Only another ten minutes, Wilma Pettigrew thought. One last effort before the weekend!

"Another basic plot, anyone?" Her eye roamed the classroom, seeking just one student who wasn't either asleep or already packing books away ready for the great escape to freedom. "Charlotte?"

"Cinderella, Miss," Charlotte offered, her eyes rolling to the ceiling.

"Very good. Beautiful girl, ugly sisters, which one gets the prince ... one more, anybody? One of you boys. Gerald?"

Startled, the dishy Greek God of a boy in the back row sat up straight while several girls around him giggled. "Ummm. B ... boy meets girl, Miss?" he stammered.

The girls coo-ed in chorus, "Woooh!"

"Boy loses girl," Gerald continued without really meaning to.

"Awwwww!"

"Boy finds girl again!"

"Wheeeee!"

"All right!"

"Yeah!"

Wilma forced herself to keep a straight face. "Wow, that's excellent, Gerald," she oozed, amid laughter, before turning to the blackboard. "Almost time to go, and it's a lovely day out there. Just time to think about your homework for next week. All of you, a simple enough task. Think of five different basic plot themes for stories, plays or films, and illustrate them with examples. We've talked about a few this afternoon. Try to think of five different ones from those, okay?" She turned to face the class, dusting the chalk off her hands. A sea of glum faces stared back at her. Five! That would take weeks! And teacher wanted it by Tuesday!

A bell rang, and the class was galvanised. They rose and streamed out, clutching books and bags, already planning the weekend's activity, predominantly sexual. The class members ignored Wilma as they fled for the door, although some, mostly girls, bade her 'a good weekend, Miss!' No doubt about what they were going to be doing, the sex-crazed little sluts in their thigh-high skirts and overfilled blouses.

Silence for the first time in a week, although excited shouts filtered through the open windows as the kids headed home. What was so special about home, Wilma wondered. There would be arguments, sulks, groundings, miserable mums and dads, disrespectful younger brothers and sisters getting them into trouble. Yet still, the class picked up its heels and shot out the door at three thirty on a Friday as if being let out of jail.

She picked up her books and folders, stuffed them into her briefcase. The summery weather was affecting the staff, too. The kids weren't the only ones getting themselves off the premises as if their backsides were on fire. The staff room was deserted by the time she got there, apart from Tosh Evans, the Welsh Geography teacher whose sole suit had leather patches on the elbows and whose all-pervading socks had a life of their own.

"Duw, Willie," he sang. "You still yer, then?"

"No, I think I saw me driving out of the gates half an hour ago."

Evans looked puzzled, then his brow cleared. "Garn, yew're still yer! Yew're a card, though, an' no mistake, isn't it? Yew got summat lined up for the weekend, I bet." Evans's line in sexual harassment was direct and uncomplicated. He was arguably the oldest virgin at the school.

"Fuck off, Tosh," Wilma commented warmly, slamming her filing cabinet and blowing him a kiss. It was all too easy to turn the silly old fool into a blushing wreck. She edged past the aura of socks and escaped into the fresh air.

The car was like an oven, the steering wheel practically taking the skin off her hands as she pushed and pulled her way on to the main road and accelerated in a cloud of noxious emissions past the bus stop. A crowd of her Eng Lit class - Gerald and half a dozen of the most extravagantly overdeveloped girls - went into a mime of coughing and choking, waving at her as she passed. Little bastards. They were the only reason she kept on doing this God-forsaken job, young people like that. Where would she be without them?

Right here, she thought when she arrived home at her bijou apartment overlooking the park to which people from miles around brought their dogs to defacate in the fresh air. It's not much, but it's home. More so than her real home had ever been. Three Ugly Sisters making her life a misery. Except that they had all been beautiful. Wilma had been the ugly one. Well, not ugly, exactly, just plain and ordinary. Homely, the Americans called it. And overweight. Not gross, exactly, just dumpy, heavy and not at all a fashionable shape. Talk about Cinderella! Cinderella in reverse, in fact. If Prince Charming had come around with a pair of glass slippers, the other three would all have found them fitting perfectly.

She slouched into the bedroom, avoiding the mirror. Time to ease away the cares of the week with a soak in a scented bath. Take away the dusty smell of books and Tosh Evans's perpetual socks. And time to plan a weekend's activities. As if!

How was it, she wondered, that even the plainest of the girls at that damned school seemed to have a retinue of boys ready to climb into her pants at the flutter of an eyelash? While some of the prettier ones probably needed a team of booking clerks to organise their personal and sexual arrangements.

It hadn't always been like this. At school, Wilma had been a popular enough girl, and had gone through the usual mating rituals with the best of them. Until her sisters found out. She'd never dared take a boy home. An array of sisters, two older, one younger, and all devastatingly pretty, all with stunning figures, all available and instantly negotiable with any and every boy they saw.

The youngest one, Rhonda, had become pregnant at thirteen, but that had only served to spur the others on to greater efforts. As the father had been - had probably been - one of Wilma's fleeting boyfriends, she seemed to feel more guilt about it than Rhonda herself.

In the end, after school and through university, it had been easier to opt out of the whole sleazy business. Her already dumpy figure ceased to be unattractive. It became invisible. When she dressed in boring shapeless dresses, or baggy jeans and sweaters, nobody noticed Wilma at all. It worked for her. Even after four years of teaching English Literature, she was willing to bet that not one of her classes could have described what she was wearing from one day to the next. They'd have been able to describe Mr Tosh Evans down to the last crisp-heeled off-white sock.

Mercifully, the bathroom mirror was already steamed up, so she didn't have to see herself as she climbed flabbily into the soft, blue-green waters and lay back to allow the suds to cover her unusually large breasts with their embarrassingly long, thick nipples. There was at least some compensation for the celibate existence she led. She didn't have to show herself to anyone else. What boy, what man, would ever be attracted to a woman shaped like her, with breasts like great bags of lard and nipples with such a will of their own that she had to stuff the ends of each already enormous bra cup with a thickly wadded handkerchief? A rhetorical question, if her class ever needed an example of one.

The park was always a pleasant and delightful place if one avoided the usual dog-walking routes. Clumps of trees provided cooling shade from the sun which was still making its presence felt at five pm. Wilma felt the cool air on her face and neck with gratitude. The hum of traffic was still there, miles away, but here in the park the birds were belting out their songs as if they were auditioning for a new musical by Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. Birds. That's what they'd called girls when Wilma had been one. She'd been a bird herself, then. What did they call them now? She ought to know the popular word. She was supposed to be in touch with the vernacular. Keeping young by contact with the students. No, it was too much like hard work.

A flash of white caught her eye, somewhere in front. A magpie, perhaps, or someone's dog. Then a burst of girlish laughter, and a clutch of young people emerged from behind a bush on to the footpath. They hadn't seen her yet, that was obvious. One of the boys - there were two boys and four girls - was still zipping himself up. Too late to get away without being seen, Wilma realised, slowing down, then stepping bravely forward again.

The group formed itself into a giggling mass, until one of the girls detached herself and fled as slowly as she dared. Her school shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist and her bra was missing. Her soft breasts bounced massively as she shrieked and ran, looking over her shoulder. Then she noticed that nobody was chasing her and she stopped, not five yards from Wilma.

"Miss!" the girl turned beet red and tried to pull her shirt across to hide the view.

"Good evening, Charlotte!" The words seemed somehow inadequate. Wilma was as red as the girl was. God, her breasts were massive! How did she ever manage to hide them so well?

Charlotte seemed to sense the teacher's eyes on her. "My bra got caught on a tree, Miss," she stammered. "Melissa's mum's going to try and mend it for me." She succeeded in fastening one or two buttons. With any luck, they might stay done up for ten seconds.

The rest of the little party had reluctantly come forward, the boys hanging back to adjust their clothing. One of the other girls had buttoned her shirt in the wrong button-holes, another was trying to rearrange things beneath her skirt. A third, Melissa presumably, was carrying an obscenely large pink bra.

"Hello, Miss," she mumbled, remembering at the last moment to try and hide the bra behind her back. Her own more modest bosom was better supported than Charlotte's, but her improbable nipples were sticking out like chapel hatpegs. Wilma stepped aside and they all slunk past. If they'd had tails, they would have been between their legs.

"Have a nice weekend, Miss," suggested Charlotte faintly as they got clear and began to hurry away.

Wilma was in a cold sweat. The horror of it: meeting half a dozen members of her class in such circumstances! It was too embarrassing. She blundered on, hearing more subdued giggles coming from behind her, and took a roundabout route home.

No doubt, the kids would themselves be in a state of shock over the weekend, wondering if Wilma was going to report them for lewd behaviour in a public place. Let them sweat, she thought, it would do them good. If she hadn't come along, what mischief would they have got up to next? A bit of relatively harmless feeling up would no doubt have turned into full-blown sexual intercourse. Four girls, and two boys? A gang-bang, was it? Date rape? An image of Charlotte's breasts flashed before her eyes again, and Wilma found herself blushing once more. The girl was immense. Her throat felt constricted and she had to stop, breathing heavily. Sweat trickled down her sides beneath her blue denim work-shirt. To her horror, she felt herself becoming moist. She'd need another bath after this. God, what was happening to her?

In the school corridor, Charlotte looked at the teacher like a scared animal, over her shoulder, showing the whites of her eyes. Wilma was pleased to see that the girl's bra had apparently been repaired over the weekend. She was still extremely full-breasted, that was obvious. Why hadn't she noticed it before? She'd thought of Charlotte as a chunky girl, broad in the beam and solidly built. The brief glimpse of her in the woods had revealed her as a remarkably shapely young woman. She was broad-hipped, certainly, but her waist was surprisingly slender. And her bust had been shockingly large.

Wilma hurried on down the corridor, feeling her nipples hardening. This was ridiculous. If anyone ought to be feeling guilty, it should be the six young miscreants, not the innocent witness. Innocent! You could say that again! She should be taking lessons from her Eng Lit class, not the other way around. She hurried into the staff room and sat down, breathing heavily. Her panties were uncomfortably moist. There was no doubt about it, the encounter had affected Wilma deeply. It wasn't enough that she had found herself thinking about it on and off all weekend, pictures of Charlotte's rebounding globes burned on her retina; now on Monday morning she'd caught just one glimpse of the girl and already she was flooding her underwear. And she hadn't even seen Gerald or the other boy yet. This was a nightmare! Someone was sure to notice. She was uncomfortably aware of the scent of her own arousal. How was she to get through the day without...

"Hell-o, young lady! Yew're lookin' your usual sexy self this bright Monday morning!" Tosh Evans sniffed deeply and appreciatively. "A new perfume, too, if I'm not mistaken! Oo's the lucky bloke, then? Or 'as my luck suddenly changed... ?"

With a bleat of dismay, Wilma escaped and hid in the staff toilet.

It had been a fraught day. Something was going to have to be done about this situation. The girl Melissa, whose mother knew how to repair industrial strength foundation garments, had almost said something to Wilma at lunchtime, but had appeared to change her mind. Wilma was wondering whether to approach the head teacher and mention her experience. Get it out into the open. Make an example of these kids. Maybe tomorrow, she thought, as she slumped on the couch not really watching a soap. She had wrapped a dressing gown around herself after her bath, and tied a towel like a turban round her head.

The doorbell rang.

"Damn! For Chrissakes, who can that be?" Tying the belt tighter round her waist - huh! waist? - she plodded down the stairs and peered through the spyhole. The image distorted by the fisheye lens, she could see only that it was a boy in school uniform. "Don't I get any free time round here?" But she slid back the lock and opened the door. "Gerald!"

"Hello, Miss Pettigrew! I was wondering..." He hesitated then blundered on, "About that homework you gave us. There's something I wasn't sure about, and I was just passing..."

"Come on in. Excuse the dressing gown, I just got out of the bath..."

The boy looked embarrassed at receiving what amounted to an apology from a teacher. "That's okay, Miss. It looks nice." He blushed deeply. Wilma spared him further torment, leading the way up the stairs. She had an uncomfortable feeling that his eyes were boring into her swaying nether regions all the way.

"Now, then. What seems to be the problem?" She turned off the television and waved him to take a seat. He chose the middle of the couch, the only seat in the room, and perched there insecurely. Suddenly, his face cleared as if a thought had come to him.

"Wow, Miss! Do you watch Visitors, too? I didn't think you'd like that sort of thing."

She laughed, looking around for a chair. In the end, she perched on a corner of the table. "Why not? Teachers watch television, too, you know."

"We all watch it, Miss. I like the girls in it," he confided, turning scarlet again.

"Do you, now?"

"Yeah, especially that Cheraline! She's got..." He stopped, too late. Cheraline was the token bosom in the cast. Or rather, the token huge bosom. The others were no more than extremely healthy Australian girls. "About this homework, Miss!"

"You didn't come here to talk about homework, Gerald. You weren't just passing, either. This road doesn't lead anywhere, and it's nowhere near Laburnum Drive."

"You know where I live, Miss?"

Damn. She had looked it up only this morning. "What did you want, Gerald?"

"They call me Gerry, Miss. My friends. The girls."

"What was it, Gerry? Was it anything to do with Friday evening? If so, it's quite out of order, your coming here to try to make me change my mind. I will probably be telling the head teacher about the incident."

"Nothing happened, Miss. Charlie caught her bra on a branch, like she said. It's true! She said it hurt..."

"So you rubbed it better for her?"

"Miss!" Gerald sounded so outraged, Wilma couldn't keep a straight face.

"I was just going to have a cup of coffee," she said. "Would you... ?"

"Gosh! Please, Miss. Three sugars." He followed her into the kitchen. "Charlie was ever so worried you'd tell, Miss. She'll get into trouble. Her dad would kill me, Miss."

"I'm sure he would, Gerry. Dads tend to be jealous about boys manhandling their daughters. Especially when they look like Charlotte." She suddenly had to busy herself with the coffee mugs to hide her confusion. They called her Charlie. Anyone less like a boy would hard to imagine.

"You're as big as Charlie, Miss."

She wondered if she had heard correctly.

"Miss?"

She picked up the two mugs and he followed her like a dog into the other room. This time, she sat down at one end of the couch, placing the mugs on the coffee table. "Sit down, Gerry."

"I meant it, Miss. You're as big as Charlie. Up here, I mean." His hands formed a pair of imaginary boobs about a foot in front of his chest. He seemed to realise what his hands were doing, dropped them to his sides and sat down so heavily on the couch that Wilma was almost propelled into the air. "She was only saying tonight, on the bus, she'd like to see which of you was bigger..."

"Gerald! That's quite enough! I had made up my mind to report the terrible incident. It brings the school into disrepute. We can't have our students cavorting half naked in the park..."

"Nothing happened, Miss, honest!"

"I'm an English Literature teacher, Gerry. Don't think I can't tell when you're inventing stories. Charlotte was half naked. You were zipping up your trousers!"

"You saw that, Miss?" The boy looked so crestfallen, she almost felt sorry for him. "I wasn't doing anything with Charlie, Miss."

"It's as plain as the nose on your face what you were doing," she retorted angrily. "I'm not blind, you know!"

"It wasn't like that, Miss," he said unhappily. "Please..."

Something about his tone stopped Wilma in her tracks. He seemed encouraged to carry on.

"I was walking that way with Pete, Miss. Just the two of us. We were going to his place to swap games for the weekend. He lives just over there."

That was correct. "Go on..."

"Well, we've heard this noise in the bushes. Like giggling and stuff. So we've gone to investigate."

Wilma chose to ignore the boy's curious use of the Perfect Past Tense. Somehow it seemed to lend immediacy to the tale.

"I've crawled down the bank and we've looked through the bushes. And there's these four girls. Lissa Phillips and Paula Craker and Dawn Putnam and Charlie Adams. They're playing around, Miss."

"They're playing around... ?" The Present Tense, now? It felt as if the girls were playing around in this very room.

"With each other, Miss. Charlie's got her shirt and bra off. Bloody hell, Miss! The others are ... well ... Paula and Dawn are kissing each other, Miss, and Lissa's playing with Charlie's ... her boobs, Miss. Kissing them and sort of ... well, playing with them."

"I see."

"I wish you could have, Miss. You don't believe me, do you?"

Why should the boy make up an outrageous story like this? "You realise what you are saying, Gerry?"

"Yes, Miss, but it's true. Then Dawn's heard something. Pete's sort of overbalanced and fallen into the bush we're hiding behind. And she's jumped up and grabbed him, and Charlie's got up and run off. She's laughing."

"And you... ?"

"I was trying to zip my pants."

Nothing further needed to be said. The boy was so patently unhappy, everything had the ring of truth behind it. "Does Charlotte know you're telling me all this?"

"Of course not, Miss! You won't tell her, will you?"

"Your secret is safe, Gerry. But..."

"I meant what I said, Miss. About you being as big as Charlie." She pulled the dressing gown closer round her neck. Too late, perhaps. He was staring at her chest.

"You'd better be getting home, Gerry. I won't tell the head teacher. Not this time. But it had better not happen again." She stood up, and clutched at her dressing gown once more. Thoughts of Charlotte were spinning through her head. She'd have to have a word with the girl.

Gerald was leaving, stammering apologies. If he'd only stop being so apologetic, he'd be a nice looking boy. A Greek god, all right! She fought against the thought that sprang unbidden into her mind. The thought of being part of that little group of girls exploring the forbidden delights, while Gerry was crouching behind a bush, watching everything, playing with himself...

She hurried down the stairs, and he scampered after her.

"About that homework, Miss..."

"Gerry!"

"Yes, Miss." His shoulders collapsed and she opened the door. And there, on the doorstep, reaching up to press the doorbell...

"Charlotte!"

The girl sipped her coffee. Unlike Gerald, she'd had time to change out of her school clothes into something far less suitable. As she curled her legs under her on a beanbag, she was practically bursting out of a pair of jeans. Her T-shirt was failing hopelessly to contain her epic bosom. A more workmanlike bra might have helped, instead of the soft-cupped, stretchy creation she was wearing. Every breath set off a chain reaction of rippling breast-flesh. Her nipples were immense.

Wilma felt the need to explain. "Gerry wanted some help with his homework."

"Oh, yes, Miss. The Ugly Duckling thing. And Cinderella, and Boy Meets Girl. I've done all those. I made it Girl Meets Girl, though, to make it more interesting. Miss... ?"

"Yes?" Wilma was now seriously regretting wearing this dressing gown.

"You know Friday night? You weren't going to tell, were you? Only I'd get into loads of trouble. I had to sneak indoors and run upstairs without my bra." She giggled musically. "It didn't half feel funny, running upstairs without a bra on. Have you ever tried it?"

"Of course not!"

"I only asked, 'cos you're big like me. You hide yours, though. I bet if you didn't hide them, you'd look great. Yours are probably even bigger than mine, and you know how big mine are!"

"I'm sure they're not. Not that it matters. It doesn't matter how big my bust is. It's immaterial. What does matter is that you were gallivanting around half naked."

"Yes, Miss," agreed the girl happily.

"Bringing the school into disrepute."

"Probably, Miss."

"Aren't you going to show some remorse?"

"I'm sorry, Miss. It won't happen again." She finished her coffee, then reached across to set down her mug. The action stretched her T-shirt to the limit and beyond. "I keep coming untucked, Miss. You could help some of us bigger girls, Miss. Hints and stuff about clothes. Bras and that."

"Charlotte! That's not really part of my..." She stopped just short of saying 'brief'.

"Charlie, Miss. Call me Charlie. All my other friends do. Miss... ?"

"Yes?"

"Can you ... would you show me something?"

"Show you something?"

"Yes. Just undo your belt and let me see. You've seen mine..."

"Charlotte!"

"Charlie. I'll show you mine again. You can feel them if you like."