J Granville Wellington Esq
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2011 by Some Sort of Dog

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

"Large-breasted and very large-breasted women required for interesting project.

Especially interested in women who have older or younger sisters.

Excellent remuneration. No pornography.

Write with measurements to Box Number xxxxxxxx..."

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?

"My apologies for not replying earlier, but I have been inundated with replies.

However, few have been from ladies as well-qualified as yourself.

It is my pleasure, therefore, to acquaint you with details of my offer, which is completely without strings.

May I invite you to Wellington Hall for a weekend..."

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.

She giggled.

"It suits you," she said. I tried to tug it off, but it had become caught up somewhere. My face was inside the girl's bra and she was helping me get myself out, laughing as the hooks became caught in my hair. I could smell her body scent in the bra cup, and feel the warmth of her closeness as she stood next to me. Her breasts were soft against my naked body. "Hold still, it's coming off," she said softly, concentrating, then I felt the bra lifted off my face and I saw the light.

April's face was bemused, but not in an unfriendly way. "What were you doing in there?" she laughed.

"I don't know," I answered, honestly. "I just wanted to see how big the cups were."

"Well, now you know." She hadn't moved away. She stood with the bra in her hand, one of her breasts resting against my lower stomach. I didn't want her to move it away. My hand, without my meaning it to, sneaked round behind her, cupped her plump little buttock and pulled her to me. I felt, rather than heard, her little gasp. And before I knew it, we were in each other's arms.

I suppose chambermaids are used to finding both occupants of a room in the same bed. It's the sort of scandal they thrive on down in the kitchens when they gather for an exchange of gossip and a cup of the cook's tea. Perhaps it's a little less usual when both of the occupants of the bed are women, or perhaps, at J Granville Wellington's house, it's not. I dare say quite a few of the other rooms contained loving couples that night!

That much became more obvious when we made our way down to breakfast. The breakfast room was set out with a dozen small tables, each laid for two. Half the tables were occupied. I spotted Cherry and Felicity, and waved. Other girls called hello. We were dressed in jeans and T-shirts, as were most of the others. We sat at a vacant table close to Suzanne and Hazel. It was interesting to speculate on how many of the girls had paired off, and perhaps made love, with their roommates!

There was a low buzz of conversation. Perhaps some of the women were regretting the extra glass or three of wine the night before. The last of the couples came in, quite openly lovers, the slightly larger woman with a proprietorial hand on the smaller girl's bottom. They sat down, gazing into each other's eyes, leaning towards each other across the table. It would have been nice to have thought of their breasts meeting across the tablecloth, but although the taller woman's titties did rest on the table top, her companion's much larger ones lay heavily in her lap.

A waitress had come in with a pot of coffee in one hand, a pot of tea on the other. She quickly got rid of the coffee and came our way asking brightly, "Tea, anyone?" Suzanne and Hazel held up their hands and the waitress put the pot on their table. Briskly, she asked the other tables what they wanted, made a note on her pad, and wiggled out, her bottom plump and wide in her tight black skirt, her full breasts bouncing. I saw Suzanne pointing at the girl, and giggling at Hazel.

"Did you see that?" she whispered to me. "The waitress. She was wearing a little name tag."

"No, I didn't notice," I said, I hoped politely. What was so unusual about a waitress wearing a name tag?

Suzanne told me. "It said, 'Kate - 19' on it. And her measurements! She was 40-28-40."

"How quaint!" It saved guesswork, certainly. I looked around at some of the other guests. We could do with some of those name tags round here.

A second waitress appeared, with more coffee pots. From a distance, I could see she was a very well-endowed young woman. The white blob of her name tag could be seen high on her left breast as she approached. Suzanne craned to see what the tag said, as the girl passed, on her way to one of the tables farthest from the kitchen. "Well? Did you see it?" I asked her. She nodded and grinned.

The waitress weaved back between the tables to the kitchen. "That was Helen," she said eagerly. "She's 18, and 42-24-34!" I thought, yes, she probably was, too. Other girls had noticed the little tell-tale badges, and the word quickly spread around the breakfast room as a third and a fourth waitress came out to take our breakfast orders. These two were even more well-endowed creatures than Helen. One, a tall blonde with waist-length hair, had very big low-slung breasts and an incredibly narrow waist for her height, which would have been nearly six feet. The other was a foot shorter, quite plump, with full, rounded melons which bounced alluringly.

The information was eagerly passed from table to table as the girls departed. "The blonde one is Andrea, she's 18; 42-18-30. And Virginia's 17; 43-31-37." We were beginning to recognise a pattern here, and waited eagerly to see if any more waitresses came out. Whoever was orchestrating their appearance certainly had a sense of theatre. Girls came and went, but always the first four. Then, when all four of them were out of the room, a little gasp went up from all of us. There was a sort of spotlight over the kitchen door, and a slightly chubby little black girl, only about five feet one or two, was posing beneath the light, carrying a tray of plates in front of her.

There were perhaps four plates on the tray. There wasn't room for more, as the rest of the space was occupied by her breasts, which rested in front of her like large cantaloupes under her white shirt. We didn't get the full effect until she had handed out the four plates, lowered her tray and set off for the kitchen with a proud smile on her face. "That was Luciana - 16; 46-26-38," announced Cherry.

Again, waitresses came and went, each being welcomed by a little murmur of pleasure from the guests. Inevitably, some of the tables had their particular favourites, and greeted them with extra noise, so a kind of byplay built up across the breakfast room as one girl or another bustled into view. The girls knew what was going on, and played up in their different ways, some blushing and keeping their eyes cast down, some flirting outrageously. A particularly ecstatic reception went up each time for little Luciana, who became more playful with each appearance. She had just exited, wiggling her large buttocks so much that she almost lost her balance, when an absolute hush fell.

Those who had been busy eating or not paying attention looked up at the kitchen door, then nudged each other in amazement. A sixth waitress was poised ready to come out. As the silence was replaced by an almost tangible gasp, she slowly set off across the room with her tray of toast. The other girls melted away as she walked, with everything in motion, to the most distant table, bestowed the toast on them together with a dazzling smile, and set off back the way she had come. Before she disappeared, she turned for a final look back at the room. She saw twenty-four open mouths.

"Well?" everyone turned to the table the girl had just served. "What did it say?"

The couple at the table might have had some idea of milking the attention by not replying straight away, but one hulking girl stood up and approached them threateningly. "It's all right, we'll tell you!" they blurted. "It was Karen, she's 15, and it said she was 51-23-33!"

This remark, which came from a couple of quiet girls who nevertheless had plenty to shout about beneath their shirts, was greeted by uproar. The noise certainly would have carried into the kitchen. We all craned our necks eagerly to see if Karen came back - or any of the waitresses, as they had all left the room. How many waitresses were there going to be? Certainly, each had been more spectacular than her predecessor. Were they going to continue to come out of the kitchen, getting more and more over-developed?

Then the door opened again and the seventh waitress appeared, and I think we all realised that this was the climax. The girl was only around five feet tall, but even bigger-breasted than Karen, more playful than Luciana. She was coming our way. She glided round behind April's chair, and simply stood there as if waiting for something. I could see her name tag, it was only inches from my face. It bore the unlikely information: 'Mandy - 15; 55-21-29.'

I could tell that the others were burning up with their desire to see the name tag, but they were prevented from asking because Mandy was standing right there looking at them. Then we noticed all the other waitresses coming back into the breakfast room, taking up positions behind chairs, waiting expectantly for something to happen.

It did. Obviously, it was time for J Granville Wellington to make one of his entrances. He appeared, loping into the room from the main entrance and mounting a low stage area near the kitchen. He held up a hand for silence.

"Good morning, ladies. I hope you have enjoyed your breakfast, and our little entertainment! For those of you not in a position to see her name badge, Mandy is fifteen, and her measurements are 55-21-29! That's right, isn't it, Mandy?"

The girl blushed and nodded. Wellington went on. You will have noticed, of course, that each of the girls has been progressively more well-endowed than the one before. And younger, too, as it happens." A few of us hadn't noticed that particular fact. He held up a hand to quell the noise which was building again.

"There's a reason for that. Nothing happens around here without a very good reason! Shortly, I will ask you to meet some members of my family; my wife and two of my daughters. You will then start to realise, I hope, some of my motivation for bringing you all here. It is a form of research project, in which I hope to gather information which may help me. But enough mystery. Meet my wife, the lovely Celestria!"

A curtain behind him twitched and was pulled aside, and a woman came through. She was dressed simply and casually, like her guests, in jeans and T-shirt, with her long dark hair hanging to her shoulders. Celestria could easily have been one of us. She was as well-qualified as I was, for example. Easily! She was wearing a name badge, simliar to those of the waitresses. She nodded to the guests, then took a pace backward as Wellington continued the introductions.

"This is my eldest daughter, Jackie..." through the curtain came another dark-haired woman, similarly dressed, with rather longer dark hair and considerably more breast development.

"And this... "as the curtain was pulled aside again, " ... is Rachel!" This time, the girl was greeted by a spontaneous burst of applause. She was younger than Jackie, obviously, as Wellington had said so. Her face, too was younger. Their mother, too, wasn't any more than thirty-three or four. Rachel, though - and this is what had brought about the applause - was the proud owner of the biggest breasts in the entire room, and I even include April in that!

We gazed at the three women on the platform, wishing we could read their name badges, and I don't think we heard a word J Granville Wellington was saying. Then he paused, as if aware that he didn't have our full attention, and waited for silence.

"We will see you at ten a.m. in the conservatory, and you will all have an opportunity to meet my family - face to, as it were, face!"

It would have taken wild horses to keep us out of the conservatory after that. The Wellington daughters had grabbed our attention. Promptly at ten, J Granville Wellington sauntered in, followed by his wife. They were deep in conversation, and they made a lovely couple. In fact, Celestria made a lovely couple on her own. She had changed into something less casual, a knitted dress with a deeply scooped neckline revealing a more than ample cleavage. She still wore her name tag, I was pleased to see, although she was too far off for me to read it as yet.

J Granville Wellington cleared his throat, and made an announcement. "Thank you all for coming, we will get around to meet you all, in good time, but meanwhile, please talk amongst yourselves. My daughters have been slightly delayed, but they assure me they will be joining us as soon as they are decently dressed! Thank you."

"Something occurred to me," Suzanne remarked. "Why only two daughters?"

"That's all he's got, I suppose," I said, puzzled.

"I don't know. Remember at breakfast, he introduced Jackie as his eldest daughter?"


"Eldest, not elder! There must be more than two!"

"Oh, come on! Surely, if..."

"No, I don't think so, not Wellington. He says exactly what he means. He is absolutely precise about everything. I am pretty sure, if he says 'eldest', he means exactly that. I'll take a bet on it, if you like!"

She'd made me think. No, I wouldn't bet on it.

Then I was shaking hands with Celestria Wellington. She wasn't as tall as me, and her breasts were slightly plumper than they had looked at breakfast. She saw me trying to see her name tag, and laughed. "I've been trying to get Gran to have these things hung on a chain round our necks," she giggled, "everybody's looking into our cleavages anyway. Here..." and she twisted the plastic badge so I could read it. Amusingly, it had her age on it, just as the waitresses badges had. It said 'Celestria, 32; 48-24-34.'

"So," she said, "do you have any sisters?"

"One," I told her. I'm sure she knew anyway. "One younger than me."

"Is she as big as you? Up here, I mean?" She pointed to my tits. Celestria Wellington was as direct as her husband.

"We're about the same size," I told her. "At least, we were the same size, last time I saw her. She could be bigger now."

"I know what you mean," Celestria said, with some feeling. April appeared at my side and Celestria's eyes lit up. "Here's somebody I have been looking forward to meeting. April, I'm Celestria. It's a very real pleasure."

She asked about April's family, and sounded quite disappointed to find that she was an only child and that her mother was almost completely flat-chested!

"You'll be wanting to meet Jackie and Rachel, of course. You know what young girls are like. Probably still sorting out what they're going to wear. And Rachel, particularly, has a problem or two with some of her clothes, as you can imagine."

"She's big," said April, "I've never seen anyone as big as me before, but Rachel ... she's bigger. Easily! Were you big at her age, Celestria?"

"Hardly," she laughed. "I'm nowhere near the size of those two even now. No, in fact, I had nothing up top until I was fifteen. But I don't want to jump the gun, that's one of the topics we'll be discussing later on. Early development, sisters, all that sort of thing..."

"Sounds fascinating," I said. There was a buzz of excitement by the door. "Here they come, now, I think."

"And about time, too!" said their mother.

Jackie started mingling straight away, while Rachel spoke to her father quietly by the window. It looked at first as if she was getting a public dressing-down for being late, but after a few minutes they broke off their chat, laughing. It struck me that Rachel had deliberately delayed meeting anyone until Jackie had met them first. This was confirmed as Rachel went straight over to Cherry and Felicity, who were still recovering from their meeting with Jackie.

J Granville Wellington's elder, or eldest, daughter had now approached April and me, and I for one was impressed by her beauty and confidence. Her figure was spectacular. Just as her mother's had been, her bust was even larger at close quarters than at a distance. In a white blouse, with four of the top buttons undone, she revealed just a few inches of plump cleavage. She was wearing a bra, a bright red one which showed faintly through the white material, yet her breasts were so full the bra could only support them down at the level of her waist.

As she was quite a bit shorter than me, I was looking downwards at them, and her waist was totally hidden, although I had a good look at her hips, which were narrow and young-boyish. She caught me looking for her name tag. "Everybody's looking for that!" She laughed, a musical ripple. "I forgot to put it on, honest. Anyway, I'm fourteen!" she must have noticed my eyebrows shoot up. I closed my gaping lower jaw with a conscious effort. "You don't want to know the rest, do you?" I do believe she was blushing!

She leaned a little closer and pointed to her bust, waist and hips in turn as she recited the numbers. Magic numbers! "I'm fifty-six, twenty-three, thirty-one! Okay?"

Okay, all right!

"So I'm bigger than Mandy, although she's very slim. But I always have to remind her, she's a whole year older than me!" She glanced over her shoulder and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Must be off, here comes Miss Dairy Queen. See you later, okay?"

Rachel was a tiny thing, apart from her colossal bust. She only came up to April's shoulder, which would make her only about four feet eight or nine. She was delicately-built, as well, with a pretty little face framed by her dark hair, which swung about her shoulders in soft curls. But I haven't described her breasts. They were easily bigger than April's, that was obvious. There was no bra under her soft knitted top, which had a neckline so low-cut that most girls would have fallen completely out of the top. On Rachel, only the top nine inches or so of her cleavage were displayed! The rest of her breasts were covered, plunging on down past her waist, her navel, her stomach, so that even though they were hanging inside her top, they still descended to the level of her crotch.

The nipples were almost level with the hem of her micro-skirt, and they pointed at the floor at a point about five feet in front of her. Rachel hadn't forgotten her name badge. Her details were all there in black and white; if they hadn't been, I certainly would never have believed them possible. 'Rachel, ' the badge said, '13 - 88-20-30.'

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