SOMETHING IN THE WATER by Some Sort of Dog I think this is called setting the
scene. My name is Colin, and my job is installing water-softening equipment in
people's homes. Exciting, right? It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.
Listen, I have to tell you about the job, it's central, pivotal even, to the
theme of the entire story, a story which is so weird that if you had told me
beforehand that it would happen, I would have suggested that you take more
water with it. Soft water, of course. That's a typical example of a
water-softener installer's joke. Which is a pretty good reason to make a point
of not seeking out water-softener installers to see if they have had a similar
experience to mine. And if any water-softener installers are reading this, and
they have had a similar experience, they would be well advised to keep it to
themselves. I first hit the little town of Skingsley in the Spring, a couple
of years ago. It's probably not worth looking up Skingsley in your road atlas,
by the way, I changed the name to protect the innocent. It was - and by now is
again - a quiet place, about ten miles from the nearest industrial city, which
is where most of the inhabitants work. The sort of place where you sometimes
tend to find husbands out at work during the day time, with any luck. I
checked into the local hotel for three weeks. The way we usually work, a
hard-water area has been targeted by sales staff, and we installers are given
a number of leads which amount to virtually certain sales. All we have to do
is turn up, put on a courteous and sincere manner, answer all the right
questions with the right answers, and fit the device in the lady's kitchen.
The softener, for collectors of such information, is a unique design of
electro-chemical recirculatory catalytic water softener. I am forbidden to
give more information than that to the general public, and I am certain you
would not want me to. You want one? Look in the Yellow Pages. The installation
job takes between one and two hours, and we usually make a return visit after
a day or so, to check that everything is satisfactory. Hence the idea of
booking into the hotel for a few weeks. It has been known for some installers
to find other accommodation, but the management of the company would prefer
not to know about any such private domestic arrangements. Okay? You could
probably do the job yourself now: you know as much as I did when I joined the
company two years ago. Skingsley on a wet Monday afternoon is not likely to
find its way into many guide books. I had two calls to make, my first two
after arriving in the town that morning. The first job in a new location often
seems to set the tone for the whole of one's stay. This one *certainly* did!
********** The customer's name was down on my job sheet as Woods. Usually
that's all the information I get, a surname. I parked the van outside a neat
little house with a white fence and a freshly-painted front door. The number
33 and the name 'Woods' on a small plate beside the door bell told me I had
the right place. (We're taught to look out for little things like that.) The
bell echoed inside the house somewhere. I rang again. Still nothing. Not what
we call, in the trade, a Good Start. Then I heard a noise from inside, and the
door was opened. A small blonde woman was holding the door with one hand, a
phone in the other. "Sorry", she said in a soft, quiet voice, "I'm on the
phone, would you mind waiting ..." 'Sure, I thought, not at all', and gave a
little wave which might have meant 'Okay'. She carried on for a couple more
minutes, then put the phone down and came back to the door, full of apologies.
"The phone always rings at the wrong time ..." "Always! Mrs Woods?" I asked,
adopting my standard courteous and sincere expression. She said she was. "ACME
Watersoftener Company", I said. Now, before we go any further, the company is
NOT called the ACME anything. Surely, no company is, nowadays. I have changed
the name etc etc. Carry on. "Oooh good", she cried. Some people can get very
excited about a water softener. Sometimes I can be one of them. Mrs Woods was
obviously another. "Ms Woods." "Sorry?" "It's Ms. Miss, actually!" The woman
was turning an attractive shade of pink. It went well with her strawberry
blonde hair which hung to her shoulders. The rest of her was slim and not very
tall, probably about five feet nothing. Very slim, I noticed, as she glanced
at the plastic ID card I was holding out to her and held the door wider for me
to come in. I picked up the cardboard carton which didn't have the words 'ACME
Keeps You Soft' on all six sides, and stepped into the house. With my spare
hand, I picked up my toolkit from the front step, and closed the door with my
knee. Just the result of another day's intensive training at the ACME
Corporate Learning Experience (ACCOLEX). She led the way into the kitchen,
where I sized up the layout at a glance. "I would like it over there, up
against that wall", she said. Miss Woods was one of those women who could say
things like that without noticing that it caused the eyes of the other person
in the conversation to glaze over. I unglazed mine with an effort, and nodded
my approval at her choice. Exactly where I would have mounted the little devil
myself. This would be one of the simpler installations, water supplies and
electrical power were all readily to hand, and there was easy access all
round. "Would you like a cup of coffee", she asked, "or would later be better,
when you're working?" "Well, as I will be turning off the water and the power,
perhaps now would be better." "Oh, yes! How stupid of me. I'll make it now,
then." What a nice lady. 'Pity about the tits', I thought, irrelevantly. The
installation was some sort of a record, at fifty-five minutes, and we
celebrated with another cup of coffee afterwards, while she described the town
and even gave me directions to a few of the more hard-to-find street names.
The coffee was something Dutch. I can't remember the name. In fact, of course
I can, but we can't have everyone rushing out to buy the stuff, can we? In
fact, as Miss Woods told me, it was a very popular brand: the local shop had
already sold completely out of stock within the first week. That shows the
power of personal recommendation in a small, compact community. It was
certainly delicious, black with no sugar, as I took it, or white with one
spoonful, as Louise Woods did. It was as good a way as any to celebrate the
installation of a new water softener. ********** The other call that afternoon
was a bit of an anti-climax after that. The only person at home was a man who
wasn't at work because he had a broken wrist. He was a computer systems
engineer, he told me at extreme length as I fitted his softener. It took
ninety minutes, although it felt like one and a half days. You will be
grateful that I have decided not to tell you in full and graphic detail about
every call I made during my stay in Skingsley. It's not that kind of story.
And for the rest of you, who are beginning to wonder why all the women's tits
haven't started growing yet; it's not that kind of a story either. You will
have to wait. Fortunately, the hotel had a comfortable bar. I phoned Jessica
at home, asked about the baby and the dog, then drained my beer before taking
a leisurely dinner. So, readers now know almost everything there is to know
about Colin, not the ACME Water Softener installation man. He has a Jessica at
home, looking after the baby and the dog, yet he is about to cut a lust-filled
and unfaithful swathe through the women of Skingsley, after first inflating
their breasts to the sort of proportions limited only by the imagination of
the author and his readers. What about the much-publicised moral backlash
against casual sexual relationships? What about the serious health aspects?
Jessica is my sister, who is looking after her baby and my dog, whose name
really *is* Acme. Jessica is at home, her home. I rang her because her husband
died two weeks ago, and even with Acme about the place, she gets awfully
lonely on Monday nights. Don't we all? ************ Skingsley in the Spring
sunshine is to Skingsley in the rain as chalk is to cheese. There was an
unmistakeable bounce in my step as I strode out to my small white van (which
had no logo on the side to advertise the fact that it didn't belong to the
ACME Water Softener Company). I had five calls to make, and all of them were
within a mile or so of Louise Woods's house. No time wasted driving around,
looking for little boxes optimistically named 'Mon Repos' and 'Dunwerkin'. The
major difficulty about writing a story based on the day-to-day activities of a
water-softener installer is that after a while, the days tend to sort of merge
into one another. I will, therefore - to cut a long story short - tell you
only about the interesting bits. The most interesting bit about that Tuesday
morning was Linda Shoesmith, a tall, dark-haired, very attractive and
amazingly well-developed woman of about twenty-three or four. Her husband, or
I guess I should say, partner, worked in the city, at an insurance office or
something. Linda was bored, broad-minded and perpetually horny, as I
discovered within thirty seconds of dumping my toolcase and the carton
containing the water softener on her kitchen counter. She suggested a cup of
coffee 'before we start', then stood so close her tits were mostly somewhere
behind me. They were monumental. I mean, I like them big, but even I know
where to draw the line. There must have been something wrong with hers. Tits
like those shouldn't be allowed. Not only did they occupy the whole of her
rib-cage from just below her shoulders down to her navel, they stuck out fully
ten inches in front of her. I could guess at her bust measurement, but I
won't. (Yes, I know that will infuriate the sort of reader who reads this sort
of story, but guesswork never was any sort of reliable guide in these matters.
Tell you what, if you're *very* good, we might measure get to them later on in
the story, if I remember to fit it in somehow.) The coffee was again the
excellent Dutch brand, which I rather hoped I would be drinking a lot more of
over the next couple of weeks. Linda's installation was a little tricky -
although she offered me every assistance - and what would normally have taken
fifty minutes actually took almost two hours. I was exhausted and drained as
we sipped our post-installation coffee in her kitchen afterwards, and she
checked her diary for a suitably vacant time for the return visit. A call like
that can set you up for whatever the rest of the day has to offer, or it can
leave you feeling down for the next three or four hours. Perhaps it was the
effect of the coffee, but within minutes of closing Linda Shoesmith's front
door, I felt ready to take on all comers. It must be time for another one of
those little author's asides which are so tending to break up the narrative
flow round here. I DID NOT screw Linda Shoesmith. All these sleazy, twee
little double-entendres are not my style. If I fuck a woman, I will tell you.
You will be the first - or more likely, the third - to know. I repeat, I DID
NOT screw Linda Shoesmith. She screwed me. I never had to move a muscle. Quite
how she managed to be so ... well ... physical ... with all that lot hanging
from her chest, I do not know, but no doubt it's a question of sustained
practice. We performed our act on the living room carpet. The television was
on, but I cannot for the life of me remember anything about the show. For me,
this is a damning indictment of the quality of British daytime television.
What I do remember was Linda's mountainous breasts flopping massively against
my face every time she bucked like a top of the range rodeo rough-rider
mounted on my (admittedly no-more-than-average) prick. I never saw Linda's
face throughout the entire process, although afterwards - when she had rolled
off with a sigh - we kissed wetly and noisily for a while as she tried to
remember if she had asked me my name. To be on the safe side, she had
addressed me as 'sweetie' from start to finish. No doubt, the carpet-cleaning
man would be coming later in the afternoon. ********** The only other call
which has any bearing on the story was the last one of the day, a Mrs Sargent,
whose home seemed to be overrun with teenage kids. She explained that they
weren't all hers, although she didn't seem totally certain which ones were.
There were at least four boys, and what appeared to be half a dozen averagely
pretty young girls, mostly called - as far as I could tell - Caz, Baz, Daz,
Maz, Taz and Raz. Mrs S shooed them all out of the kitchen, and as it was
raining again, they gathered in another room upstairs, where - by the sound of
things - they were apparently busily breaking in a number of horses. Mrs
Sargent was yet another Dutch coffee fan, and again, we enjoyed a
post-installation cup. This time, unlike at Linda Shoesmith's, we restricted
our celebrations to a cup of coffee. I suppose she was saving herself for her
husband. ********** The next few days were fairly routine, and Friday came
around as Fridays have a habit of eventually doing. I normally reserve my
Friday mornings for return visits, where I can, leaving the afternoon free for
a leisurely drive back home to work out the expenses and wind down for the
weekend. So nine am found me knocking on Ms, or Miss Woods neat front door.
Again, she answered the door with a phone in her hand, but this time she let
me in straight away, and I watched her as she finished her call. There was
something indefinably attractive about Louise Woods this morning, something I
hadn't noticed on Monday. I couldn't place what it was, but when she put the
phone down and smiled up at me, I felt definitely attracted to her. She was
wearing a loose-fitting top - a sort of extra-large sweat shirt - and tight
jeans. But wasn't that just a hint of a swelling breast beneath her top?
Surely not, it must be a trick of the light. On Monday, she'd had literally no
breasts at all. Another angle, another glimpse of her in profile, and this
time there was no mistake. Louise did have tits! This was worrying. The other
day, she had worn a tight T-shirt. If she'd had anything at all in the shape
of breasts, they would have been highly visible. I watched her closely as she
made two large mugs of coffee and perched her neat little rump on a high
kitchen stool. Absolutely no doubt about it this time. They were about the
size of tennis balls. A remarkable transformation, I thought. Obviously she
was stuffing her bra, but if she was doing it for my benefit, surely she
should have remembered that I had already seen her this week with nothing up
top at all. Did she think water softener installation men had no memory at
all? It appeared there was a slight leak from her installation, more a weeping
joint than a leak. I checked it over, gave the nut a little tweak to tighten
it, and told her I would call in on Monday afternoon for a final look. That,
she said, would be cool. Yes, she actually said COOL! On to Mrs Sargent's,
where all was peaceful as the kids were all at school. Her machine was working
just fine, but she asked if I could call back some time as her friend across
the road was impressed by the way the soft water saved on washing powder. God,
I thought, this is getting like a TV commercial. And it's SO kind to your
hands. I asked her if Monday afternoon would be okay, then set off for Linda
Shoesmith's. Linda was ready and waiting for me. Her mountainous boobs were
almost exploding out of a low-cut tank top, and she was very obviously not
wearing a bra. In a way, I was glad I had left Linda until last this morning.
I, on the other hand, was clearly Linda's first job of the day. She was
enthusiastic, energetic and extremely loud. Half way through - not that anyone
was timing us, but you know what I mean - I found myself thinking how nice it
would be if Louise Woods had tits like these, a thought which brought me
rather more quickly to a climax than would normally have been the case. I
think Linda may have agreed with that assessment, but being a pragmatic girl,
she simply howled like a mad dog and thought 'better luck next time'. Another
more-or-less satisfied customer. I left Linda's filled with confidence and
well-being as usual, and even remembered to buy a jar of that Dutch coffee to
take home with me. I was sure Jessica would enjoy it. ************ Louise
Woods had grown! It had been a week since my first visit to her house. The
first time, she had a completely flat chest. Five days later, she had little
tennis-ball sized breasts. Today, Monday, they were like grapefruit. I could
tell they were like grapefruit because she was wearing what was arguably the
skimpiest little top you ever saw. The front dipped alarmingly, revealing a
disturbing cleavage. The sides were cut away low beneath the armpits, and the
view was incredible. She wasn't wearing a bra.

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 Well, I thought, when did she
have an opportunity to buy one? If she hadn't grown D-cup tits and if she
wasn't wearing a skimpy top, I might have noticed the abbreviated shorts she
had on, and her smooth, shapely, well-muscled brown legs. But I didn't. Louise
stood there and smiled up at me. At first, she said nothing, as if she thought
I might not have noticed anything strange and she was going to get away with
it. But my expression must have given away my innermost thoughts. "You noticed
my ... my..." "You mean, your ...?" "Yes!" she cried eagerly, "my ...!" I
supposed we were talking about the same thing. "Your breasts?" "Yes", she
said, blushing deeply. "My ..." 'Don't let's start this again', I thought.
"What happened to them?" I asked a little too abruptly. "They just grew. Got
bigger. Well not bigger, there was nothing at all a week ago, but they ...
just sort of grew!" That was helpful and informative. "They seem very
swollen", I observed, "are they painful at all?" "No, they feel ... in fact,
they feel marvellous!" She hesitated. "Why don't you feel them", she said
quietly. Well, all right! So I did. They felt marvellous, as she had said they
would. It must have felt good to her as well, because she started breathing
heavily and became very flushed. She drew closer to me, her breasts pushing
against my chest, well, my stomach, to be precise. Then she turned her face up
to mine. "I don't understand where they've come from, or why, but I do know
that ever since I've had them, every single minute since they first arrived, I
have been incredibly horny", she murmured, incredibly hornily. I was beginning
to understand exactly how she felt. Gently, I took her in my arms, and she
sighed as her nipples telescoped against me. I remember little of the next few
minutes, which is perhaps just as well, because if I were to attempt to
describe what went on, readers would become unnecessarily jealous, if not
sexually aroused. We found ourselves half sitting, half lying in an armchair.
It was upholstered in a sort of uncut moquette, not exactly fashionable, but
comfortable. I could happily have lain there all morning. Fortunately, Louise
had other ideas. Taking me by the hand, she led me to the bedroom, where she
undressed completely. Those breasts stood up like there was no tomorrow. So,
for that matter, did I. Then we all lay down on the bed. Here we go again.
Readers the world over are complaining that no real, live woman would ever
behave like Louise Woods has just done: that it is the sort of behaviour you
expect in a cheap paperback written for sad men who need a wank in a tearing
hurry. Which only goes to show that you simply cannot afford to generalise
about these things. She did. I confess I was surprised at the time. Perhaps
she just fancied me. Stranger things have happened. ********** After that
experience, I was in no condition to face Linda Shoesmith. I stood on her
doorstep trying to think of a suitable excuse: a headache, a pressing
engagement in Glasgow, an itching sensation in the genital area. I don't think
any of those would have discouraged Linda. Fortunately, she wasn't at home. A
small note had been pinned to the door, but it had fallen down. I saw it when
I looked down at my feet in search of inspiration. It said, 'Colin: Sorry,
can't make it. Something big has come up. Call me ... L.' Into each life, I
thought, a little rain must fall. ********** Mrs Sargent's house was in a
turmoil when I arrived. There seemed to be even more teenage boys than usual,
gathered round the front door. I thought of laying about me with a stout stick
to clear my path, but they saw me and melted away. Then I saw what they were
all staring at with such excitement. A cluster of young teenage girls milled
about just inside the front door. I thought I might have recognised Caz, Baz,
Daz, Maz, and Taz, if not Raz. I didn't realise I had taken in as much detail
the other day, but I knew straight away that something was different. Last
week, these were normal kids of twelve or thirteen. This week, although they
were still twelve or thirteen, they were a little less normal. Last week, some
of them had little chubby tits. Some had little buds. Some had none at all.
This week, without exception, their breasts had all doubled or tripled in
size. Incredible, I thought. Then I thought, 'there's a lot of it about!' If
it hadn't been for the experience with Louise, I would have put it down to an
amazing mass attack of hysterical puberty. Now there was what you might call a
growing body of evidence that Something Strange was going on round here. I
peered more closely at the girls, who looked back at me with the expression of
horror that young girls usually reserve for me. Mixed in with the horror was
an awareness on their innocent little faces that I might find them attractive.
In a way, I suppose, I did. I found them fascinating. Fortunately, at that
point, Mrs Sargent appeared behind them, and asked me to come in. "I dunno!",
she wondered, "young girls these days! Did you see that lot? Tits out to here,
some of them, and all in the space of a week. I dunno what's going on,
straight I don't." I supposed I was expected to express an opinion. "They grow
up so quickly, these days." That's usually a safe bet on these occasions. "My
three have all grown out of their little bras, and I only bought Caroline's
last month. I could try Danielle in it, but *she's* grown herself a pair as
well. It's ridiculous." "And it's not just your three, it's the others as
well", I said, at the risk of revealing that I had been studying the girls
more closely than I should have been. "I know! Maybe it's something in the
water. They put all sorts of stuff in the water these days. It's for your own
good, they say." An icy chill had gripped my entrails. This was Entrails
Awareness Week. I had installed something like a dozen examples of our water
softener in the area. In at least two of those houses, a total of around seven
females had suddenly found themselves with their tits growing in a manner best
described as exuberantly. A lovely word, but a frightening concept. Could it
be caused by the ACME, or whatever its real name was? Oh, my God, please let
it be something else. I made a mental note to visit all of last week's
customers, and look closely at their chests. Like I said earlier, a tough job,
but somebody's gotta do it! ************ This sort of thing can affect a man's
concentration on his job. As well as going round visiting all of last week's
new installations, I still had a crop of new ones to do. My relief at finding
no further examples of unusual breast development - apart from Louise and Mrs
Sargent's girls - was tempered by my alarm at finding that two of my latest
batch of new calls had young girls about the house. One was a slightly chubby
teenager with a pair of over-ripe watermelons under her straining blouse. If
*they* started growing any more, there would be Hell to pay. In the other
house, there was a delightful and delicate little creature of about nine.
Again, if Mr ACME Frankenstein got to work on her, it might please some
perverted souls; but I would have been more content to let nature run its
course. Back at the hotel, I phoned the office. Had they had any complaints
from customers about anything? No, of course they hadn't. What had I in mind?
Oh, nothing in particular, just complaints in general. Well, it had been a
long shot. So I tried Davie, another installation man who had been on the same
course as me. Had he heard of any unusual effects of the water softener, on
women, perhaps? No? Oh, it was nothing, never mind. Yes, we ought to meet up
for a drink sometime. Bring the girlfriend. What girlfriend? That was when I
thought of Louise again. No sooner had I put down the phone, but it rang. It
was Louise. There's telepathy for you. One day, it might replace the telephone
altogether. Meanwhile, they're still working on the system. They have
bandwidth problems. "Colin? Oh, thank God it's you. I couldn't remember which
hotel you were staying in - I tried three before this one." "It must have been
important. How can I help you?" "Well, I don't know how to put this. You know
my ... my ...?" Here we go again. "You mean your breasts?" I could feel her
going red over the phone. "Yes. How did you know what I meant?" How did I
know? I had thought of little else all day. "Colin, you still there? They've
grown some more!" "Some more?" Not the most intelligent question, but on the
spur of the moment ... "You know how big they were this morning?" I think that
was what they call a rhetorical question, so I left her to carry on. "Well, I
went out to buy a bra at lunchtime. I took my top off in the fitting room at
the shop and looked in the mirror. They were bigger still. I didn't buy the
bra, I rushed out." "You didn't even get measured?" "No, I know I should have
done, but I was so embarrassed and confused. No, but that's not the point.
They're even bigger now! I could just get both hands around one of them at
lunchtime when I got home. Two hands aren't big enough now, by quite a long
way. Please, I'm scared. Can you come round?" I thought she would never ask.
********** Louise flung open the door as soon as I arrived on the doorstep.
Her arms met around the back of my neck. Her tits were bigger; I could tell
just from the feel of them. At last, I freed myself and held her at arms'
length. It was worth it. She was wearing a large blue man's work shirt. (He
was probably the extra-terrestrial who had been reported on the streets of
Skingsley earlier in the day. Students of English will recognise this as an
example of a Misplaced Modifier.) I wear a 44 and it would have fitted me
quite nicely. But nowhere near as nicely as it fitted Louise. The top four or
five buttons were undone, and the creamy slopes of her now generous cleavage
peeped out. With an effort, I avoided ejaculating prematurely in my pants. (I
can recommend thinking of the bank manager. It worked this time, but it was a
perilous close-run thing.) Then I hugged her to me again. An hour or so later,
we lay on her bed, panting. "They feel even bigger now!" If that was an
attempt to get me hard again, it was about ten minutes too soon. It was also a
spectacular success! She lay on her back, but rolled towards me as I tickled
her tummy, just above the downy pubic hair. In that position, her breasts
completely filled the space available. "We ought to measure them ... measure
you ... for a bra. It will save time when you go to the shop tomorrow." "I
don't think I dare go back there again!" She sat up, her tits lolloping into
her lap on the bed. "Oh, look at them, they're getting enormous." I already
was, and they were. "Have you got a tape measure?" "Over there, in the
dressing table drawer." I fetched it, and helped her up from the bed. The
result was remarkable. From being a slim, flat-chested girl of five feet
nothing just a week ago, she was now a slim, huge-breasted girl of five feet
nothing. She needed to find a 32-G bra, and where was she going to find one of
those in Skingsley? Her measurements were about 41-19-31. That put her well
into Linda Shoesmith's league. We dropped the tape measure after that, and our
love-making was even more abandoned than last time. By the time we came up for
air, it was dark outside, and Louise insisted that I stayed. She didn't need
to insist very hard. What a night! It rained, there was a thunderstorm, and
Louise clung to me until calm returned, both outside the window and in her
double bed. By morning, there was a fresh, rain-washed appearance to the
crystal air outside. God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world. I
took a deep breath at the window, then heard a scream from the bathroom. I
ran. I don't often run, but I can move quite quickly at times. This was one of
them. Louise was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, naked. I could see
at a glance what was troubling her. She was no longer 41 inches and a mere G
cup. This girl was much bigger. Her eyes were panic stricken as she turned to
me and I hugged her. There is a time and a place for everything. This was not
the time, nor the place to get even an average-sized erection, as our naked
bodies mingled in the bathroom. Louise's huge tits were boring a very large
diameter pair of holes in my lower abdomen. She was obviously upset at finding
them so very much bigger than the night before, by an amount we had not yet so
much as dared to guess at. First, we had to fuck. It was the most important
business in the world at that moment. Louise took over. It was like a meeting
with Linda Shoesmith, only with more enthusiasm, if you can imagine it. I
certainly had more. Louise was like a woman possessed. Even afterwards, as we
sat giggling helplessly at the top of the stairs, we couldn't believe how wild
she had been. But if this went on, she was going to need a wheelbarrow for her
tits, and she would have to push me around in it as well. Her bust was up to
44 inches. If she was going to have a problem finding a 32-G, she was not,
repeat not, going to find a 32-K in Skingsley. I told her not to bother
trying, it could well be a 32-M by tonight! We had a subdued breakfast. She
wanted me to stay, but I told I had to do some work today, or I would never
get through my quota. Promising to ring her mid-morning, at lunchtime and
again at 3 pm, I set off on my travels. ********** By lunchtime, Louise
reported her bust measurement as 45 inches, but that could have been an error
of measurement either way. I told her not to worry, and at 3 pm, she sounded
quite relaxed. I was far from relaxed, with a visit to Mrs Sargent's looming
up. My first glance at the house confirmed my suspicions and dread. The crowd
of boys round the gate was three deep. They looked at me with envy as I pushed
past them and went up the path. "Are you a doctor, mister?" one of them asked.
I became aware of the now-familiar entrails. Caz, Baz et cetera were all in
the front room, sitting round the dining table with dazed expressions. They
looked up as I walked past the open door to the room, but couldn't even summon
up the required expressions of horror. I had seen enough. The nearest girl to
the door (Caz, was it?), was sitting sideways-on to my view. Her tits stood
out like pineapples under her school blouse. Mrs Sargent was sitting down in
the kitchen, a cup of black coffee in front of her. "Have you seen them?" she
asked. "Not really!" "Come with me." And she led me into the front room and
told her three daughters sharply to stand up. They were well-behaved girls.
They stood up and faced me. The other three girls followed suit. My God, they
were enormous! Dressed in the style of the moment, their school blouses hung
outside their skirts. Instead of following the contours of their breasts, the
blouses hung straight down from the peaks of the girls' huge globes. It may
have exaggerated their size, but even so, I could see that not one of these
kids was less than 40 inches up top. The older ones, Caz and one of her
friends, were more like 50! They looked at me as if I was somehow to blame for
their predicament. Yet they must have had mixed feelings. As well as
bewilderment at their sudden growth, there was a certain pride as well. Caz
slowly took a deep breath which strained the imagination as much as it did her
blouse buttons. Quickly, I motioned for Mrs Sargent to come back into the
kitchen. "I think there may be a connection with the water softeners. There's
another woman in town who has grown enormous breasts; almost as big as
Caroline's, and ... and her friend. She was one of my customers, too. What I
can't make out is why there aren't a lot more women with the same problem."
"Problem? My kids don't see it as a problem! As soon as they can get used to
carrying those things around, they're know they're going to be the most
popular girls in the school. If they stop growing, that is!" "The other girls.
Have their mothers had water softeners installed?" "Not to my knowledge", said
Mrs Sargent. "Not that I ever see their mothers, the girls are always round
here, drinking my coffee." "Your coffee?" "This Dutch stuff." She indicated
her cup. "You know, you said you liked it." I knew. Louise liked it, too. But
it didn't explain why Mrs Sargent hadn't got bigger, too. And what about Linda
Shoesmith? Jeez, if SHE started growing! Stand back, world!" I couldn't think
straight. I would talk it over with Louise tonight. Already, I had as good as
checked out of the hotel. Another thought occurred to me. My sister Jessica.
She had a water softener, of course. She had some of the Dutch coffee as well,
now, ever since I took a jar back home for her at the weekend. There would in
any case be no visible results until the next weekend. It could be an
interesting trip home. I made a note to myself to invite Louise home for the
weekend. We might even find a bra for her on Saturday morning, if she didn't
grow too much more. 

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