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. Tetra Tetra, 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 on someone," 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.

Chapter Two - Ingrid

"Why are we running away?" asked Peter.

"Never you mind," Eustace Bottomley told him, pulling harder on the oars of the little rowing boat. "I'm not staying to be mobbed by those Little Bustards."

"I'm cold," wailed Lotta pulling the coats around her tightly and completely failing to cover the rolls of fat completely.

Her mother tried to comfort her. "We'll soon be there," she assured her.

Peter was cold too, dressed only in his pyjamas. He could see the island towards which they were rowing, half hidden by the spray from the waves.

"That's it," said Eustace jumping from the boat and trying to pull it up onto the little beach. He failed to move it even an inch from the water until Lotta and his wife had also climbed out.

"It's not very big," commented Peter, looking at the ramshackle cottage. "How long are we going to be here?"

"As long as it takes," Eustace told him.

It was soon evident to Peter that he would not be forced to sleep under the beds here. Firstly, there were no beds, just mattresses on the floor. Secondly, there was only one room upstairs and one room downstairs, with nowhere near enough space for three beds. It was now late evening, and he found himself huddled in the corner of the upstairs room where Lotta and her mother were preparing to sleep for the night. Eustace Bottomley, armed with a shotgun, was downstairs. He had declared that he would stand guard all night and "blast the hell" out of any Little Bustard that dared to come close to the island.

"I'm cold," wailed Lotta again, looking doubtfully at the single large mattress on the floor of the room. "Mother, I'm cold. Keep me warm, Mother."

It would be fair to say that Mrs Bottomley did her best. It was unfortunate that she was completely unable to put her arms around the huge bulk of her daughter, and attempting to do so only resulted in the coats slipping from the girl and falling in a heap on the floor. Peter looked away.

"Come here, Peter," ordered Inger Bottomley. "Lotta needs to be warmed up."

"I'm not very warm myself," declared Peter. "I don't think I'll be much help."

"Come here," Inger insisted. "I'm not asking you to think. I'm telling you to come here and warm up Lotta."

Reluctantly Peter stood up and went across the room to where Lotta and her mother were sitting on the large mattress. He stood in front of them, helplessly trying to work out what he could do to help.

"Don't just stand there like a spare prick at a wedding," Inger told him. "Come right here."

She reached forward and made a grab for him, missing her target completely and catching only the front of his pyjama trousers. The thin material ripped.

"Oh," said Inger.

"Ooh," said Lotta.

"Oh help," said Peter.

"You have become a big boy," said Inger.

Peter tried to cover himself with his hands. Inger grabbed one of his arms and pulled him down onto the mattress between them.

"He can warm me up right now," suggested Lotta brightly. "I need warming. Leave him alone, Mother. That's not nice."

"I'm only holding him to stop him getting away," explained her mother. "And a bit of friction like this helps to generate some heat."

"I suppose so," Lotta agreed. "Do you think his head is warm? I always like to hold my hot water bottle between my legs when it's cold. It makes my whole body glow with warmth."

"I should think so," said Inger. "You're quite right. Having something hot between your legs does make your whole body warm. I'm going to warm up too..."

At that moment there was an almighty crash from downstairs. All three of them jumped up, and with Lotta in the lead they headed nervously down the wooden staircase. A terrifying sight met their eyes.

"Hello," said the terrifying sight as soon as it saw Lotta. "I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't know you had had a sex change. It was always a possibility, of course. Each to his own. It just hadn't occurred to me."

"I'm Peter," said Peter, trying to peer round Lotta and failing.

"Course you are, course you are," said the terrifying sight. "Pity they didn't do anything about the voice when they did the sex change. I'd have thought some liposuction might have been good while they were at it too, but there it is. No accounting for tastes, I suppose."

"No, I'm Peter," said Peter more loudly but still not able to find his way past Lotta. Desperate that the newcomer should realise who was talking, Peter made the mistake of trying to crawl between Lotta's legs. He had only managed to get his head through when she closed them on his neck, almost encasing him completely in the thick, blubbery flesh of her thighs.

"Ah, there you are, Peter" said the terrifying sight. "I'm Ingrid. I can see we'll be getting along famously. You like that sort of activity, do you? I'm sorry I can't promise you anything as soft and extensive as that young lady at Fessewarts. I'm a bit more solid myself. We'll have to see what we can do for you."

"No," protested Peter, struggling to free himself from Lotta's heavy femoral embrace and failing. "I'm just stuck."

"I'll help you," said Inger from behind him.

He felt Inger's hands on his buttocks, pushing him forward. What remained of his torn pyjamas came loose completely and fell to the floor. She continued to push, but somehow one of her hands had found its way between his buttocks while the other, apparently only trying to steady him, was between his legs clasping his genitals firmly.

"No! No! It's all right," he tried to tell her, giving up trying to push himself forward and deciding to reverse instead. As he successfully moved backwards, one of Inger's fingers pressed against his sphincter and into his rectum. He gasped in surprise and discomfort.

"Oh, sorry," she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest and not making any effort to remove her finger.

Lotta, quite unaware of what her mother was doing, decided she wanted to be as far from the terrifying Ingrid as possible. She too tried to move backwards, forcing Peter further back so that Inger's finger went deeper into him.

"You're in a bit of a fix there," Ingrid told Peter, apparently sensing what was happening even though she could not possibly have seen it. "I'll help you out."

From under her coat, Ingrid produced a very large pink vibrator. She pointed it at Lotta and muttered a few words. A grey stream erupted from the end of the vibrator looking very unpleasant. It hit Lotta a few inches below the waist. Immediately, Lotta's huge legs shrank, now looking as though they belonged to a size zero model yet still supporting the rest of her bulk admirably.

With nothing in front of him, Peter was flung forward as though he had just been shot from a cannon. Involuntarily, his sphincter muscle closed on Inger's finger, pulling her forward with him. He ended up face down in front of Ingrid, his buttocks clenched tightly on Inger's hand and with her lying on the back of his legs.

He looked up at Ingrid. "I'm Peter," he said. "Pleased to meet you. It's not always like this."

"Glad to hear it," said Ingrid. "I'm not always like this either. Please don't tell anyone I did that. I'm not really supposed to use my vibrator."

That is so funny. You have a wonderful sense of humor, not to mention imagination! Just the title had me laughing already.

I'm pleased you like it

There's another 38 chapters I can't post them all here (it's a published book of mine, and no one would buy it if they could read it all for free!!!!), but if a few people like it then I'll post a few more of them here.

Already published? Smart move! Advertising can be SssOoo expensive!
I found some other chapters on some other websites (sshhhh we wont let on about your own either!) but shame I cant find it on amazon, I might have ordered it for a laugh.

No, as you say, my website is NOT suitable for mentioning here. I'm sure you'll find the book if you are really interested, along with the seventeen others I've written. There's more than enough stuff to have fun with in Internet forums without needing to try to push any of it that's not wanted (or not suitable). I enjoy the feedback when people enjoy reading it, and comments are always appreciated.

Chapter Three - Diaphragm Alley

It was not long before Ingrid had explained to Peter all about him being a wizard and about the place reserved for him at the University of Fessewarts.

"We had better be going," said Ingrid as soon as Mrs Bottomley had managed to remove her finger from Peter's rectum and her hand from between his buttocks, all of which took rather longer than to explain about wizards and Fessewarts.

"What about me?" complained Lotta. "I'll have no one to sit on."

"I'm sure you'll manage," Peter assured her. "With those new legs all you have to do is to hide the rest of you."

"Come on," said Ingrid putting away her pink vibrator. "It seems I won't be needing this for the moment."

"You're not leaving," shouted Mr Bottomley brandishing his shotgun. He had been silent until now, stunned by the bizarre turn of events.

"We are," said Ingrid, "Unless you want a taste of my vibrator too."

Fortunately, Mr Bottomley decided he did not like the look of Ingrid's vibrator at all. He put down the shotgun and retreated towards his wife and daughter who were still standing naked at the bottom of the stairs. Inger reached out for her husband, trying to push Lotta out of the way.

"We'll go upstairs," said Inger as Peter and Ingrid were leaving. "I need to be warmed up."

"So do I," said Lotta, and Eustace Bottomley found himself being dragged up the stairs between his wife and daughter.

Peter mentally censored the remainder of that episode, and so shall we.

"I haven't any clothes," Peter reminded Ingrid as they left the island.

"I had noticed," said Ingrid. "You like me, don't you?"

"I need some clothes," insisted Peter. "I can't go to University without anything at all."

"It's all right," Ingrid assured him. "We have to stop off a Diaphragm Alley. We can buy some clothes there."

The journey to Diaphragm Alley was rapid and uneventful, other than Peter's insistence that he had to hide somewhere behind Ingrid every time they encountered anyone on route. Fortunately Ingrid's size made this easy, and her long coat made it relatively simple for Peter to conceal himself.

"Here we are," said Ingrid, opening the secret entrance to Diaphragm Alley.

Peter gaped at the mass of people all dressed in long, shiny robes and who were coming and going in the hidden street. None of them appeared to take any notice of him or of Ingrid, as though it was commonplace to see a naked youth in the company of a giantess.

"Robes," said Ingrid. "Mrs Sattonhim's Robe Emporium, I think. I'll lend you the money until we have time to go to your bank. I have something to collect there too."

Ingrid pushed open the door of a nearby shop.

"Don't tell me," said the tall, thin woman behind the counter. "I'm going to guess that you would like something for this young man to wear."

"How did you know?" asked Ingrid in surprise. "This is Peter."

"I know," replied Mrs Sattonhim. "He has the clump of green hair just to the right of his genitals."

Peter looked down in surprise. She was right. There was a clump of green hair to the right of his genitals, and it was shaped exactly like a peacock. How strange that he had never noticed it before.

"Ur," agreed Ingrid. "That would be from the battle with He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon."

Mrs Sattonhim nodded wisely. "I suppose if Peter's mother hadn't tried to sit on He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon it would never have happened," she said. "Never mind. Robes. Now what's going to suit little Peter?"

"I think young wizards look nice in pink," said Ingrid.

"Rubbish," declared Mrs Sattonhim. "You think everything is nice in pink. Personally I think a nice puce would be just perfect for this one. Now, let's see if the puce robes like him."

She slipped a puce coloured robe over Peter's head and let it fall around him. Peter felt very uncomfortable. The robe was more like a long girl's dress, coming almost to his ankles.

"How does that feel?" Mrs Sattonhim asked.

"It feels very silly," said Peter.

"I wasn't asking you," said Mrs Sattonhim. "I was asking the robe."

As if the robe was answering her, Peter felt it tightening on him. It gripped his legs, binding them together tightly and squeezing around his hips, stomach and chest. He fell over and found he could not move, held tightly as though he had been wrapped up in the strong, shiny material of the robe.

"That's not the one for him," said Ingrid shaking her head sadly.

"No," agreed Mrs Sattonhim looking down at Peter. "All the same, it has its uses. I don't suppose that while he's down there and unable to move you'd like to...?"

"I'd love to," said Ingrid, "But we really don't have time. I need to go to the bank. Fessewarts business, you know. And I need to make a withdrawal for Peter too."

"If you'd like to leave him here for a while, I'll look after him until you have finished at the bank," offered Mrs Sattonhim.

"That's very kind of you," Ingrid thanked her. "See you later, Peter."

"Now Peter," said Mrs Sattonhim as soon as Ingrid had left the shop, "Let's get you into the back office and see what we can do with you."

"Get me out of this robe!" demanded Peter.

"Of course, of course," Mrs Sattonhim assured him. "All in good time."

With surprising strength Mrs Sattonhim dragged him into an office at the rear of the shop. Once there, she hoisted up her own loose robe and stood astride him. She wore nothing at all underneath the robe.

"Ready?" she asked, and without waiting for a reply she descended onto his face.

It took fifteen minutes, and another fifteen to find Peter a robe that did not tighten as soon as he put it on. Mrs Sattonhim explained that the first robe would simply have refused to loosen until he had been thoroughly sat on, and thanked him for his attention to her.

"It would have been so tedious," she said, "If you weren't able to make me orgasm like that. These robes are quite particular about it. I don't know where I could have found someone who orgasms more easily at this time of day, and we would have been stuck for hours until we did."

Peter examined his new, black robe suspiciously.

"Oh, that one's all right," she assured him. "It has quite a different character. You won't have that sort of problem now."

At that moment, a young witch came into the shop. She was quite unlike anyone Peter had seen so far in Diaphragm Alley. Her long blonde hair shone, reflecting the lights. Her robe was tight around her perfect breasts, with a plunging v-shape at the top that revealed more than a little of her smooth, white skin.

Peter had never seen a girl he instantly found so attractive and desirable. Apparently his robe thought so too. It decided to act immediately, and the front rolled up to his waist exposing his obvious excitement.

"Nice," said the witch.

"Perfect," declared Mrs Sattonhim. "We've definitely found the right robe for you!"