SusanStrict
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Joined: 3/26/2006
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If you have a sense of humour (or a sense of humor if you're from the US), and you're familiar with a certain series of books about wizards and witches, AND can laugh at things BDSM/Femdom/S&M and various fetishes, then you might possibly like some of this. It was published as an e-book (116,500 words in total) a year ago, and sold extremely well. There are some large extracts posted elsewhere on the Internet. I'll post a few chapters here - how much of it, will really depend on whether anyone likes it.
Susan.
Chapter One - Hairy Peter
The front of the pink Heinkel Trojan 200 bubblecar swung open and out of it stepped a huge woman.
"Is everything ready, Ingrid?" asked a voice from the shadows.
"Yes, professor," replied Ingrid. "He's there, and the Bottomleys know what they have to do."
"Have you seen Professor Mackafart?" asked the voice.
Ingrid shook her head, droplets of moisture flying from her moustache in all directions.
"No," she said. "I think she was sitting on her cat."
"We must go," said the voice. "Peter will be with us again in less than eighteen years. There is much to do at the college."
The street lamps went out as Ingrid squeezed back into the bubblecar, closed the door with difficulty, and roared away into the night. There was no sign of the man in the shadows.
*
It was Peter's eighteenth birthday, and he knew it was going to be a bad day. The Bottomleys, Eustace and his wife Inger with their insufferable daughter Lotta, had made it quite clear he was to receive no special treatment simply because he was now eighteen.
Miserably, Peter squeezed out from under Lotta's bed trying to be as quiet as possible. He knew that if he woke her she would leap from the bed and sit on him before he was even half way out. She was only a few months older than Peter, but at least three times as heavy. Peter's only consolation was that it was far preferable to be sat on by Lotta than by Inger, and that he only had to sleep under that particular bed when Eustace Bottomley was away on business.
He made it. Lotta Bottomley slept on, a huge, snoring lump covered by no more than a thin sheet that did nothing to disguise her massive bulk. She was in the habit of sleeping naked. Peter breathed a sigh of relief as he picked up his clothes and tiptoed towards the door, intending to dress in the bathroom where he could lock himself in and remain undisturbed for a short while at least.
As he passed the window he noticed something most peculiar outside. Perched on roofs, fences and, in fact, on every available perch, were strange birds. Peter recognised them at once, having seen them in Mr Bottomley's book of ornithology. Tetrax Tetrax, more commonly known as Little Bustards. He stared, fascinated.
There was a roar from an adjacent bedroom. "I'll have those Little Bustards!" came Eustace Bottomley's dulcet tones.
The Little Bustards hardly flinched. Lotta, on the other hand, did flinch. She snorted, farted, belched, rolled over much in the manner of a playful walrus, completely losing the sheet covering her and making the bedsprings creak in protest, and caught sight of Peter standing by the window clothes in hand but still in his pyjamas.
"I need to sit," she said.
Fortunately for Peter, Mr Bottomley burst into the room at that moment, closely followed by Inger.
"We have to leave," Mr Bottomley, told everyone. "Right now. Without delay. We're going away."
"Why?" asked Lotta, rising from the bed with difficulty.
"For goodness sake cover yourself, girl," said Mrs Bottomley. "You'll have Peter becoming excited in no time if you expose yourself like that."
Peter, sensibly, refrained from telling Mrs Bottomley that Lotta's rolls of fat were unlikely to excite anything other than a frustrated male walrus. Instead, he merely said, "I wasn't looking."
"Why not?" enquired Eustace Bottomley. "What's wrong with my daughter?"
Peter choked, spluttering on the words that rose from within him and struggled to leave his mouth all at the same time.
"Oh Peter. Let me help you." Lotta Bottomley rushed to the window to assist him, ripples running like waves through her wobbling fat, breasts the size of basketballs bouncing threateningly, and buttocks akin to bolster pillows slapping together with the menacing appearance of a mobile car crusher searching for its next meal.
As Lotta reached Peter at the window, she caught sight of the Little Bustards outside. She screamed, and flung her arms around Peter in terror.
Lotta was taller than Peter as well as being heavier and wider. He had the momentary impression of flying upside down at high speed into a fleshy version of the Grand Canyon before he crashed into a deep, heavy, smothering thickness that tried to squeeze the life out of him. The words that had choked him ended up somewhere in the folds of flesh, none of them reaching the ears of anyone else present.
"Stop playing around," shouted Eustace Bottomley. "We have to leave right now."
"I'll go and get dressed," said Peter, disentangling himself from Lotta only moments before his consciousness started to fade from lack of air between her mammoth mammaries.
"No time," Mr Bottomley told him. "We go right now, right as we are. Inger, dear, throw a coat or two over Lotta, please. We can't have the neighbours becoming excited."
And with that, they left. Peter had no idea where or why they were going.
***
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"Hairy Peter & The Gallstone" - a parody - 
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