter as if they'd known each other all their lives. They were younger than Nancy and Caroline, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Noisy and blonde, Marianne Featherstone was almost as tall as Lavinia, and was strikingly slender, with non-existent hips. Nancy wondered bitterly what kept her jeans up. But there was no doubt about what was inside her shirt. She seemed to be trying to disguise her full bust by wearing a blue work shirt, fussy with pockets, open at the neck to reveal a T-shirt underneath. Perhaps she was also subconsciously camouflaging her curves by teaming up with Susannah Shacklehurst. The bubbly little dark-haired girl had a massive pair of tits thrusting out at her sweatshirt in all directions.

God, she's big, thought Nancy, trying not to stare, but finding her eyes constantly drawn back to Susannah's hypnotic name badge, wobbling with every bump in the road. Why do we all have such long names? Mine's the shortest, and I've got fifteen letters...

Randall had joked about it as he handed out the badges. "You girls are going to cost us a fortune in engraving," he had observed.

"Our names aren't the only thing that's big!" Marianne had cackled, nudging her friend's bosom with an elbow and setting off a seismic disturbance that went on for twenty seconds or more.

The journey had already taken three and a half hours when the bus swung off the main road and negotiated a wrought iron gateway of the kind generally referred to as imposing. The narrow drive wound its way through rolling snow-covered parkland, climbed steeply through a dense wood and eventually turned sharp right to reveal the kind of mansion even Lavinia Taunton-Deane might have been proud to call home.

They all gasped, apart from Lavinia, presumably.

"Home sweet home," said Randall as the bus stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to the front doors. Up here in the hills, the snow was now falling thickly, forming an unbroken carpet scarred by the wheel-marks of the bus. "Looks like we made it just in time. We could be snowed in for weeks! But nothing to worry about, we're all self-contained here, even if the helicopter can't get in with essential supplies. Now," Randall abandoned his bantering tone. "There are five of you in this group, and only three rooms available, so only one of you will have a room to herself. It will all be sorted out next week when we reallocate the accommodation. You'll be able to have a room each at that time. Meanwhile..."

Lavinia Taunton-Deane broke her self-imposed silence. "I ought to..." She stopped, apparently realising that by insisting on having a room of her own she might be deliberately punished by being forced to share.

The other girls looked at one another, realising that if they weren't careful, one of them might find herself sharing with Lavinia. The two chatterboxes had already put their word in. "We're sharing," said Marianne.

Nancy glanced at Caroline, who grinned and nodded. "So are we," said Nancy.

"Well, Lavinia," Randall laughed. "Looks like you're the lucky one. You got the Duke's bedroom." Randall deliberately pronounced it 'Dook', Nancy suspected, just to infuriate Lavinia. "It's where the old Duke used to be banished to when the Duchess wasn't feeling too frisky. He spent the best part of thirty years in there. Nice view, but only a single bed. In we go, girls. Let's hit the beach! Your rooms are up the stairs and along the corridor to the left. No porters, you just can't get the servants these days!"

Marianne stopped and turned round, giggling. "Who's going to be first?"

"First?" asked Nancy. "First with what?"

"First into our Randall's pants, of course!"

Lavinia gave a huge sniff of dismissal and sailed past, close-hauled on the port tack, looking less than dignified with her supermarket carrier bag.

"Not her, anyway," little Susannah sniggered, with a toss of her ponytail. It was immensely long, dancing round her pert little bum. Substantially less than five feet tall, her breasts were unbelievable, wobbling independently beneath her sweater.

Caroline had gone on a few paces, but now she stopped in front of a door on the left. "Here's our room," she said to Nancy, and staring at a couple of cards which had been slipped into brass holders screwed to the door. "Oh, my God, no!" and she covered the cards with her hand as the two giggling room-mates hurried past and burst through the next doorway on the right with schoolgirl squeals.

"What's the matter?" Nancy asked.

"Look at these cards. Isn't it dreadful?" And she moved her hand away.

Nancy took a look. "Oh, no! For everyone to see!"

Nancy Bosomworth

36-23½-34½

Caroline Rossiter

42-22-35

"It's so embarrassing!" Caroline slipped into the room, blushing deeply. "If that's their idea of a joke, I don't think much of it!"

"They do seem to be obsessed with our measurements, I must say," said Nancy, finding herself peering at her new friend's chest. Caroline was standing in a slightly hunched posture, but there was no hiding her well-endowed figure. A forty-two inch bust was as big as Lavinia's, yet the haughty aristocrat was five or six inches taller.

"Which bed do you fancy?" Caroline asked, placing her overnight bag on the one nearer the door.

Nancy went to the one by the window. "This one's fine. Hey, great view. It must be even better in summer. I bet you can see for miles."

Caroline was studying a letter. "You've got one of these, too. They would like to welcome us to the Washington Enterprise Experience, whatever that is."

Nancy bounced on her bed and read her letter. "Bathrooms are back along the corridor on the left. Make sure you go before you get into bed. Hey! We're expected for lunch at one thirty. Ten minutes' time!"

"How thoughtful. Come as you are! As if we'd even had a chance to have a shower and change."

"Change into what, anyway? I'm beginning to think Lady Lavinia had the right idea, bringing some clothes with her. I think I've got a shirt, somewhere..." Nancy jumped up and unzipped her bag.

Caroline watched her for a moment, then did the same. "How did they know, do you think?"

"Know what?"

"Which doors to put those cards on? We didn't even decide who was rooming with who until we were getting off the bus. Yet they've got the right two cards on the door, and the right personal letters on the beds."

"On the right beds, too! If that's not efficiency, I don't know what is!" Nancy turned back the covers and glanced at Caroline, to make sure she wasn't looking. The other girl was dipping into her bag for something, hiding it with her body.

There was a resounding racket outside in the corridor, followed by a pounding on the door.

"What on earth... ?" The door burst open and slammed against the wall.

"Wardrobe!" A young man in a grey overall came in, his arms full of cardboard boxes.

"Eeek!"

"Rossiter and Bosomworth?" The lad laughed. "Bosomworth! Bloody hell! That's a good one! Bosomworth! He-heee! Which is which?" Without waiting for a reply, he dumped three boxes on each bed and retired without a backward glance.

"What a nerve!" Caroline started to complain. "We might have been naked!"

"He'd never have noticed..." Nancy stopped, and stared at Caroline. Both girls were trying to conceal something behind their backs. There was a moment's silence, then they both laughed.

"What's yours called?" said Caroline.

"Bear."

"Very sensible. Mine's Edwin. He goes with me everywhere. Actually, it's the first time we've been anywhere."

They propped their teddy bears against the headboards of their beds.

Nancy straightened one of Bear's ears which had been flattened in the bag. "I wonder if Lady Lavinia's got one."

"Can you get ermine-trimmed bears? Let's see what they've brought us." She opened the top box. "Oh, my goodness!"

It was just like Christmas.

It was even more like Christmas when they had collected their sandwiches and hurried back to the room to play with their new clothes.

"Sorry it's such a frugal lunch," Randall Washington had apologised. "In view of the weather, we sent some of the catering staff home early. But if you'd like to take your lunch back to your rooms, you'll find the remainder of your wardrobes have been delivered."

"More clothes?" Lavinia had said, somewhat surprisingly. And she had grabbed her lunch in a most unladylike manner and hurried out. Even Randall was stunned.

"If the cook's gone home, what about dinner tonight?" Nancy asked him.

"Nothing to worry about. Chef lives here. It's just his kitchen assistants who've gone home. Mrs Washington is helping him out preparing dinner."

"There's a Mrs Washington?" Marianne's face registered dismay.

"Of course. And the kids. They're part of the reason ... hey, you didn't think ... Mrs Washington's not my wife! It's Grenville's wife and family, not mine!" Marianne brightened instantly. "Lil' ol' Randall's still footloose and fancy-free."

The first consignment of boxes had been taken away, leaving their new clothes laid out on the beds, and more boxes were now stacked beside each bed in an orderly pile.

"We'd better start hanging it all up," said Nancy, "but it's so much fun trying everything on! And it all fits!"

"So it should, too, since they know our measurements intimately." Caroline smoothed her shiny emerald green frock down across her bosom. "This is an amazing dress! I've never had anything that fits my top and my bottom at the same time."

Nancy was struggling with hers, in lustrous kingfisher blue. "Mine's a bit tight round the hips," she complained, blushing as she realised it was her own fault for the little white lies she had told about her own measurements. "Do we have to wear these for dinner tonight? I'll explode!"

"The letter says yes. Posh frocks on the first night, and once a week after that. The rest of the time it's more casual. I suppose we'll be meeting Mrs W."

"And the family. Somehow, I never thought of Grenville Washington as being a family man. He was the one who guessed so accurately at my measurements." Nancy pulled hopelessly at her dress, and tried to flatten her tummy. "I'm going to have to start working out, or something..."

"I've never had so many bras as this," said Caroline, wonderingly stuffing underwear into her chest of drawers. The right size, too. I really need a 34H cup. Isn't it terrible! An H!"

"I'm only a D." Nancy laughed shortly. "Only! I never thought I'd say I was only anything. But the rest of you are all so big up top, you make me feel flat-chested. It can't be just coincidence, can it? We must have been selected because of our bust size. It's a bit worrying. What kind of job is this? What are we going to be, strippers?"

Caroline had turned pale. "They couldn't make us be strippers against our will, could they?"

Nancy laughed at the ridiculous idea. "I don't know. If the money's right..."

Even without half the kitchen staff, the Washington Enterprise Experience could still turn out a magnificent dinner. If the newcomers had expected to meet the existing employees, however, they were disappointed. There were just the five of them, plus the two Washington brothers, and Mrs Washington who emerged from the kitchen just in time for the main course, apologising for her lateness and her red hands. Perhaps it was just as well there weren't more of them; the whole meal was served by the minibus driver, looking a little ill-at-ease in stiff white shirt and bow tie.

It would have been a jolly gathering had it not been for the brooding presence of Lavinia Taunton-Deane. She had an allergy, she claimed, which seemed to afflict her whenever she ate anything remotely enjoyable.

"But that's terrible, Lavinia," Randall coo-ed solicitously, wincing only slightly at the kicks being directed at him beneath the table by Mrs Washington. "How does it affect you?"

"I come out in the most ghastly disfiguring rash," said Lavinia, pleased for her martyrdom to be the centre of attention. "All over the backs of my hands, and the rest of my body." She looked hopefully at the backs of her hands, but she was mercifully free of disfigurement.

"What brings it on, Lavinia?" Mrs Washington asked.

"Oh, practically anything! Fresh cream, milk, cheese, any dairy produce; additives, man-made fibres, non-organic vegetables, unfiltered water, tea, coffee, refined sugar, eggs ... just about anything!"

"Golly! You poor thing! How did you discover what was causing it?"

"Oh, a friend recommended a book, and of course I read it, and started coming out in a rash almost straight away. Of course, the doctors are useless..."

"Oh, of course!"

"You haven't touched your vegetables," Randall pointed out.

"Pesticides," said Lavinia firmly. "Even though these are undoubtedly organic vegetables, the pesticides used by neighbouring farms drift on the wind and infect everything, no matter how carefully your gardeners look after the crops."

Grenville Washington had been following the conversation, nodding wisely. "Where are these vegetables from, Andrea?"

"I'm not sure. I think Beryl gets them from Sainsbury's in Hereford."

Lavinia went white and clutched at her throat, as the other girls tried not to laugh out loud.

"They're delicious, anyway, Mrs Washington," said Nancy, stuffing her napkin into her mouth.

"Would you excuse me, I'm not feeling too well..." Lavinia pushed back her chair.

"By all means, dear," said Grenville. "Although I had planned to use this occasion to explain what the job is all about."

"If she's feeling unwell, Gren, darling..."

"Perhaps. But it's not a problem. I can tell you all at breakfast. Seven-thirty sharp, by the way, then we'll make a start on your initiation at ten. Good night, Lavinia. I hope you're feeling better in the morning. A good night's sleep can work wonders."

"I hope so, Mr Washington. I can feel my rash coming on."

"Oooh, let me see!" Susannah was already half out of her chair, but Marianne pulled her back.

Things became rather quiet after that. Grenville excused himself, saying he had business to attend to tonight which he would otherwise have completed in the morning.

"Gren's very busy," his wife explained. "Gosh, is that the time already? I promised to help cheffy tidy up in the kitchen. You will excuse me..."