t was a great thrill the following day, for that was the occasion on which Blanche introduced Alice to the famous Honore L’Oeuf. Blanche always made a point of making love to as many authors as she could, particularly authors of children’s books. She’d had sex with Cheval, the author of a book about eight children in search of an elusive orgasm. He’d been very shy, she’d said - and his penis had been actually rather small. She’d also made love with Christophe Oiseau, the author of the Pooh books, but she’d not actually enjoyed being pissed on. Honore was a special conquest, Blanche maintained, and they were still very friendly, but, it was evident to her that she much preferred the company of children.

Blanche left Honore and Alice talking in the garden, by a bench, where Honore sat: her breasts in real life if anything more fantastic than seen in a photograph. She had at least an 80 inch bust, and their weight forced them to hang down and obscure her vagina, which they almost touched when she sat down.

Honore lifted a breast up in her hands and held it out for Alice to see clearly. “This is the main reason I live in Brook”, she explained. “I didn’t always live here, but when I lived where clothes were much more the expected thing, I had enormous problems. I had to wear men’s shirts designed for very fat men, but even then they couldn’t hide my enormous breasts. The nipples would always struggle to escape. And so often, the buttons would pop and my breasts flop out. It was so embarrassing! Here, I don’t have to even try to hide them.”

“Have you always had such titanic tits?” asked Alice.

“Not when I was a very young child, of course,” Honore said smiling. “But even when I was your age, it was fairly obvious that I would have monstrous mammaries. At first I thought they’d just reached full size much earlier than normal - but they just wouldn’t stop growing. They just grew and grew! It got so that I had to spend days with my blouse fully open, simply because I couldn’t button them up. Or I’d do the bottom button and the top button, and the breasts would just hang out between. So, it soon became obvious that I wasn’t an ordinary girl.”

“How did you start writing children’s books?” wondered Alice, who wanted to move the subject away from breasts, although it was such a prominent and obvious subject.

“I’ve always loved children. And I’ve always loved making love to children. I love the feel of a five year old boy’s penis. And I like those of eleven year olds. They’re so smooth. And children’s bodies are so beautiful. Your body is one of the most beautiful.”

“Thank you,” said Alice, who glanced down at her own very flat chest, and the long hair which fell to her waist and brushed over her slender thighs and buttocks. “Why do you love children so?”

“Perhaps because girls and boys look so much the same. And I just love the tenderness and innocence of making love with them. So it seemed natural to write stories about it. Of course, I invest into them as much of my own experience as possible. I just love having two or three children making love to me at once, and they love to put my nipples into their mouth, or to rub their little crotches over them. I also watch children making love together or masturbating. And I listen to their stories of their own sexual encounters.”

“Do you enjoy writing stories?”

“Of course. I always masturbate when I’m writing, and I know when my stories are particularly erotic by the amount of moistness they generate. If they’re very erotic, I just have to break off in the middle of writing them, and push a banana up my crotch and feel its squelchy disintegration inside me, or to rub my breasts up and down the wall while I shove something hard and firm up me. But no masturbation - and I masturbate several times every day - can match the delight of sex with children.”

Alice felt very uncomfortable at Honore’s directness. “Do you want to make love to me?”

“Of course, dearest,” Honore said. “I want you to put the whole of your mouth over my nipples and bite them with your petite little teeth. I want to push as much of my stiff nipple up your vagina as I can and feel your hot little quim moisten and drip over my breasts. I want to push my tongue as deep as I can inside you, while you luxuriate in my breasts. I want to make love with you for hours and hours.”

“Do you make love with all the children you meet?”

“Not all, but as many as I can. I love the variety. I love disabled children. I like to put amputee’s stumps deep inside me so they feel smooth and wet. I love black, white and red children. I love girls and boys. But don’t think I only love children.”

“Yes, you’ve also made love with Blanche...”

“Well, and still do. She’s such a wonderful literary groupie. Anyone write a book, and Blanche’s fucked them. Blanche and I make an odd couple. There’s so much flesh between us. We can barely touch each other with our arms when we lie on top of the other. In fact, making love for me is always a bit funny. Either my lover has to squeeze between my tits or they have to fuck from the oddest of angles.”

“I see,” said Alice thoughtfully.

“And I can see that what you want to do is hold my nipple to see if it’s real,” Honore commented. Her fingers were slowly circling her nipples. “Have a feel.”

Alice leaned forward and took the nipple gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. There were three or four inches of hard nipple between her fingers. Honore put her hands behind Alice’s head and eased her face right on to the breast. It wasn’t long until her nipple was inside Alice’s mouth. She’d never had anything as large or firm in her mouth as this before. She could feel the small pimples at the base of her nipple, and she loved running her tongue round the indentation at the tip.

“Don’t worry. I won’t leak any milk,” laughed Honore. Honore was simply the best lover Alice had yet had, and she came to orgasm again and again and again under Honore’s subtle and stimulating caresses. Her experience with so many children showed, because she knew which parts of a child’s body have most erogenous significance, unlike so many others Alice had made love to, who didn’t appreciate the differences let alone identify them. Blanche wandered into the garden from time to time to watch the two at play, but except for a little peck on Alice’s face and a blown kiss at Honore she respected their privacy. She mostly busied herself in the book shop.

Eventually the two girls were exhausted. Alice found it curious, however, that someone as skilled at lovemaking as Honore was nonetheless rather clumsy at other more ordinary activities, like standing up or leaning over. But this was the fault of her monstrous bust, which always seemed to be in the way of her hands and to pull her off-balance. Still, despite the occasional heavy crash when Honore fell over, Alice’s abiding thoughts were of her grace and facility. And of course, she felt honoured to have made love with such a famous author, even if she was only one of so many so honoured.