Chapter 1

I took a red pen and scribed a circle round the ad:-

That's all it said. Normally, I would have ignored the advertisement, and forgotten it. But it kept running through my head all day. When I came home, I looked at it again. Predictably, it still said the same thing. Well, I thought, I am certainly large-breasted, and possibly very large, depending on where you stand on these things. I have a forty-six inch bust, and combined with my twenty-five inch waist and thirty-five hips, that's as big as anyone I've ever met.

And then there was this mysterious reference to sisters. What was that all about? No problem, as far as I was concerned; I was the middle one of three girls.

Excellent remuneration, it said. It didn't even call it pay. Well, I could always do with some excellent remuneration.

I scribbled the address on an envelope, enclosed a note, dropped it in the mail, and forgot all about it.

It must have been a month later. I came home from work exhausted. A new client had been giving us a hard time, the way new clients sometimes do, trying to get something for nothing. There was a pile of letters on the mat; I had gone to work so early today, the postman hadn't even been when I left home. There were the usual bills, depressing as usual, bank statement, shocking - or it would have been if I hadn't been well used to it - and a few odds and ends of envelopes. Junk mail. I was about to throw the junk in the bin, when I noticed a fat envelope with an unfamiliar look to it. The word Wellington was printed in the top left hand corner. That was all, Wellington.

I opened it, and a glossy brochure fell out, together with a folded letter. The brochure showed a stately home of some sort, miles of manicured lawns, fountains and a lake fringed with willows. A group of women played croquet in the middle distance. At the top of the brochure, it said simply, Wellington Hall. It was junk mail after all. A health farm wanting to relieve me of some money I didn't have. Nice try, Wellington, I thought, but no cigar. Especially at a health farm.

Then I glanced at the letter:

"Thank you so much for writing," it said.

I did?

It went on for a while about dates, directions for finding Wellington Hall and ended by mentioning a surprising sum of money for doing, apparently, nothing. Nothing, apparently...

The letter was signed J Granville Wellington.

Attached to the bottom of the letter was a form to fill in. It was obviously a rip-off, a scam of some sort. But what? Somehow, J Granville Wellington seemed entirely plausible. I could do no harm by filling in the form and sending it off. There was even a prepaid envelope enclosed.

Okay, my brain must have been affected by fatigue. I filled in the form and posted it.

This time, the answer came back by return. J Granville Wellington assured me I was not the victim of a scam or rip-off. He was unable to give me full details because of the nature of the project, but he could only repeat his offer of accommodation for the weekend of a date three weeks ahead, arriving on Friday evening for dinner. He even offered recommendations for clothing: a dress for evening wear, bikini or suitable swimwear, clothes for tennis, casual clothes for lounging around. A busy weekend, yet still there would be time for lounging around! The clincher was that J Granville Wellington was going to pay me. He was going to pay me rather more than the amount I would normally expect to earn in a month. Expenses, he called it.

I thought about it for ten seconds, then posted the reply.

Three weeks later, I was pulling into the gravel drive of Wellington Hall and parking at the end of a row of about half a dozen cars. The glossy brochure had done the old place justice. It was an imposing edifice in a warm, golden-yellow stone: nothing ornate, just massively reassuring and solid. No sooner had I turned off the engine than a figure appeared beside the car door, greeted me by name and offered assistance with my bag. I thanked the man, a tall, hunky creature with finely-chiselled features and a grey chauffeur's uniform with peaked cap.

He led the way to the main lobby, where an echoing parquet floor led to a broad staircase curving its deep-piled way to a landing. Portraits of someone's male ancestors lined the walls. The chauffeur, who told me his name was Godfrey, opened one of the doors, which led to a bright, sunny room with a view across extensive lawns sloping down to the lake. There were two large beds in the room, a huge television and a pink-tiled bathroom with ankle-deep carpet.

Godfrey touched his cap and told me that dinner would be served at eight, gathering in the Blue Room at seven-thirty for drinks. Mr Wellington regretted that he was prevented from joining us for the meal, and begged our forgiveness. My roommate, too, a Miss Carson, would be arriving late, too late for dinner, unfortunately, but we would meet after dinner. Godfrey permitted himself a half smile before taking his leave and melting away.

That left plenty of time for a soak in Mr Wellington's tub. There was even time to sit by the window and dry my hair. Down by the lake, some people were swimming; I heard laughter and screams. It was too far away to see clearly, but they were undoubtedly women.

Choosing what to wear for dinner was a problem. The dress I had brought had seemed like a good idea back at home, but now, in front of the mirror, the neckline seemed just a little too much on the revealing side. In fact, there was a whole lot more of me out of it than in. What, I wondered, had made me think I could wear a thing like this at a stately home! I had a little jacket which softened the impact a little. I tried it on; there was still six inches of cleavage showing, but you had to search for it now. It would have to do.

My shoes, perhaps a shade too fuck-me for these surroundings, sank into the carpeting on the staircase as I descended, trying to feel like the heroine making her grand entrance at the society ball. The self-deception worked for all of twenty seconds, during which time I had wiggled and jiggled my tarty way almost to the foot of the stairs. I was on the verge of turning round and fleeing up the stairs back to my room when I realised my arrival had been observed. It wasn't Godfrey this time, it was another man-servant, tall and hunky, of course, with thick dark hair. His eyes flickered over me without emotion, yet I had an impression, somehow, of amused scrutiny. The man gave the most minimal of bows, barely an inclination of the head.

"Good evening, madam," he said. "The guests are gathering in the Blue Room." He took a few paces forward and opened a massive door. A wave of sound came out of the room: conversation, girlish giggles.

Put a bold front on it, girl, I said to myself, took a deep breath, and ventured into the Blue Room. There were perhaps a dozen women in there already, chattering amongst themselves. Some of them seemed to have met already. Of course, some would be roommates. I realised one thing immediately; I needn't have worried about the cleavage! It was, after all, a weekend for 'large-breasted and very large-breasted women!' You don't often find a collection of very large breasts in the same place. The impact can be quite powerful, when you do.

A waiter appeared at my elbow with a tray of drinks. I took one and saw a group of girls open up in front of me to let me in. I said hello, and a tall woman with almost impossible-looking breasts introduced us.

"I'm Cherry," she said, "this is Felicity," she indicated a shortish blonde, quite plump, in an overflowing top which looked distinctly worrying. "This is Suzanne," a slim, dark-haired girl smiled at me. Slim, but almost dangerously top-heavy. The last in the group was Hazel, who made me feel a little less inadequate, as she was more or less my size.

The conversation was fairly general, we seemed to be avoiding the subject which was most important: why were we all here. From time to time we looked around as new arrivals came in. Each one confirmed my opinion: I was one of the least well-developed women here, forty-six inches or not!

Some of them were a little bigger than me, like Felicity, some were much bigger, like Suzanne, some, like Cherry, made me feel flat-chested, and a couple must have made Cherry feel flat-chested! I don't know how he'd done it, but J Granville Wellington had certainly come up with a fine bunch of titties!

Dinner was, in a word, marvellous, served by a team of unobtrusive male waiters. The noise level gradually increased as almost three dozen female tongues became loosened by the good company and the free-flowing wine. The only mystery - apart from the still-not-mentioned one of our presence here - was the absence of a host. J Granville Wellington had not put in an appearance, which struck some of us as strange. But by the end of five courses, we weren't really noticing!

In the lounge, after the meal, we slumped in armchairs, nursing drinks and chatting. Some of us were distinctly giggly. One or two of us seemed to be revealing rather more bosom than previously. In Cherry's case, this was scarcely credible. She was having difficulty keeping her breasts inside her deep-plunging top. I could hardly keep my eyes off them. Until my attention was distracted.

A tall, grey-templed gentleman had appeared in the room. Without a doubt, this was J Granville Wellington! He made it clear, seconds later.

"Ladies, please don't get up! I hope you all enjoyed your meal." The voice was cultured, without accent or affectation. We will be gathering in the morning for breakfast at eight." There were one or two good-natured groans. "Please enjoy a restful night. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and, I am certain, a memorable experience for you all. I wish you a good evening." He was about to leave, when he appeared to remember something.

"Allow me to introduce the final member of our house party. She has been delayed, but I hope you will make her welcome amongst you. Ladies, meet April Carson!"

My attention had been distracted before, when J Granville Wellington came into the room. It was now distracted again. In fact, my jaw fell open in an unladylike manner, and I noticed several others who were affected the same way. Cherry saw my reaction and tried to look over her shoulder. The effort proved too much for her overloaded bodice, and a huge breast plopped out into her lap, looking even bigger now it was out in the open.

It is an indication of how I had been distracted, that I looked at Cherry's sudden dramatic exposure for no more than a couple of seconds. Two thoughts were running through my head. The first was the pleasant one that April Carson was my roommate. The second was that this deliciously-beautiful girl, with dark-hair swinging around her shoulders had, by a staggering margin, the biggest breasts in the room!

Somehow, I got to my feet. I am afraid I was weaving slightly as I made my way towards April, who was looking at me with a slightly apprehensive smile.

"April, hi! I'm Catherine. We're sharing a room."

April's face lit up in a welcoming grin. "Oh, that's great! Mr Wellington showed me to the room, but I thought you might have been some old mare!" Her voice was youthful, with a hint of North Country accent to it. It made her sound like a teenager who had been dropped into these surroundings completely without warning. A waiter offered her a drink, and she accepted it, taking a cautious sip. "I'll have to be careful with this stuff," she giggled softly, "I'm not used to it."

I wished I was more used to it, too. Other girls were joining us, all looking more or less the worse for drink. They gazed at April in open admiration, even awe. She was wearing a plain black skirt, narrow and simply-cut. It clung to the slight curves of her hips and the suggestion of a narrow waist. It was only a suggestion, because it simply wasn't visible. Her breasts, in an extremely large white shirt, completely filled the space between just below her shoulders and her stomach. The outline of a black bra showed through the material. Not only did it support her breasts in such a way that the upper slopes were almost horizontal, its improbable cups were so full that her breasts were far wider than her slender body. At one stage, she turned away to take another drink from a waiter's tray, and both her breasts were visible from behind her, even beyond the outsides of her arms.

The circle of admirers stayed around April for the next half hour, when April, stifling a yawn, made a charmingly simple statement that she was tired out, and would they excuse her. Everyone immediately apologised for keeping her standing around when she was so tired, and she said goodnight to them all. She came to my side and said quietly, "I'll go to bed now, if you don't mind, I'm sorry!"

"Don't be sorry, love! Look, I'm pretty well done in myself. I'll come up with you." So we made our way to the door, followed by looks of admiration and sheer disbelief, not directed at me! We had a little difficulty getting up the stairs; I was to some extent out of my head, April had enough difficulty keeping her own balance without being responsible for mine as well. We made it without falling over, but it was as well nobody was watching.

We arrived in our bedroom and sat on our beds, looking at each other. April blushed. "I've never done this sort of thing before," she said.

"What sort of thing?"

"Undressing in front of another woman."

"You mean you've only undressed in front of a man? How old are you, April?"

"Eighteen. And gosh, no! I've never done that. I'm not a virgin, though," she said, hurriedly.

"You did it in the dark!"

"In the back of a van. It wasn't very good!"

"It isn't always. It doesn't matter. It usually gets better. Do you get many boys staring at you?"

"What do you think?" She laughed. "It was terrible at school when I first got, well, big, like this. It was when I was fifteen, I suppose I was a late developer, but I certainly made up for it!"

"You got this big in three years?"

"No way!" I didn't think anyone said that any more. "I got this big in nine months! I was this big by my sixteenth birthday. I must have put on about three feet in nine months. I thought they were going to burst!"

"They're the biggest I've ever seen!"

"You haven't seen them. But I suppose you're going to, some time, aren't you!"

"I hope so," I said. She hesitated a moment, then unbuttoned her shirt. More and more cleavage and overstuffed bra appeared, until she tugged the ends of the shirt out of her skirt, stood up and shrugged the shirt off, tossing it on to the bed. Her bra was even bigger now that I could see the whole thing. She placed her hands beneath the cups, lifting them. They looked heavy. Terribly heavy.

"This is the difficult bit. It can hurt if I'm not careful," and she bent forward from the waist, before reaching behind her to release the bra hooks. It took some time, before she finally eased the two halves of the bra's body band apart, slipping the wide shoulder straps down, and lowering the bra off. Her breasts seemed to go on stretching themselves out, longer and longer, until their ends appeared, with puffy pink areolae and surprisingly small nipples. She sighed, tossed the bra on the bed behind her and stood up carefully.

She looked at me with an anxious expression, as if unsure of my reaction. I wasn't unsure at all. I was open-mouthed. April took that as approval. She was still holding her breasts to stop them bouncing and flopping down to their full length, although they splodged over her hands, trying to escape. Finally, carefully, with a slightly pained expression, she lowered her hands away altogether, and rested the fat globes on her slender tummy.

I just sat there and looked at her. I could have looked for hours. Finally, April moved, breaking the spell which had bound me. It was replaced by another spell, as she felt at the side of her skirt for the clasp. Now when a normal woman does that, what does she do? That's right. It takes both hands. The hand on the opposite side of the body from the clasp reaches across to join the hand which is on the same side as the clasp.

If I do it, I can either squash my breasts against my body, or I can allow my arm to push one breast upwards. Someone like Cherry, for instance, would have to lift both breasts up out of the way. Not April! Her arm burrowed beneath her breasts, disappearing completely. Her breasts were lifted by the arm, certainly, but they hung so far beyond her waist that having an arm beneath them was hardly noticeable.

Not possible? Try it, using latex models...

Whether you believe it or not, that's what April did, finally releasing her skirt and letting it slip down to the floor. Then, wearing only a pair of brief pants, she said, "Okay if I use the bathroom first, I'm bursting?" And she wobbled away, her massive tits swinging and swaying. The rear view was even more arousing; a tiny waist made her taut, round buttocks seem fuller than they really were, while both her breasts were always visible, whatever the angle.

The bathroom door closed after her, and I heard water running. Slowly, I stood up, slid out of my dress and put it on a hanger. Then, curious, I went to April's bed, and picked up the black bra. The shoulder straps were two inches wide. The broad body band was twice that width, and had eight hooks. The cups were big enough to hold my head. I know that for a fact, because my head was in one of them when April emerged from the bathroom.