Caution: This Humor Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Interracial, Black Female, White Male, White Female, Petting, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Size, Big Breasts, Workplace, Military,
Desc: Humor Sex Story: Part 1 - All that stands in the way of a Malvolian cruiser shelling parliament is the ageing frigate, Insufferable. Can she be made ready in time? In a very un-PC country where the navy is run by women, and promotion decided on breast size, who knows what will happen. Sound Magnolia Alert!
The camera crew from the local TV station Brilliantina West nosed intrusively among the couples on the dockside. Tears flowed incontinently as the camera weaved in and out of the broken conversations.
"Don't go, please!"
"I must! It's only a short trip this time. We'll be back by Christmas."
"It will seem forever, my love..."
"Cuddle the children for me, sweetness..."
"I shall! And I will write every day."
"And I'll write twice a day..."
"Bye, Dolly, darling... !"
"Love you, Frankie... !"
"Come home to me soon..."
"Don't come home unexpectedly..."
Embarrassed and sickened, the camera panned away over the heads of the throng to the grey bulk of the ship and the splash of colour as the band of the Loyal Brilliantine Marine Corps struck up a rousing march.
'And as the Band of the Loyal Marines plays ... erm ... a rousing tune; so the last, loving, final farewells are made; this tremulous, tear-stained display of undiminished and uplifting uxoriousness must draw to a premature yet veritably forever inevitable conclusion. For this ... is Goodbye to BS Improbable, at least for the next few months. This is Branston Pickles, live for BWTV from the Brilliantine Grande Naval Dockyard... '
The Vice Admiral thrust the remote towards the screen and killed the picture. By now, Improbable would already be clear of the harbour and standing out into the Western approaches. A shake-down cruise for the troubled destroyer - an untried, under-strength crew, short of key petty officers and ratings; machinery still prone to mysterious breakdowns; a team of dockyard techies still on board to nursemaid the radars - an unenviable task for a new captain. Any captain. Even one of the best.
"How many adrift this time, Babs?"
The Exec gulped. When the captain called her by her first name, it usually meant Trouble. "Thirty-seven, ma'am. Here's the list."
Captain Goodbody scanned the sheet of paper at a glance, nodding once. "Any extenuating circumstances for these?"
"Husband trouble, mostly. Or boyfriends. One or two might be pregnant, ma'am. And the military police will no doubt have rounded up a few for fighting in the bars. The usual problems when sailors on a run ashore get a few too many drinks inside them and start squabbling over a pretty boy."
"We've all been there, Babs. I daresay we'll muddle through, as always." The captain straightened in her swivel chair and the Executive Officer's eyes widened. "Now, how about the new officers. I haven't had a chance to meet them yet. This new Sixth Lieutenant, what's her name, Brockenhurst? Promising?"
"She's settling in nicely, ma'am. She was at Greenmouth Naval College, specialised in high-speed data communications, she's in Gunnery at the moment, learning the ropes. Seems a bright young officer..."
"How big are her tits, Babs?"
The Exec blushed. "That's why I've assigned her to Gunnery, Captain. She needs to get a broad grounding in all departments before someone at the Admiralty notices her bra size. Young Busty Brockenhurst is on her way up, with a capital P."
The captain raised an eyebrow.
"Pretty big, Captain."
"How big, Babs? I'll find out anyway..."
"I haven't seen her naked yet, ma'am. And all her bras were already stowed away when I paid her a first-night courtesy call. At least an F cup, Captain. Comparing her with Stansfield, easily an F, in fact ... and still growing by the look of her." She paused significantly. "Puffy nipples."
"Curse these late developers. Why can't all girls be fully developed by the time they're sixteen, then we'd all know where we stood, promotionwise? It's not just water retention, I suppose?"
"I'll keep an eye on things, ma'am."
"Good girl, Babs. Nothing else for now? Hubby all right?"
Babs relaxed. "Barry's fine. And the boys. They help him round the house all the time. Hoovering, doing the washing. The elder one is even teaching Barry how to work the dishwasher. They're going to grow up into a fine pair of husbands for some lucky girls. Actually, I think Barry's probably been having it off with some woman or other, but men will be men. A girl comes round selling insurance, shows him a flash of nipple and he's climbing into bed with her. We're the most over-insured family in the street." The Exec stretched, surreptitiously easing the load on her bra straps.
"You're not growing again, Barbara?"
A blush greeted the captain's question. "Only an inch or so. Does it show in this shirt?"
"It looks more. Must be that bra. I really love it when a big black bra just shows through a white shirt like that. Where do you get yours?"
"I found a little place last time we called at Pompey. She makes all my bras, but her shirts are really flattering. Twizzell, her name. Veronica Twizzell."
"You mentioned it, now I come to think. Does she do mail order?"
"Mail order only in stock sizes, Captain. With respect, ma'am, you're way beyond any stock size."
"That's why I'm Captain of the pride of the fleet, Babs. Truthfully, though, I don't think these latest bras of mine are going to hold out much longer. Have a word with young Busty Brockenhurst and get her to contact this Twizzell woman. Might as well put the ship's comms systems to some use. Maybe if we can get enough measurements together, the Twizzell woman will be able to make half a dozen new bras for me. It will give you a chance to keep an eye on developments in Brockenhurst's shirt, as well."
"Aye-aye, Captain." The Exec replaced her cap at a jaunty and fashionable angle, took a huge breath and snapped up a salute.
"Thank you, Commander."
"Who cooks this shit?"
"Who do you think? How can you run a decent kitchen without men in it?"
"They've got a man chef in Insoluble, someone was saying."
"That was Incredible. And Indefensible has got a man in the engine room!"
"Not an officer?"
"How big are his tits?"
The girls of the Gunnery Department laughed at the absurd notion of a male naval officer. They pushed away their plates. "This is Inedible."
"What about the new Lieutenant, then?"
"Yeah, she's huge!"
"I swear she's growing, too. And she's only been in the ship three days."
"Must be her bra. Or she's sticking them out more now she's got more confidence. How big you reckon she is, Maise?"
"Must be an F or a G, at least. She'd nearly fill one of my bras."
The others looked at Maise's generously filled blue shirt where it rested on the table, shifting slightly as the ship rolled. Maise had a promising career ahead of her, with rapid promotion assured through the petty officer ranks. As long as she avoided getting pregnant. Babies had ruined many a promising career.
"So Brockenhurst is sure to be promoted? How come she's still only a lowly Lieutenant? She must be bigger than our Ms Hammersley."
A soft voice answered, and the girls turned curiously. It was one of the new girls. Not just one of the new girls. It was that new girl with the monster tits. "Maybe she's outgrown her ranking. She's ex-Greenmouth. Normally, by the time girls go through the college, they are more or less fully developed up top. If Brockenhurst developed late, or if she's still growing fast now, it will be a while before the system catches up with her. Then she'll get her promotion all in a rush."
"How come you know so much about it, Creamy?"
'Creamy' Coffey shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I applied for Naval College myself. I've got all the right equipment. But as you can see, I'm neither one thing nor another."
It was true. Creamy certainly had the equipment, with plenty to spare. Just above average height, she was gloriously well developed, her gigantically full, thick-nippled breasts thrusting dangerously at her massively overloaded shirt. Most of the others had cast envious glances at them, and at her taut little rump and almost microscopic waist. But she had been rejected by Greenmouth College. Not colourful enough. It must have been a close decision.
"Why didn't they just send you out sunbathing for a week? Tits like yours, you'd be a Captain by this time next year!"
"I dunno. Maybe it was the wrong time of the month for the Selection Board Captain. Whatever, she advised me never to apply again."
There were angry murmurings. All the crew knew of mixed race officers, some of them with paler complexions and much smaller bosoms than Creamy.
"The worst thing is, I can't be a petty officer, either. Not white enough. So, shit, it looks like I'm doomed to have the best education and the biggest, pointiest tits on the whole of the lower deck. It's the smoked glass ceiling, girls, and there ain't a damned thing any of us can do about it."
Lieutenant Belinda Brockenhurst sighed as she examined herself in the tiny mirror of her cramped cabin. It was so small she had to check out her image in easy stages. Bigger again. The tape measure didn't lie. She could only do so much to diminish the apparent ripeness of her luscious figure, walking around with her arms folded and her shoulders hunched. The sailors had already noticed the size of her bust. Sailors noticed such things. And in the wardroom, too, no amount of disguise could work for long. Especially as she was still getting larger. It must be the sea air giving her an appetite, but whatever it was, Belinda could never seem to get enough to eat.
There was another problem. Her newest bras were rapidly becoming too small. The quartermaster's stores carried a selection right up to H cup in the larger sizes, 38 upwards, but for some reason they had nothing of size 32G in stock. Her last three 32Fs were simply not big enough any more. She tried one on again, grunting as she engaged the four hooks and persuaded her breasts into the straining cups. No good. There was chocolate-brown flesh oozing out every which way. Sheesh! Even a G wasn't going to be big enough. She tore it off. Literally. One bra down, two to go.
Yet Naval Regulations were perfectly clear on the matter. Belinda knew Article 36M by heart. Any officer wearing an inadequate or ill-fitting bra - or infinitely worse - no bra at all, could be found guilty of Conduct to the Prejudice of good Order or Discipline. A white mark on her record. It was ridiculous: the very breasts whose development could assure her rapid promotion to the top of her chosen profession could also prove to be the stumbling block in her path. Just by growing so big that she couldn't find a bra to fit her anywhere in the BS Improbable.
There was a soft knock on the door.
"Just a minute..." The shirt was an appallingly tight fit, and with nothing to restrain them, her breasts felt squishy as her fingers fumbled with the buttons. That would have to do. At least, she was off duty and in her cabin, so she couldn't be court-martialled for not wearing a brassiere. At least, she didn't think so. She arranged herself on her bunk and picked up a manual of torpedo fuzing and arming. "Come in!" The door opened. "I'm sorry, I wasn't decently dressed. Oh, it's you, ma'am!" Belinda slid off the bunk and stood rigidly to attention in the confined space.
It wasn't a good move. She was pressed nipple to nipple with her Executive Officer. And almost matching her, size for size.
"At ease, Brockenhurst. It's a social call."
The junior lieutenant backed away and sat on the bunk, her rebounding breasts coming to rest on her thighs. She felt distinctly undressed in the presence of her senior officer, wearing only a shirt and — she hoped — a pair of panties. Right now, she couldn't rightly remember. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to try and check. The Commander could see better than she could. She pulled her shirt down as far as it would go, but the insistent pressure of her breasts made it bounce right back up again.
"A social call?"
"Sure, relax!" The Exec looked around, picked up the chair from the writing desk, spun it round and straddled it. It was a position calculated to put the lieutenant at her ease. It might have worked, but for the fact that the Exec now found herself staring at Belinda's shapely thighs. And beyond. Or rather, between. It was a bit shadowy down there, but Lt Brockenhurst appeared to be quite a hirsute young officer. If there was one thing the Exec always found curiously arousing, it was hirsute officers. Hirsute young officers were even better. Hirsute young officers with breasts far too big for their shirts were better still. The Exec was a happily-married woman, but she was by no means immune to the charms of other women. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, she was a raving bisexual.
She experienced a spontaneous orgasm. A doozy.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
"I didn't say anything."
"Aye-aye, ma'am." Lt Brockenhurst was a well-brought-up young officer. She would go far in this woman's navy.
"How fuckin' big are those things?" The Exec had intended to phrase the question more delicately, but it had just kinda slipped out.
Belinda found herself glowing. "What, these?" She had meant to ask what things the Executive Officer had been talking about, but the woman was staring at her breasts so intently that she found herself cupping them in both hands like ripe melons and offering them up as if at a Harvest Festival service. They wobbled in her hands, and the top three buttons of her shirt let go one at a time. Six inches of deep jiggling cleavage revealed itself.
"Aye-aye, ma'am. Praise Her for Her bounteousness."
"Too big, ma'am."
"I can't get my bra on. I just burst one of my last ones, and they're all way too small. They're F cups."
The Exec swallowed, and coughed as she came again, in a more controlled manner than the first time. "F cup? Why didn't you get the right size, instead of buying bras that were too small? You young girls are all the same! Trying to get a quart into a pint pot."
Belinda looked down at her bursting shirt. The Exec's estimate didn't seem too far off. Obviously she had years of experience in these matters. "They did fit, ma'am. But that was a whole month ago. I seem to be having a growth spurt. It's not unknown, ma'am."
The Exec had spotted the fly in the ointment. She had her finger on the problem. "You can't carry out your duties dressed like that, Brockenhurst."
"No, ma'am. My skirts still fit, ma'am."
"We can take your skirts as read, Brockenhurst. I mean your ... upper half. A properly fitting bra is mandatory. Regulations insist on it. You must buy one from the ship's stores."
Belinda shook her head. "I already tried. The nearest they can do is a 36E, which goes around me okay, but I'm so soft that my boobs fall out of the bottom of the cups, ma'am. I'm very soft, ma'am. Feel them!"
It was tempting, especially when Belinda ladled one fat breast out of the neckline of her shirt and held it in both hands, as steadily as she could. The Exec held out steadfastly for all of ten seconds. "My God, Brockenhurst!"
"We won't find a bra your size among the officers. I know that for an absolute fact. We'll have to try the PO's and the seawomen. Of course, there won't be any seawomen with breasts as big as yours, unless they've been demoted for being very very naughty girls indeed. It will have to be the petty officers' mess. I shall carry out an in-depth investigation. Meanwhile, you had better remain in your quarters. I will explain to the captain that you are temporarily indisposed. One of the wardroom stewards will bring you your meals."
"Aye-aye, ma'am. What about shitting, ma'am? How do I get to the heads?"
"My investigations should be complete within a few days, Brockenhurst."
In fact, the Exec was back the next day, carrying a basket of assorted foundation garments.
"There ought to be something here to fit you."
There wasn't. They tried every one of those bras. None of the petty officers was slim and stacked enough to match Belinda. In fact, she seemed to be even bigger than last time she'd tried, as a well-worn 36E removed, under vigorous protest, from a young woman in the radio shack wouldn't even fasten behind the lieutenant's back. "Sheesh, I've grown some more," she complained. "You'd better take those back, ma'am."
"Try this one again, Brockenhurst." The Exec held out a fearsome pink bra with an array of hooks down the back like the jaws of a shark. It belonged to the chief yeowoman of signals. "The cups look big enough."
Indeed they were, but the rest of it was big enough to fit round two Belindas back to back. She looked up at the Exec forlornly.
"It's not the end of the world. I'll get the sailmaker to have a look at it."
"We have a sailmaker on board a modern destroyer?"
"Of course. It's a fucking ship, isn't it?"
"But what does she do?"
"Dressmaking, mostly. But she's excellent with bras. She trained with a woman called Shaw over in the States. You should see the spinnaker she designed for the recreational dinghy. She'll shorten the straps on this bra for you, then you'll be able to get out of this cabin and have a poo. We've got to have you shipshape and Bristol fashion for two weeks' time."
"Two weeks, ma'am? What happens then?"
"The admiral comes aboard. Improbable is going to be her next flagship when Insensible is decommissioned. It's an enormous honour for him ... for Improbable, that is. Admiral Sybil Makepeace hasn't had a really modern flagship since Invisible disappeared. The captain is immensely proud. So we will need you and all the rest of the ship's company absolutely tickety-boo, as if you'd just stepped out of a band-box. Whatever that is. Stand easy, Lieutenant!"
"You look like a sack of potatoes, Lieutenant!"
"Aye-aye, Captain, ma'am."
"What's your name?"
"Ah, so you're Brockenhurst. I've been looking for you since we left harbour. You were going to order some mail order bras for me. Where have you been hiding yourself?"
"In my bunk, ma'am. Growing, ma'am."
The captain's eyes bulged dangerously. "Growing, Lieutenant?"
The Exec leaned forward anxiously. "Her bust, Captain. I had to place her under restraint in her cabin. She didn't have an adequate and properly-fitting brassiere."
"She still doesn't. What's that thing she's wearing?"
"It belonged to Chief Whittaker, ma'am. The sailmaker modified it, but Brockenhurst has grown again since, ma'am."
"I haven't finished growing, Captain," Belinda confirmed. "The ship's doctor says it's a major growth spurt."
"How old are you?"
"Who ever heard of a woman having a growth spurt at twenty-one?"
The Exec turned to her First Lieutenant. "Who ever heard of a woman having a growth spurt at twenty-one?"
The First turned to the Second and the question passed on rapidly down the line, eventually coming to Belinda herself. "I'm having one, Captain," she said.
"She's having one," said the Fifth Lieutenant to the Fourth Lieutenant.
"Shut up! I heard her myself!"
The Fourth Lieutenant thought about passing this message back down to the Fifth Lieutenant, but wiser counsel prevailed.
"How big were you at Naval College, Lieutenant?"
"30D, ma'am. They told me if I developed a little more I could probably have my own little minesweeper by the time I was twenty-five or so. The sailmaker says I need a 32J cup now, Captain."
"A J cup? But that's..."
"Forty-two inches, ma'am. And counting. That's bigger than some of the other officers."
"What are you suggesting?"
"With respect, ma'am, I seem to be overdue..."
"She's pregnant, Commander!"
Belinda finished her reply. "Overdue for promotion. And I'm a lesbian, Captain. Bisexual, anyway. That's more fashionable. That's why I joined."
"I thought we joined the Navy to see the sea," the captain muttered to her Executive Officer.
"A lot of girls join for a good eating out, Captain," the Exec whispered. "The sex is very good, apparently."
"It was never like this in my day. How can fucking homosexuals fight a war?"
"Same as the rest of us. As the rest of them. The rest of you, ma'am."
The captain glowered but said nothing. She took three paces back. "Fall out Executive Officer and Department Heads. Parade, dee-yiiiis-miss!"
"Well, what are we going to do about it?" The captain paced up and down, her bust wobbling massively at each turn. "She can't see the admiral looking like that."
"Captain, the admiral is going to insist on meeting all the officers in person, isn't she?"
"We could hide her, ma'am."
"There's nowhere big enough."
"We couldn't hide her until Christmas."
Ms Hammersley coughed politely. "Permission to speak, Captain?"
"With respect, Captain, Lt Brockenhurst is comfortably bigger than me now, so if the admiral sees her, she will be obliged to promote her into my post. So I probably have an axe to grind, but..."
"Get on with it, Guns!"
"But it will be far worse if the admiral discovers that we've been deliberately concealing the fact that there is a young officer in my department with bigger breasts than mine, ma'am. Worse for all of us, ma'am. We have to make Brockenhurst presentable."
"How you gonna do that, Hammers? Lower a bra-maker down to the ship by helicopter?"
The wardroom giggled girlishly.
"She was going to order some bras from England for me," the captain growled. "Same woman as makes the Exec's. Why can't she order some for herself?"
"There's been a communications problem. The lieutenant hasn't been allowed out of her cabin to send a signal."
"We might be able to find a presentable bra for her!"
The officers all turned to Lieutenant Commander Hammersley."
"What did you say, Guns?"
The Exec sniffed impatiently. "I've already searched the ship for suitable foundation garments. Even the PO's mess."
"With respect, ma'am, it doesn't have to be a petty officer's bra. There's a young sailor in my department. She has really, really huge breasts..."
"What's wrong with her?" the Exec asked hopefully. "Has she been a very very naughty girl? What's her name, anyway?"
"Creamy. I mean, Ordinary Seaperson Coffey, ma'am. She joined at the same time as Miss Brockenhurst. She hasn't been very, very naughty. In fact, she's very, very good."
"I suppose she's got a little curl..."
"Right in the middle of her forehead..."
"And when she's good, she's very, very good..."
"And when she's bad, she's..."
The Exec had spotted a flaw in the Gunnery Officer's reasoning. "If they're as big as that, why isn't she an officer?"
"Or a chief?"
"She's the wrong colour. She's sort of in between. But she's got monster tits!"
The two naked women stood to attention and peered at each other out of the corners of their eyes. "They seem to be very similar," the captain suggested. "Turn them round."
"Turn round, please, Lieutenant. Coffey, ay-bout tahn!"
The women turned through one hundred and eighty degrees and stood with their backs to their superiors, still eyeing each other warily.
"Fuck me!" the Exec blurted. "Sorry, ma'am. But begging your pardon, ma'am. She's got one hell of a figure on her for an ordinary Seaperson. Look at that sweet little bum! And her waist can't be more than eighteen inches. And those tits! If she was half a shade blacker, she'd have my job! Whooooh!"
"I beg your pardon, Commander?"
"Nothing, ma'am. I'm all better now, ma'am."
Belinda knew what the Exec's problem was. She risked a glance sideways at Coffey. The girl was hugely stacked. It was difficult to gauge her exact size, as she was several inches taller, but she was so slim and so wondrously developed, it had to be worth trying one of her bras for size.
"Did you bring a bra with you, Coffey?"
"Yes, Captain? On the floor, Captain, under my hat."
"Get it, please, and put it on the lieutenant."
"I'm sorry, Commander?"
Belinda could feel the tall sailor's warm breath on the back of her neck. A pair of rubbery nipples traced little circles round her shoulder blades. She could really fuck this one all night long, she thought.
"Bend forward, ma'am," the sailor said.
She bent forward from the waist, and felt her full globes immediately ensnared in a pair of accommodating and still-warm bra cups. Cool, expert fingers looped the straps over her shoulders and swiftly hooked the bra at the back. It was an unaccustomed feeling, a bra with room to spare in the cups.
"Did you bring a tape measure with you, Coffey?"
"Negative, Captain. I don't carry one, ma'am."
"Why not, damn it?"
"With respect, Captain, I already know my measurements. I'm forty-seven, seventeen, twenty-nine, ma'am."
"Thank you, Commander."
Creamy's hands probed gently around the front of the bra. "Ma'am, there is still room in the cups for the lieutenant. I'd guess she is about forty-four inches or thereabouts."
"Jeez! She could be driving a minesweeper with that lot!" The captain collected her wits. "She will have to be promoted..."
"Not necessarily, Captain. Naval Regulations..."
"I beg your pardon, Coffey? What do you, an Ordinary Seaperson, know about Naval Regulations?"
"I've studied them, ma'am. There is an escape clause. A catch. 'A growing officer may have her promotion held in abeyance during the period of duration of her continuing growth, provided said growth exceeds one inch per week or part of one inch per part week, pro rata, ma'am.' Article 30M, Sub clause 19, ma'am. A recent amendment," she added, and Belinda, who had opened her mouth, closed it again.
"I never saw that amendment," the Exec muttered. "Whose responsibility is the decoding of amendments... ?"
"Mine, ma'am," explained Belinda. "But I've been..."
"It doesn't matter," the captain snapped. "It's our salvation. Coffey, you will measure the Lieutenant's bust every day, please, starting from today. Note the figures and report to me if she fails to grow at a rate of one inch per week."
"Or pro rata, ma'am?"
"Precisely. Get dressed and dismiss to your duties, Lieutenant Brockenhurst. You too, Coffey. Remember, we have one more week before the admiral comes aboard."
The Exec watched them go. "Permission to call the Mistress of Arms and have Ordinary Seaperson Coffey arrested, Captain?"
"Failure to wear an adequate brassiere, Captain!"
"Permission declined, Commander."
The admiral's barge came alongside within minutes of Improbable's anchor splashing into the sparkling deep green waters. Captain Goodbody was all a-twitter. She had inspected her officers and she was not entirely pleased. Seen from one end of the line, there was an unseemly projection close to the far end. It was Lt Brockenhurst's shirt. "Lieutenant Brockenhurst, take half a pace backwards!" That was better. She didn't stick out too far now. Trouble was, at the back of the line, there was a well-filled black skirt sticking out further than all the others. "A quarter of a pace forward, Lieutenant Brockenhurst!" Now she stuck out equally to the back and the front. Not good enough. And too late to do anything now, as bosuns' pipes squealed and the ship's company came to rigid attention. A magnificent array of womanly bosoms thrust out at the admiral as her dark chocolate upperworks hove into view above the rail. She was unmistakeably an admiral. Even the captain's jaw dropped at the sight.
"Good morning, Captain. A fine day, and a splendid turnout. I'm sure your girls will be anxious to get ashore and start getting some hot steaming cock up their juicy love-tunnels. I'll inspect them and have a quick word with the officers, then we'll dismiss the parade. We mustn't keep them standing outside in this heat. Girls always start to smell after a while. Even officers."
The captain gulped. The admiral was known for her forthright tongue, which was also said to be long enough to get into some most remarkable places. She strode quickly up and down the ranks of seapersons and petty officers, remarking on a smart turnout here, a fine pair of nipples there. Then she moved on to the officers. The captain knew she had a problem when the admiral paused at the end of the line and peered along it, first along the front, then along the back.
"One of your officers is protruding incorrectly, Captain Goodbody. You, Lieutenant, take a quarter of a stride forward."
Belinda obeyed smartly.
"Hmmm. I see." There was a gleam in the admiral's eye. Like many of her famous predecessors, she wore an eyepatch over the other one. "Fine turnout, Captain. Fall out the ship's company, apart from this lieutenant here. I shall require a word in private with this young lady."
"What is your name, Lieutenant?"
"No, your first name, child."
"Belinda. A lovely name. How old are you, Belinda?"
"And what is your position?"
"Junior Gunnery Officer, ma'am."
"Junior? But the Gunnery Officer's breasts are considerably smaller than yours. Do you have an explanation?"
"Article 30M, sub clause 19, ma'am. A recent..."
"A recent amendment, yes. I am familiar with it. So, you're still growing at more than an inch a week? At twenty-one?"
"Major growth spurt, ma'am."
"Excellent. You're a pretty girl, Belinda." The admiral strode to the other side of the cabin and studied the staggeringly full busts on display in the framed photograph of the Brilliantine Royal Family. She whirled round. "How hairy are you?"
"Pits? Pussy? Legs? Love-trail?"
"All of those except the legs, ma'am."
Belinda's eyes widened and she gave a non-incriminating answer. "One point one inches, ma'am."
"Show me later. Meanwhile, how would you like to be permanently attached to my staff?"
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
"I need a flag lieutenant. You will be required to be constantly at my side. Or even closer. I assume you're physically okay. Not a picky eater? Not allergic to baby oil? Good. There are certain perks: use of a jeep and a male driver when we're on land, free frilly undies, tailored uniforms, all the sex you can handle. And you don't have to do any work. It's normally a two or three year appointment, and you'll get a pretty little minesweeper at the end of it. Unless you'd prefer a submarine. They're rather more phallic, and some girls ... No? Splendid! I shall inform the captain at once. You are still growing, I take it?"
"As of this morning, aye-aye, ma'am. My bust is now forty-s..."
"I shall find out in due course, Belinda. Do you have an assistant?"
"An assistant... ?"
"Assistant. Secretary. Lover. Sex slave. Bestest friend."
"Yes, ma'am. Seaperson Coffey."
"Even better. We'll have her as well. Big tits?"
"Bigger than mine, ma'am. And hers are growing, too."
"Better all the time! You know ... I like being an admiral."
"Course to intercept, Pilot?"
"Ten of port wheel on, Quartermistress. Steady on two-two-zero. Half ahead together."
"Ay-aye, ma'am." The helmswoman's eyes shone white in the gloom. "Coming left on two-two-zero, ma'am."
"Midships, and meet him. Steady as he goes."
The ship heeled, shouldering through the rising swell. Across the bridge, the officers' white shirt-clad breasts heeled in sympathy. The seawomen's nipples were becoming erect with lust, always a good sign, Captain Goodbody thought. Her girls were ready for anything.
"I think we've got a dirty night ahead of us, Pilot."
"Aye-aye, ma'am. Permission to wash my pubic hair and apply vaginal deodorant, ma'am?"
"Denied, Pilot. It's going to be rough."
The Navigating Officer grinned to herself. She liked rough. She raised a surreptitious elbow and sniffed a cautious armpit. Yep, rough. It was going to be a night to remember, just like the old days on the China station in the old Inscrutable. Her mother had told her all about those times.
The Captain spun on her heel, her breasts following as quickly as they could. "Go ahead, Perkins."
The seawoman's voice trembled. Despite all her other preoccupations, the Captain had recognised her voice! "Contact bearing green one-zero, Captain. Fifteen miles, but recognition difficult in the sea-return. Could be a Crouton class."
"Nice work, Perkins." A Crouton? It was possible, just possible. What was the Lichtenstein Navy up to, out here? But I played my hunch, and it could be paying off. "Starboard ten, Q! Two-one zero. Full ahead together. Action stations! Hoist battle ensigns! Chief McBride?"
"Can you be ready to give me flank speed in five minutes?"
"Flank speed, Captain? You know what the Ministry of the Environment says about smoke?"
"Just this once, Chief, never mind the smoke. This is an emergency. Any other worries?"
"Och, I'm a wee bitty worried about that port shaft, ma'am. The one on the left. It's squeaking when we go round corners."
"Which way, Chief?"
"Left, I think. Or it might be right. And the engine's making a funny noise, too, especially when that little light comes on next to the cigarette lighter when we go round corners. A kind of wee tinkling noise, like wind chimes."
Chief was one of the best. She seemed almost to have a sixth sense. Almost. Her third, fourth and fifth left a little to be desired, but the woman was an absolute treasure.
"Do your best, Chief. We're depending on you!"
The old Improbable leapt through the water like the bloodhound he was, and there wasn't a dry crotch on the bridge as every officer imagined how he must look, all that naughty black smoke pouring straight back from those twin raked stacks, those enormous pink and mauve battle ensigns streaming fore and aft, a magnificent bone in his teeth. One day, when their breasts had reached forty-five inches, this could all be theirs...
"Ten miles and closing. We've got Murchison on the scope. She's our bustiest operator..."
"How big, Perkins?"
"Stand by one, ma'am. Forty-two, ma'am. 34H. Half cup at the moment, ma'am, and nipples sticking out like chapel hatpegs, ma'am. With kids like that, the old Improbable's got nothing to worry about. Reporting target at nine miles and altering starboard. Bearing green one-five and ... he's... missile launch!"
"What? Say again, Perkins!"
"Missiles inbound bearing green two zero, ma'am. Altitude one hundred feet, pulling up. Speed fife zero zero knots, closing..."
"Can you see them, lookouts? Starboard bow, two of them?"
"Left, damn it! No, right! Countermeasures! Guns! Fire independently. Engage incoming missiles green two ... Chief, give me everything you've got, now! Half ahead starboard, emergency full ahead port; full left rudder, Q!"
The Captain's unorthodox and wholly inexplicable ship handling almost saved the day. The first missile ballooned over the bow, taken by surprise when the old Improbable shuddered and seemed to almost stop in his tracks. But the second missile, pursued by a hail of environmentally-unfriendly lead from the anti-air weapons, dipped its nose in a deadly dive. For the briefest fraction of a second, its shark-like image seemed frozen on the retinas of all the bridge personnel, officers and seawomen alike. Then there was nothing.
"We've lost him, ma'am!" Belinda Brockenhurst's throat was constricted. Her eyes stung. "No sign of Improbable on the scopes.
"Keep searching, Lieutenant!" Liuetenant Commander Ptarmigan snarled. Her glance flickered sideways, taking in the obscenely straining white shirt. How dare she come on duty without a bra? Those areolae were prejudicial to good Order or Discipline. Damn her! How big were those puppies, anyway? Rumour had it the lieutenant had reached fifty-five inches last week. No doubt that huge-breasted flunky of hers - Coffey, was it - had leaked the figure after one of her weekly measuring sessions and now it was all over Headquarters. Curse it, and curse regulation 30M .1, as it was now known. Brockenhurst was growing in excess of an inch a week, which meant that effectively she could do whatever she liked. "Any sign of him yet?"
"No, ma'am." Brockenhurst tugged out a white handkerchief and dabbed it to her streaming eyes. Tears dripped on to her upper slopes, quickly soaking the white sea island cotton to pornographic transparency. Her nipples must have been an inch long, to say nothing of those bumps supporting them, like killer bee-stings, as big as halved pomegranates.
"Keep looking, damn you! I'm going to find the Admiral!"
Belinda felt the orgasm building. Action always had this effect on her. At the Pan-naval Oceanic Operational Co-habitation Integration Exercises (POOCHIE) last month she had almost disgraced herself by becoming feverishly aroused by a Bessarabian aircraft carrier launching half a dozen fighters. Only Creamy Coffey's prompt action, dropping a bottle of Choc to mask the unmistakeable scent of overheated officer, then hanging her hat on one of her boss's nipples and her respirator on the other had prevented a deeply embarrassing scene. Where was Creamy when she needed her?
"You sent for me, Belinda, ma'am?" The competent seawoman took in the scene at a glance, her eyes flicking across the array of eau de nil and burnt umber radar screens, her long fingers a-blur across the serried keyboards and control panels. "Improbable?" she asked with no more than a twitch of her eyebrows.
Belinda, choking, gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"You're sure it's not Imperceptible?"
The seawoman spun away to consult a list of co-ordinates; a glittering display of static electricity arcing between her big nylon-clad thighs, her emerald green fingernail gliding down the wipe-clean whiteboard with a thrilling noise. She seized the microphone. "Now hear this."
Below, in the Situation Room, expectant faces were turned upwards to the quintuple-glazed windows looking down on the vast map of the world's oceans.
"Now hear this. Target co-ordinates Alpha Kilo Fife Niner Tree Zero Zero Fower; launch, I say again launch tubes one, two, three and four. This is not a drill." She pressed a red button with the heel of one hand, then immediately sucked her finger. "Bastard, and I'd just got that fucking nail looking good, too." The faces below looked up with fresh anxiety. "What the fuck do you all think you're looking at? All personnel. Go to STATE MAGNOLIA. I say again, go to STATE MAGNOLIA."
"Magnolia? Can you do that?" Belinda gasped.
"I just did. Right, Belinda, the poo's going to hit the fan in around thirty seconds from now."
"Thirty seconds? You mean that nuke you just launched only takes thirty seconds to reach Lichtenstein?"
"No, in thirty seconds, the Admiral will be in here. You just came, didn't you?" Coffey turned on the extractor fans. "That ought to do it. Now, blow your nose. There, good girl! Now we'd better do something about your face..."
"Who is she, anyway?" said Leading MAN Lucian Uranus.
"Don't look!" hissed his partner, MAN Felix Cummings. "She'll see us!"
"She's got the hugest tits. How come she's still only a lieutenant?"
"Maybe she's been very, very naughty. Look out, the cow's coming."
"Time to talk, Uranus? Cummings? There's an emergency in progress. It may have escaped your notice that we are at STATE MAGNOLIA. Now keep plotting."
Lieutenant Archibald's face took on a terrible aspect and she brought it to within an inch of Uranus's trembling lower lip. "You've got something to say for yourself, Uranus?"
"Yes, please, ma'am."
"You mean 'aye-aye, ma'am', dammit!"
"Aye-aye. Only it's very hard to plot when the map's upside down like this."
"Of course it's fucking upside down, you stupid MAN. We're plotting the progress of Impregnable, and he's going south!"
"Get on with it or you'll be in the brig before your pansified arse touches the ground!"
Ratings of the Brilliantine Male Auxiliary Navy, or MANs, were almost exclusively homosexual by nature or inclination. They rarely went to sea, most of them serving as clerks and plotters in Ops and Situation Rooms, where their aptitude for sticking flags in maps was matched only by their deliciously camp voices, so mellifluous over the voice communications networks.
"She's such a bitch! I'll scratch her eyes out one of these days."
"As they say in the British navy, if you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined."
"What do they mean?"
"Search me, sweetness, but they're always saying it. Can you pass me some of those ducky little flags, cherub?"
"Mmmm. The cerise or the heliotrope?"
"Neither. It will have to be something that doesn't simply scream at the magnolia. How about that delish pale lemon with just a smidgin of gorgonzola?"
"That's better. A little powder just to take the shine off, and ... there!" Creamy touched the tip of Belinda's little nose with one finger. "You look good enough to ... did you say Lichtenstein?"
"That bunch of nukes I just launched. Did you say Lichtenstein?"
"Alpha Kilo Fife Niner Tree Zero Zero Fower; that's Lichtenstein city centre."
"Oh, shit. How many megatons?"
"I'll just check. Oooh-wooh!" Belinda's nipples extended another half inch and two matching rips appeared in her shirt.
"What is it?"
"They're MIRVs. Multiple Independently-targeted..."
"I know what a MIRV is. What yield?"
"Each fifty megatons, low airburst, due on target in ten seconds from ... mark! Eight ... seven ... six..."
"Oh, fuck it. Should have been Luxembourg. I always get those two mixed up. And San Marino, that's just as bad..."
"Two ... one... now!" Belinda came copiously for several seconds before regaining her officer-like qualities. "I suppose it's too late to send a note of apology?"
"Should I launch another salvo, or had we better wait for the admiral?"
"Might as well wait, she'll be in any moment now. Pity about this shirt."
"Oh, God, Belinda! It's a disaster!"
"They probably had it coming to them for sinking the old Indomitable. I'll miss that old tub. He was my first. You never forget your first, Creamy. Taking out Lichtenstein was the least we could do to avenge old Goodbody and the girls..."
"Not Lichtenstein, Belinda. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a pity and everything. But your shirt! What are we going to do about those nipples of yours?"
"Leave them! Stand well back immediately!"
"Lieutenant Commander Ptarmigan!"
"You're under arrest, Brockenhurst. Article 30Q of Navy Regulations. 'Nipples shall not exceed a length of one inch except during suckling.' Yours, if I am not mistaken, are at least an inch and three quarters." She grasped them and pulled them out into the open air, splitting the shirt beyond any hope of economical repair and extending Belinda's nipples by a further four inches. They retracted unwillingly when she let them go. "No, don't try and hide them. Leave them out. We'll see what the Admiral has to say about those ... those ... obscene spigots!"
"Attention on deck!"
"At ease, ladies. Hi, Belinda, Creamy. What are you standing to attention for, girls? Wow, Lindy! Nipples. Jeez!" Belinda's shirt had split asunder following the lieutenant commander's assault and her breasts now piled out like outsized milk chocolate flavoured muffins capped with dark chocolate frosting and strawberries at the tips.
"We've had a disaster, Admiral."
"At ease, Coffey! It's not a disaster, a girl's tits falling out. Especially a pair like these. If they weren't still growing, you'd be at least a commodore by now, Belinda."
"I wasn't talking about the lieutenant's tits, Admiral."
"Breasts, sailor!" yelled Ptarmigan. "Sailors have tits, officers have breasts."
"Do lighten up, Ptarmigan. Tell you what, be a darling and run and fetch my baseball cap. If we're going to have a war, I do like to be dressed properly."
"Baseball?" The lieutenant commander gasped.
"Oh, silly me! I didn't tell you which one. The Yankees is so common. Would my Mets cap go with this top, Belinda?"
"It might, Admiral, if you wore your medal ribbons. That nice orange one would go really well, and the blue brings out your eyes."
"You're right, as always, Belinda. Off you go, then, Ptarmigan. Take your time."
Sobbing with frustration, the officer flounced out.
"She's a sweetie, but she gets so wound up." The admiral's voice dropped to a whisper. "Getting a bit near the change, of course..."
"Yes, Creamy. You have my full attention. I'm all ears. And tits, of course. So what's your problem? I see you've placed us on Magnolia. I'm sure you've got a perfectly good reason; Magnolia's so bland. What was wrong with Blush Peach?"
Creamy gulped. She was still rigidly at attention, as were her nipples. "I ... I just nuked Lichtenstein, Admiral."
"No shit! Wow, you sure don't fuck around! Was it a doozy? How many megs?"
"Fifty, ma'am," said Belinda. "MIRV."
"Great! No chance of any survivors, then. But shit, Creamy, what did they do to deserve that?"
"Somebody sank the old Indomitable..." Belinda blurted.
"I'm sure it was the Luxemburgers, ma'am," said Creamy. "That's who I meant to take out, but I always get so confused."
"It's easily done," said Belinda. "I do the same myself, sometimes."
"Shit, who doesn't," the admiral laughed. "Lichtenstein, eh? Nice little place. I was there in sixty-two. Naval attachée. Bunch of flat-chested women if you ask me, and that's just the men. No harm done ... except..." The admiral's eye wandered over the scene in the Situation Room below. A fight seemed to have broken out on the plotting table. "I wish those guys would stop rolling around on the table like that. They're playing havoc with all my flags."
"With respect, ma'am." Creamy had relaxed her rigid attention and was bending over the radar scope, ger nipples just grazing the desktop.
"What is it, Creamy?"
She tapped on the glass with a lurid fingernail. "Look, Admiral. Here, ma'am." The officers gathered closer, one on each side of the seawoman, their breasts forming an almost solid wall of flesh between them and the screen. "See this blip here? It's heading right for us."
The admiral stiffened. "The enemy?"
Creamy straightened up, her areolae silhouetted starkly against the vivid red glow of the Missile Ready lights. "Let's go to WILD CHERRY, Admiral!"
The admiral rubbed her hands. "Excellent idea. Capital. First rate. Tell the girls and boys downstairs and get a Flash message out to the ships and things. Wild Cherry, eh? We've never been to Wild Cherry in all the years I've been an admiral. I've always thought it was such a lovely colour..."
"You know what this means, admiral?" said Belinda shakily. Creamy had already made the announcement and down in the Situation Room, groups of MANs were mincing around changing the drapes surrounding the plot boards. A clerk scurried in and changed the tablecloth for a red one, placing a critical fingertip in his mouth and making a minute adjustment before expressing satisfaction and sashaying out.
"It's war, Admiral," Creamy reminded her.
"Yes, it's war, all right! A pity we're fresh out of ships. Curse these lily-livered poncing politicians with their defence cuts. Still, we're pretty safe down here, under three inches of solid concrete."
"With respect, ma'am..."
"What is it?"
"Look at the map, ma'am. Down there on the wall of the Situation Room."
"It's upside down."
"Yes, that's Archibald, ma'am. She can only map-read upwards and they're tracking Preggers. He's steaming south. But that's not important right now. Look at it."
The admiral and the lieutenant both turned their heads almost fully the wrong way up. Belinda had to hold her breasts out of the way to see anything.
Creamy continued. "That enemy ship is steaming straight towards the port of Brilliantina Grande. ETA at Point Areola is ... approximately seven hours, seven minutes, fourteen seconds. From there they can lob shells right into Parliament Square."
"Works for me, Creamy," said the admiral with enthusiasm.
"With respect, Admiral. If they can shell Parliament, they can shell the naval base, too."
The admiral thumped the desk with a fist. "Damn it, you're right! But what can we do? We're right out of ships!"
"Admiral! We're out of crews, perhaps, but not out of ships!"
"I beg your pardon! We are. Impregnable's miles away, Inextricable's in the Caspian Sea, Improbable's... Improbable's sunk..."
"It's not confirmed yet, ma'am. Just probable. But there's one last chance. Insufferable."
"Insufferable? But he's been in mothballs for a year. It would take a week to get that tub seaworthy. Even longer to get the stink of mothballs out..."
"We can do it, ma'am! We don't need full armament, just A and B turrets, a handful of torpedoes..."
The admiral's gaze wandered towards Belinda's twin torpedoes, considerably more than a mere handful. "Can we get her going?"
"It's not the ship that's the problem, Admiral. It's the crew. As you say, we're right out of prime seawomen. We don't have officers..."
"The hell we don't! We've got enough officers right here!"
"In Headquarters?" Belinda gasped. "Competent officers?"
The admiral stood up straight, her eyes ablaze. She gazed down through the quadruple-glazed window upon the Situation Room below. Expectant faces looked back up at her, their eyes bright with unshed tears. Stand to attention, Captain Brockenhurst!"
Belinda looked round for this new arrival. The truth dawned. "Captain? Me?"
"Who else is even remotely qualified? Look at the size of your tits, Captain! How big are they?"
"Fifty-six inches yesterday, ma'am."
"And a lot more today, Belinda!"
"Tape measure, Admiral?" Creamy suggested.
"No time, Creamy. Commander Creamy!"
"But I can't be an officer, Admiral! Look at me!"
"Look at your breasts, Creamy. How big?"
"Fifty-eights. But I've got a very broad back, Admiral."
"Noted. Get yourselves down to the navy yard, get your delicious little butts on board Insufferable and start preparing for sea. I'll find you a crew. We won't be able to find you a full complement, but damn it, we'll have the essentials: a chef, a sailmaker, a couple of girls to shoot the guns and stuff. Off you go, and good hunting! No, wait a minute!" She tore off her tie and began unbuttoning her crisply ironed shirt. "You can't take over your first command with your nipples hanging out, Captain! Put this on."
They stared at the admiral, suddenly brutally aware of the sheer size it takes to rise to flag rank in the Brilliantine Navy. The woman's rack was stupendous, housed in a cavernous navy-blue bra with embroidered sunflowers on the cups. Full-sized ones.
Ptarmigan bustled back in, her eyes boggling at the sight of her admiral swapping shirts with the vast-bosomed lieutenant. "Your cap, Admiral."
"Ah, Ptarmigan. Just the woman I wanted. Just take those stripes off your epaulettes, will you? I've just promoted Belinda and Creamy, here."
"Creamy's a commander and Belinda's a captain. Keep the half stripes for yourself, but give Creamy your two thick ones." The admiral swiftly removed one of the lieutenant's stripes from each shoulder of Belinda's ripped shirt and handed them to Creamy. "There. Three each side for you, Creamy, dear. Belinda, just take that thick one off yours and replace it with ... damn! Not enough stripes. Tell you what, just keep the extra thick one instead. You can be a commodore. You're certainly big enough."
"What about me?" wailed Ptarmigan.
"You'd better salute your superior officers, hadn't you? D'you fancy a ride on a ship?"
"A ship?" Ptarmigan went as pale as a Brilliantine naval officer ever could, which wasn't very.
"You know? A ship? Long grey thing? Pointed at one end, blunt at the other? Floats on the sea, makes loud noises?"
"I know what a ship is, Admiral. I'm a naval off..."
"Take her along, girls. Give her a job. And blow those bastards out of the water, whoever they are! Dismiss!" The admiral turned on her heel and strode out before her officers could see the tear glistening on her cheek.
"Steam up yet, Chief?"
"Aye-aye, sorr! Nearly there, sorr."
Belinda glanced sideways at Creamy. "An Irish chief engineer?"
"Chief Engineer Bridget O'Rafferty's one of the best, Captain. She jumped at the chance of getting her hands dirty one last time. Been on the beach since '94."
"No, working on the beach. She gives rides to the kids."
"What's this navy coming to? A Brilliantine officer giving donkey rides?"
"No, Captain. Just rides."
"How big are her tits, Creamy?"
Creamy consulted her clipboard. "Sixty-fours, Captain. But she's a big girl. Probably sixty inch hips."
"That's shameful, Creamy."
"Shameful, ma'am," the commander agreed. "The rest of the crew are coming aboard, Captain. Permission to... ?"
"Go ahead. How soon can we be under way?"
"Another hour, tops. Here they come now. With any luck, the admiral will have found us a few..."
"What's the matter, Creamy? You've gone nearly white!"
"I ... I can't believe ... it looks as if ... no, it can't be! Look! Men!"
"Men? On a ship? You mean MANs?"
"They don't walk like MANs. These look straight. White ones, black ones..." Creamy saluted her captain. "I'd better go and find out what's going down."
"Going down?" said Belinda faintly.
The crew members were dispersing immediately as soon as they reached the deck, almost as if they were familiar with ships and knew exactly where they were going. In the case of the men, it was impossible, but...
Creamy arrived on the scene, aware of male eyes studying her chest. "Who are they all, Yeo?"
"Sailors, ma'am. The admiral sent them. All here on my list, ma'am." The yeowoman's eyes rolled in her head as she tapped her pencil against her list of names.
"Ours not to reason why, ma'am. A couple of officers amongst them, ma'am. Should I send them to the wardroom?"
"M... male officers?"
"I know, ma'am. Sounds ridiculous. Apparently they were left behind when their ship sailed last week. The admiral found them at lodgings in the town and volunteered them to sign on. They're now full members of the Brilliantine Navy."
"Let me see that! Lt Jones? Sub Lt Smith? Midshipman Mickey Mouse? What is this?"
"It's a list of names, ma'am. Coming aboard on the next batch of transport. That'll be the last of them, ma'am. They've only got one little bus and we're supposed to sail in an hour to head off that Malvolian cruiser that's heading for Point Areola."
"Who told you that, Yeo?"
The yeowoman's craggy face remained blank. "Just what I heard, Commander. It was on the news earlier."
"Shit, haven't these people heard of security? Carry on, Yeowoman." She returned the yeowoman's parade ground salute. The woman stared above her head, expressionless, her breasts still vibrating from the thud of her heels on the deck when she had crashed to attention.
On the dockside, music could be heard, getting closer. There was the tramp of feet and a hum of excited voices.
"As soon as the last batch is aboard, lose that gangway thingie and let's get ready!" Creamy shrieked to anyone who might be listening. She turned and hurried away, feeling eyes boring into her bosom. Despite everything, her nipples were becoming erect with the prospect of action. The smell of powder in her nostrils ... She screeched to a halt. "What are you doing, sailor?"
"Just fixing my make-up, ma'am," said an extremely pretty but almost flat-chested young rating, hiding behind B turret. She tucked her powder compact in her bag and screwed her lipstick shut before coming to attention, her small pointy nipples proudly aimed between the commander's eyes. "They say there's men on board, ma'am. Is it true?"
"Get to your duties, sailor! We've got a war to fight!"
The petite sailor saluted, then her eyes flickered to the dock. "Oh, ma'am, look! Don't it make your nipples stiff? Look at them!"
And round the corner came the Band of the Loyal Marines, marching to the beat of a single drum, wheeling in perfect formation on to the dockside beneath the peeling grey paint of the Insufferable, crossing the railway tracks glistening in the early evening drizzle, the drum majorette at the head now marking time, his gilded staff held vertically until he screamed an order and brought it crashing down - and with a terrible clash of cymbals the band swung into Anchors Afloat.
Now behind the band there came an impatient little bus, sounding its horn to get through the press of bodies; the husbands and wives and lovers and small boys in the crowd which had finally been allowed to pass through the dockyard gates - surging forward to wave the old Insufferable on his way to war. Somewhere at the back, a TV crew was setting up its cameras and lights, and a couple of two-man camera teams scampered ahead of the crush to grab positions at the foot of the brow, now steeply inclined as the proud Insufferable rose on the fast-making tide.
As if in response to the stirring, crashing, scalp-tingling tune, Insufferable's siren whooped three times to hurry the last of the crew on their way, and a huge shout of triumph went up from the crowd below as the bus edged its way through to disgorge its passengers onto the quay, blinking in bewilderment, hoisting their kitbags on to their shoulders and starting up the slope to their ship - their ship - their home until ... ah, who could tell?
"Oooh, ma'am," sobbed the little sailor. She reached up and flung her arms around the commander's neck and kissed her full on the lips.
"As you were, sailor!" Creamy howled as she detached herself some fifteen seconds later, and the sailor saluted and trembled with horror at what she had done. But to her relief and astonishment, the tall woman with the commander's stripes on her shoulders returned her salute and smiled. "We're gonna give 'em hell, sailor!" And she tweaked the sailor's small nipples painfully between thumb and forefinger before almost running off in the direction of the bridge.
"All lines singled up fore and aft, ma'am."
Captain Brockenhurst licked her suddenly dry lips. "Very good, Cox'n. Let's take her out. Let go aft. Slow astern port. Let go for'ard."
The siren howled again, bringing another roar from the crowd. Handkerchiefs were out, wagging in the TV lights. There was clear water now between the ship and quay as the tired old vessel's raked shape backed out between the bobbing channel guirls, a seething froth at his stern as Belinda reversed engines and spun the ship almost in his own length and aimed that shapely but unfashionable prow at the harbour mouth. The ship's stern squatted low in the murky water, yellowish black smoke coughed and belched from both stacks and it fairly rocketed away with a final defiant howl from its siren.
Back on the quay, the admiral stepped down from her jeep to watch as Insufferable heeled and surged away out of sight behind the harbour wall, only a smoke trail and a set of whirling radar antennas visible until a pair of immense battle flags broke out at both mastheads.
"Oh, my God, driver. We nearly made it. The old bugger's still got a fair turn of speed. Look at that! What would I give to be with those brave girls?"
"And boys, ma'am."
"And boys. Aye-aye."
The crowd was hushed now. The band was silent; the clouds on the horizon parted to reveal the golden orb of the setting sun as it dipped into the sea.
"Your coat, Admiral," said the driver.
"You're still only wearing your bra, ma'am."
"Ah, of course. You know, maybe I am getting too old to go to war after all. Take me home."