Illustration by Paul Forrest

IT WASN'T TURNING OUT to be as bad as Emma thought it was going to be. To be fair, the summer holidays never did. As long as Emma could remember, the highlight of the summer had been a trip in a baking hot car, in the company of a billion other baking hot cars, to an obscure patch of dusty ground somewhere near the sea. There, her parents went through the ritual of setting up a tent - a tent, of all things - which became the family home for the next two weeks.

It was a holiday for Emma's mother, liberated from the hot kitchen stove to prepare three square meals a day for a family of four, using nothing more elaborate than a two-ring gas cooker, two saucepans and a frying pan. Emma's mother relished a challenge.

This year, Emma's father had been promoted in his job. He was now in charge of an entire office. He had a token oblong of carpet in front of his desk. Emma's mother borrowed some of his money and bought him a brand new suit. In celebration, the summer torment had been extended to three weeks.

At least, this time, Emma had a tent of her own. It was only right and proper that a teenage girl should have her own space, away from her wretched little brother. A proper little tent-shaped tent it was, too. She sat cross-legged in her own small pointed doorway, brushing her long dark hair and looking out across the camp site. The door of Emma's tent faced away from her parents' elaborate affair of fluttering awnings and fancy floral curtains. Her dad was checking his guy ropes, plodding round in his government-surplus army-issue khaki shorts, his sandals flapping in the morning-dewy grass. From time to time, he would bang away at a tent-peg with his wooden mallet, sending not entirely unpleasant tremors through Emma's nicely-rounded bottom. In a short while, her father would stub his toe on some obstruction and retire, cursing politely but fluently, to have twenty minutes of post-breakfast sex with Emma's mother. Or so Emma dreamed.

She dreamed about sex most of the time, these days.

She dreamed about sex at school.

She dreamed about sex on the way home from school.

She dreamed about sex while doing her homework.

She dreamed about sex - inevitably - in bed.

She dreamed about sex when she got up in the morning, in the bathroom, on the school bus, then she dreamed about sex at school all over again.

Now, she sat in the doorway of her own little tent, and dreamed about sex. Once the morning mist cleared, it would be a scorching hot day again. She'd grab Zoe and they'd hit the beach. Then she'd be able to sit on the beach, turning slowly brown while dreaming about sex.

Imaginary sex was big in Emma's life. It was the only sort she'd ever had. Not that she wasn't attractive. On the contrary, Emma was an extraordinarily pretty girl, and her figure was little short of staggering. Somehow, though, she seemed to have missed out a vital stage somewhere along the line. She had progressed from being an attractive little girl to being an attractive big girl. But meanwhile, the less attractive big girls - and some of the less attractive little girls, too - were all doing it. They were at it like rabbits, day and night. Every morning, the girls would gather round in the locker room and discuss the boys they had got off with, how much they'd enjoyed it and how inept the boys had been.

Emma took no part in all this stuff. What was the use of having the best looks in the whole school, and unquestionably by far the biggest bust, if it didn't lead to a constant stream of sexual relationships? Poor Emma had no way of recognising that most of her schoolmates' sex-lives were played out in fantasy. They did it, certainly, but not very well and not all that often. There were always unscheduled interruptions, and lumpy ground to lie on, and premature ejaculations.

Emma's dreamings contained none of those things. In her imaginings, she mated efficiently and speedily with ideal young men, in hygienic surroundings without fuss, mess or unseemly noise. In her dreams, they worshipped her long, silken hair, her slender, not-too-tall figure and most of all, her startlingly large bosom.

She'd had mixed feelings about her breasts when they'd first made their appearance. It had been a couple of years ago. They'd grown so fast she could almost stand there and watch them get bigger. Between October and May, they'd blossomed from nothing to a ripe D cup, and they hadn't stopped growing and filling out in the subsequent two years. She was used to them by now; the feel of them perpetually bouncing inside her bras, shirts and sweaters; the weight of them on long hot days making her back, her thighs and her calves ache; the embarrassing erection of her nipples. Those nipples were the bane of Emma's young life. They stuck out at the most inconvenient times, and in the most noticeable place. They were huge. Which was only right and proper, as Emma's breasts were huge, too.

Zoe's tent was just across the way. Emma had befriended Zoe on the first afternoon of the holiday. Her parents had misgivings when Emma introduced Zoe as her new friend. Zoe was tall, about five foot nine, and a whole year older than Emma, with dirty blonde hair hanging in a cultivated tangle down to the middle of her back. She also had a sleepy-eyed, languid look which suggested that she had just been fucked to within an inch of her life. Bedroom eyes, some people might have called it, except that Zoe was not the kind of girl who confined her activities to bedrooms - hers or anyone else's. Zoe had pitched her personal two-person tent as far as possible from her parents', an arrangement which suited both parties as it avoided embarrassment.

Emma chose Zoe as her friend partly to shock her parents, and partly because Zoe's bust was no more than a pair of boys' handfuls.

The two girls had arranged to go down to the beach this morning. Zoe knew the best place to go, where the best boys hung out. Something about the way she said it was more convincing than the boastings of the girls at school. If Zoe said the best boys were at her beach, that's where the best boys would be.

It was almost ten o' clock. Zoe's tent flap bulged briefly, then the zipper came down with a rude noise. She emerged, blinking, into the daylight, poking her head and shoulders outside. Then, obviously bursting for a pee, she scrambled to her feet, dragged a towel out of the murky interior, and loped easily off in the direction of the toilet facilities block. Her long legs were brown and muscular beneath her thigh-length lilac T-shirt.

Then, to Emma's amazement, a second face appeared at the doorway of Zoe's tent. A rat-like little face. A boy, Emma's age but only about five feet two, clambered out, pulling up his jeans. He was skinny and had spots on his bluish-white back. With a furtive glance around the camp site, he scampered off between the tents, leaving a trail through the dewy grass.

Zoe had been doing it! With that boy! Emma suppressed a shudder. How could anyone do it with a little rat of a boy like that? She backed into her tent and let the flap fall closed. Lying back on her sighing inflatable mattress, she tried to imagine a bit of good clean sex, but an image of Rat-Face kept intruding. It was hopeless. How could a girl have a decent fantasy when unprepossessing characters like that kept getting in the way? Emma stared upwards at the orange walls, then down between her breasts, swelling skywards in her T-shirt. Damn! Her nipples were getting huge again. She couldn't go anywhere looking like this.

The warble of the mobile phone dragged Emma back into this world. She fumbled for it under a gritty pile of clothes, guided by the ringing tone getting louder as she came closer to unearthing the thing.

"What kept you?" It was Zoe's complaining drawl. "You playing with yourself in there?"

Emma felt herself turning scarlet. "I couldn't find the phone. It was buried under my stuff."

"Yeah? I'll believe you. You coming down the beach, or what? I need a man!"

Emma asked why the wretched girl couldn't just come over and ask her? Her tent was only like ten yards away.

"I'm on the fucking toilet, that's why!" Zoe's voice rose to a petulant whine. There was an echo, and a number of other confirmatory sound effects.

"Sorry!" Emma whispered as if her friend was at her devotions in St Paul's cathedral.

"That's all right." Zoe was bellowing into her handset. Every other occupant of the ladies' conveniences must have been hanging on her every word. "I'm horny as shit, though, Em. Let's get down there as soon as I've finished in here. Load your big tits into that bikini. I'll be ready in five." There was the sound of gushing water. Emma wasn't sure if it was Zoe or the plumbing, or even a woman in the next cubicle. Zoe cleared up the question. "Listen to that noisy bitch pissing like a horse," she hollered. "It's too damn public in here! See ya, beautiful!"

Emma tossed down the phone, peeled off her sweaty bra and moist-crotched panties and tugged the two halves of her skimpy bikini from her bag. Well, only the lower half of the bikini was skimpy, the top was cut on more generous lines. Her father had disapproved strongly of it but her mother, somewhat surprisingly, had come out with a vote of confidence. Emma wasn't too sure about the impact of the thing herself. Now that the time had come to wear it in public, it seemed perhaps just a little excessive. It was made of shiny yellow stretchy stuff, like a footballer's shirt. Emma had an attack of stage-fright as she squatted on her haunches in the tent and handled the smooth material. "I can't wear this," she mumbled to herself. "I'll get arrested!"

Outside, she heard Zoe's rude tent-zipper and realised she had no alternative. It was the only bikini she had. Quickly, she sat down and pulled the panties up her sleek legs. Right up. Then on to her knees to load her tits into the bra. "God! Why did Mum let me choose this?" She tried to tuck more of herself away out of sight, but her breasts were far too big to conceal, even in these large cups. They were cut so low in front and they squeezed her boobs upwards and inwards, giving her a bottomless cleavage. "I must have grown since I tried this on in the shop. It never showed as much as this before."

"Em, you ready?" Zoe was outside, her nails scratching at the tent flap. It was a wonder she hadn't used her phone again. No escape.

"Nearly!" Emma bit her lip, and steeled herself. She crawled out into the daylight on hands and knees.

"Wowee!" Zoe staggered back in mock amazement. Or perhaps only partly mock amazement. "How am I supposed to compete with those!"

She was doing her best, Emma thought. Zoe's bikini was practically postage-stamp sized. Those triangular stamps collectors pay so much for. Three miniscule black scraps of material were strategically placed at the essential areas of Zoe's rangy frame. They were held together by spaghetti-thin strings, tied behind her neck and back, and at the sides of the bottom half. She'd be able to have sex without taking it off, Emma thought, and blushed. She probably had!

A piping just-about-male voice chirruped at her. "Wow, Sis! You ain't going out like that?" Emma's little brother!

"I'm warning you, Gordon. One more word and I'm telling Dad..."

"It's all right, Sis," her brother said reverently. "You just look beautiful, that's all. And your thingies are hee-yuge!"

"That does it!" But Emma hesitated. If she complained to her father, he might stop her going down to the beach at all. She half wished he would, in a way.

Zoe intervened. "Come on, Em. The boy's only human. You can't blame him for getting a hard-on when he sees his great big sister hanging out of a bikini for the first time. They'll all be creaming themselves down on the beach." Gordon had quickly disappeared in the direction of the toilets. Emma was confused. Gordon? Her own little brother? He was a year younger than her. He couldn't feel that way about her, could he? Was he even old enough to get a hard-on? Emma didn't know enough about the mechanical aspects of little brothers, or boys in general.

Zoe was looking her up and down. "The top's fantastic, but the pants are a bit brief," she observed. "You're showing a few curls of your crowning glory. It's okay," she said hastily as Emma clamped her knees together and grabbed at her crotch with both hands. "Stand up straight. There you go!"

Emma gulped and swallowed. Zoe had simply tucked the offending strands of pubic hair away out of sight, just like that! "Is it all right now? I ought to do something about it before..."

"You look great! You can shave your bikini line later. I'll give you a hand, if you like! Not now, though. Let's go, before the locals grab all the best talent."

Brownwater Sands, despite its discouraging name, was a delightful half-moon shaped beach with pale golden sands leading down from a range of sheltering dunes to a gently lapping sea. You didn't get any surf, but there was a broad expanse of sand for sun-bathing. And ball games.

"If that ball comes over here again, I'm going to burst it," Emma threatened. The ball had just smacked her on the bum as she lay face down on her towel. A boy of about sixteen came to collect it.

"He's all right," whispered Zoe. "He's dishy. He'll do for me. Which of his mates do you fancy?"

"None of them," grumbled Emma without looking. "They're all horrible. And loud."

"They're only showing off, trying to impress us. That's why they keep letting the ball come over here. Let's go and play with them." Zoe sounded wistful.

"We can't play football!" Emma was scandalised. "How can I run around with these..." She indicated her bosom, which she was keeping reasonably well hidden, lying on her tummy.

"They won't fall out if you're careful. B'sides, you can't lie on your front all day. You'll end up with a two-tone tan."

"I can't lie on my back with that crowd playing ten yards away. They're animals."

"They're only boys. Some nice ones too. Come on, Em! I'll rub some more cream on you, then I'm going to play. They won't mind if we ask..."

"I'm not begging to play with them! Listen to them!"

"They can't help it if they come from Swindon, Em. Everbody talks like that in Swindon but that doesn't mean they're all thick as two short planks. Not all of them anyway. I bet they're nice as pie when you get to know them. Talking of pie..."

Emma stiffened at the touch of Zoe's fingers between her upper thighs. "What are you doing... ?"

"Just a couple of bits of fur sticking out. There, all gone. Maybe you could use a bit of a trim if you're going to insist on wearing those pants. Don't worry! Only joking! Here, have a dob of factor ninety-three on your back."

The cream was cool and Zoe's long fingers spread it slickly and evenly across Emma's back, and down the sides to the soft mounds of her buttocks. Zoe seemed to be lingering down there, then she set off further south anointing the calves and feet before working her way up to the thighs.

"Feel good?"

"Mmmm, yes! Thanks."

"You'll need to turn over so I can do your front."

"It's okay, I can do the front myself..."

"I can do it better. You always miss bits if you do it yourself. Come on. The boys won't see anything if I stay between them and us."

Emma allowed herself to be persuaded. She rolled over, shading her eyes. Zoe moved to cut out the direct rays of the sun. Her silhouette moved gently as she concentrated on her work, dropping a dribble of cream into her palm, applying it to Emma's body, smoothing it in.

"I could get to enjoy this," Emma murmured, and Zoe giggled softly, feeling her friend relax.

Then the ball arrived again, splattering sand and bouncing aggressively up to Emma, cannoning off her leg.

"Ouch!" She sat up, and clutched in panic at her bra as her tits almost bounced out of the cups.

"Woooh, Missus!" cried a harsh voice. "Oi'll rub that cream on for you, f'you loike!"

"Fuck off," snapped Zoe. "And mind what you're doing with that fucking ball! You hurt my friend." She picked up the ball and hurled it with surprising force. It bounced off towards the sea. The boys cheered, but the rude one who had come to collect the ball stayed a moment longer.

"Sorry," he said, more quietly. "The wind keeps blowing it up this way. Oi'll try to keep it under control. I'm the goalkeeper," he added unnecessarily.

"You couldn't even control your bladder," Zoe commented. "Piss off!"

The boy laughed and went away.

"I thought you said he was dishy," Emma sneered. "Is that what dishy means? He's just a fat slob."

"He's all right," said Zoe, stroking Emma's shoulders. "Lie back. I reckon he fancied you, though. I might have to choose one of the others. Put your knee down!" Emma's knee had come up in self-defence at the thought of that appalling youth fancying her. It took several minutes of gentle massage before she dared put it down again. "That's better, Em." Zoe creamed away lazily with both hands, getting closer to Emma's inner thighs. "You know what I fancy? An ice-cream."

Emma wanted one, too. "What sort? Where can we get them?"

"Up by the road, there's a van. Let's go!" She was so restless. "You don't need your money. I'll get them." And she stood up and offered a strong hand to pull Emma to her feet. The footballers went quiet as the girls began the walk across the deep sand, holding hands. Zoe laughed softly and placed a hand gently on Emma's taut but not too small bottom. Her strong fingers gave the yielding flesh a squeeze. "I bet they think we're a pair of lezzies."

"What? That's horrible!"

"What's horrible about it? Some men like the idea of watching girls doing it. And it feels excellent." They had reached the ice cream van and Zoe bought two large cornets with chocolate flake and raspberry syrup. They concentrated on eating as they plodded back down the beach again.

"Have you ever done things ... with a girl?" Emma asked at length. Zoe seemed surprised as if she had long forgotten the topic.

"What? You still thinking about that? Yeah, I've done it with girls. It's great. I like boys better, though. They're a good laugh."

"I haven't done it."

"Not at all? Not even boys?"

"No."

"That's okay. You're only young. Boys are nothing to be scared of. In fact, with the kind of bod you've got, they're more scared of you than you are of them. A pair like yours scares them off. They look at them and they go, 'she's bound to have had so many blokes, we'll never stand a chance.' They shout about it a lot, but most of them are virgins, too."

Emma licked at a stray trickle of ice cream that had dropped on to her hand. The boys' game was progressing in their direction again, with most of the boys spending much of the time glancing over their shoulders at the two girls who were settling down on their towels to finish off their ice cream.

"Tell you what," said Zoe. "Let's go and play with them after we've eaten these things. You can have the nicest one, whichever one you want, and I'll have one of the others. You can have your pick of them, with your tits. You don't have to do anything with them. We'll have a good laugh."

"I dunno, Zo. You go and play with them. I'll just watch for a while."

"I'm not going without you. You don't want them thinking you're a lezzie, do you?"

Emma didn't. Although the thought of letting Zoe do things to her was vaguely exciting, she was uneasy about the idea. Her Mum wouldn't like it. And her Dad certainly wouldn't. She got up reluctantly, brushed the sand from the cheeks of her bum, surreptitiously inspected the pubic hair situation and followed Zoe down to the firm sand where the boys had stuck two sticks up to form a goal. The loud boy from ten minutes before was standing between the sticks bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Ahead of him, the game progressed with suddenly renewed vigour, noise and showiness.

"You sure you don't want this one?" Zoe whispered.

"He's not really my type."

"What is your type, then?"

Trapped, Emma had to decide. The boys were by now whirling all over the place like a troupe of performing seals. They tried ever more outrageous tricks with the ball, mostly ending in disaster and catcalls. Finally, they all ended in a giggling heap. Children, Emma thought, although they were all older than her, every one of them.

"You decided yet?"

"That one's not too bad," Emma said desperately, pointing at a boy with close-cropped fair hair. He seemed to be making less noise than the others.

"Yeah, not bad. Nice package in his shorts!"

"I wasn't looking at that," Emma protested, reddening.

"No, of course you weren't. And he wasn't goggling at your tits, either."

"Was he?" Yes, he was. The fair haired boy kept glancing at her, and looking away in embarrassment.

"Suit yourself, then. I'll have this one. Fat ones can't run away so fast. Hello," Zoe addressed the goalkeeper.

"'Lo yourself!"

"I'm Zoe, and this is my friend Emma."

The goalkeeper looked at them as if for the first time. His eyes widened at this close view of Emma's astounding bosom. The ball shot past him for a goal. The scorer wheeled away and performed a not entirely successful cartwheel.

The goalkeeper's fists were on his hips. "Now look what you made me do."

"It wasn't our fault," Zoe laughed. "You only missed it 'cos you were staring at Emma's big breasts."

A hush fell at the mention of the explicit word.

"I couldn' elp it," the boy said.

"Can we play?" Zoe said. She hopped up and down a few times on the spot, causing a certain amount of jiggle in places.

"Ain't a proper game," admitted the goalkeeper. "We're just playin' around."

"We could pick sides," suggested another boy. "'Ave one of the girls each."

"They can't kick the ball," said the goalkeeper. "They ain't got no shoes. They'd break their toes."

"We'll play rugby, then," the other boy shrugged. "Then they don't need to kick it if they don't wannoo."

"I got a rugby ball in me dad's van." It was the quiet boy with the close cropped hair. "Sh'll I fetch it?"

"Yeah, go on. We'll pick sides."

"Right," said Zoe firmly, taking the boys by surprise. "We'll be captains, me and Emma! Who's got a coin to toss up? Heads I have first pick..."

"But I don't know how to play rugby," Emma protested feebly.

"We'll show you," said half a dozen brave voices. There was safety in numbers. "You just pick the teams."

The coin came down heads. Zoe looked around the assembled boys. She was as tall as half of them. Emma had a sudden idea that Zoe might turn out to be a world champeen women's rugby player or something. "I'll have him," she pointed at the ex-goalkeeper. "What's your name?"

"Paul." The boy looked disappointed at not being on Emma's team, then brightened at the thought that the opportunity might arise to tackle her. Every dark cloud has a silver lining. Similar thoughts were already occurring to the others. Boys started edging behind each other so as not to be selected by Emma.

"I'll have him," Emma said, as her boy with the rugby ball came panting back to the group.

"I brought a whistle, too," he puffed.

"You're with Emma, Pooch!"

Pooch blushed slightly and stood close behind Emma. She could feel him looking at her bust from behind.

"I'll have that one," said Zoe, not wasting any time.

"We're gonna wipe the floor with you lot," announced the chosen boy, taking his place beside his captain. Emma chose another, a tall lanky youth who had failed to hide quickly enough. Suddenly bold, she reached out and hauled him to her side by his wrist. The selection process went on, until the girls had four boys each.

One boy was left over, a short fat creature in pale pink. "I s'pose I'll be referee again," he sighed.

Two boys were despatched to find sticks for another goal, and a lot of important-looking pacing-out of the playing area went on, with the two teams goading each other, regaining their voices in the presence of the two girls. Testosterone hung heavy in the atmosphere.

"I don't know the rules," Emma admitted. How had she got herself into this terrible situation?

"I'll teach you," Pooch offered. "There's two teams, see, and we have to get the ball and touch it down behind their line, and they have to touch it down behind ours. We can kick the ball as long as there's nobody in front of us and we can only pass the ball backwards."

"Why?"

Pooch looked puzzled. It was in the rules. You didn't question the rules. "I don't know. That's just the way it is."

"No proper tackling," said another boy. "Just touch-rugby, like we play at school." The others all stared at him. "It was only an idea," he said, subsiding.

"Any more stupid suggestions, Fothergill?"

"It was only an idea! We don't want the girls to get hurt, do we?"

"What's tackling?" said Emma.

Two boys willingly demonstrated for her. It looked horribly intimate.

"We had first pick," said Zoe. "You can kick off."

"Watch the offside," the referee insisted, exercising his brief authority. "Stay back until the ball is kicked."

"Shut your face, Arnold!"

"I'm ref. I can send any man off for foul play. Or any girl," he added with a blush. He tested his whistle. "Right, let's go!"

Zoe had played before. She was lithe and extremely fit, and her long legs carried her across the line for a try almost from the kick off. "Five nil," she announced, not breathing heavily at all.

"Five? But you only scored once." Emma placed her hands on her hips and confronted her opposing captain.

"It's five points for a try. That's how many it is. It's in the rules. Now we get to kick at goal. If it goes over the crossbar, it will be two more."

"There isn't a crossbar," one of the boys pointed out reasonably.

"That's all right," said Zoe. "I scored between the posts, so it's two extra points. If you don't touch down between the posts, it's only five."

Grumbling broke out. The wretched girl was making the rules up as she went along.

"Seven nil. You kick off again."

Ten minutes later, it was seventy-five nil, all scored by Zoe. The boys were stunned. The girl was invincible. She shrugged off tackles as if swatting flies. Zoe's own team were embarrassed by her overwhelming proficiency. A number of shamefaced semi-erections were making themselves evident.

Emma's team were outraged. They were on their way to utter humiliation. It was all very well having a captain whose tits were bigger than any two Page Three girls put together, but if all she did was hop around on the outskirts of the game making little squeaking noises, it wasn't going to save their faces.

The game was fifteen minutes old before the first scrum occurred. With the score standing at ninety-seven nil to Zoe, a lousy pass was floated out to the wing, where the tireless Zoe was scampering across the wet sand at the very edge of the water. She tried to gather it, swooping low, but at that moment, Pooch had gone across to try and tackle her. He dived, making contact with the girl's bare ankle; she staggered, regained her balance by a miracle, but sent the ball scuttling forward, bouncing awkwardly into the sea.

The whistle gave a long blast.

Both teams spun round ready to dispute the referee's decision, whatever it might be.

"Foul!"

"In touch!"

"Knock-on," panted the referee, waving an arm in various directions. He dug a heel into the sand. "Scrum down, just here, Emma's put-in."

"My what?" said Emma.

"You put it in," said Pooch. "You can be scrum half." Things broke down while a number of players tried to explain the rules to Emma.

"But what happens when you lot all bend down and push against each other?"

"The ball comes out at the back. Then you pick it up."

"I pick it up? The ball? Me?"

"Of course. Then you run and put it down up at that end of the field."

They all looked at that end of the beach, where the ball had never yet been. It was a long way away.

"Where will Zoe be all this time?" It was a good question. The best player on the beach by a considerable margin was not likely to stand around admiring the view once Emma got the ball in her hands.