A second extract from Susan Strict's new novel
"Hairy Peter & The Secret Chamberpot"text:
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Peter pulled out Merry's diary, sat on the corner of the bed and started to read. As Herniame had told him, the first part of the diary had been written by Merry's great-grandmother. He finished three pages without hearing Eustace Bottomley's car depart, and then his problems really started.
The door burst open. "Peter!" cried Lotta, running towards the bed with open arms.
Peter rapidly stuffed the diary back into his bag.
Actually, to describe Lotta's action as "running" would have been something of an exaggeration. Her legs, which had returned to their normal size three months ago only a few days after Ingrid had made them rather thinner in an effort to rescue Peter from behind them, left the floor much in the manner of tree trunks being forcibly uprooted and then slammed down a few inches further forward. The floor and walls shook. Shockwaves ran through Lotta, her rolls of fat wobbling in random directions. Her breasts, restrained as they were by wire-supported hammock-like structures, rose and fell threateningly in what might have been a bounce at every step if the force of gravity on the weight of such massive mountains of flesh had not made any significant upward motion virtually impossible.
Lotta launched herself at Peter before he had time to move aside, clasping him to her chest in a welcoming embrace. Nothing could have withstood her attack. A stampeding herd of buffalo would have ignored her at their peril. Wild horses would undoubtedly have fled, and even charging elephants might well have thought twice and retreated with trunks held high in fear and outrage.
Peter did not stand a chance. Had he been on his feet he might possibly have managed to dodge her advance, but seated as he was on her bed and with his primary concern to put the diary out of harm's way, he had no hope of moving quickly enough.
She hit him with the force of an express locomotive, her too, too solid flesh enveloping him totally as with unstoppable momentum she slammed him backwards onto the bed and finished up on top of him.
"Peter?"
He vaguely heard her voice, muffled through layers of her blubberiness covering him. He would have replied, but words could never have escaped the heavy insulation that would have been the envy of any soundproofing contractor.
It was an effort for her to rise. To move such a mass vertically from the bed would have been impossible. Instead, she rolled sideways and examined the spluttering, near-smothered wreck she had greeted so affectionately.
"Peter!"
"Hello, Lotta," said Peter as soon as he was able to speak.
"You were on my bed waiting for me." Lotta nearly smiled.
"I'll leave you two to it," came a voice from the doorway, a second before Inger Bottomley slammed the door and locked it.
"I was sitting reading," protested Peter.
"No need to read now," Lotta told him enthusiastically. "I'm here."
"All I want," Peter told her, "Is to be left alone."
It was a mistake, and Peter knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth.
"That's not very nice," said Lotta, laboriously swinging an elephantine leg over Peter and managing to drag her huge bulk after it until she was in a sitting position on his chest and stomach. The yards of material of the Lotta's skirt covered almost all of Peter that was not actually being crushed by her solid flesh, quite enough material, thought Peter, to keep the clothing industry supplied for many weeks.
"You haven't even given me a kiss yet," she pointed out plaintively.
"No, I haven't," agreed Peter.
"It's time you did," Lotta told him in a voice that clearly was not going to take no for an answer. She did not wait for his permission. She hoisted up her skirt as well as she could and moved forward, her immense thighs on either side of his head. Slowly and steadily she descended, with remarkable control for such a vast amount of flesh.
"Kiss me," she demanded. "And make it a good kiss, because I'm not moving until I've enjoyed it properly."
With Lotta's weight pressing down on him and her heavy flesh bulging around him, Peter was completely unable to breathe. Fortunately he was ready for it. It was not the first time that Lotta had sat on him in this way, and he knew exactly what he needed to do. It was, perhaps, a little more difficult to find precisely the right spot because Lotta seemed to have put on even more weight since he last saw her. To move his head even a fraction with that weight pressing on him was no easy task, but move he did and find the right spot with his mouth he did.
Lotta squealed. It was a very porcine squeal and one of which any member of the wild boar family might have been proud, but it was undoubtedly a squeal of pleasure and Peter recognised it. He concentrated on what he had to do, putting every scrap of effort he could summon up into the task. He had less than a minute. It was not Lotta's time limit; it was his. Peter knew from previous experience that in not much more than a minute his strength would begin to fail from lack of air, and although he would remain conscious for considerably longer than that he would have passed the point at which he could still provide Lotta with the stimulation she needed. She would remain sitting, pressing down on him. Unless he had achieved the desired effect before he became incapable of focusing his attention properly, she would remain where she was until he had lost consciousness, and when his senses returned she would be furious and even more demanding.
Peter knew he had succeeded when he felt a deep shuddering from within Lotta that vibrated through the rolls of blubber covering him. Unfortunately, instead of rolling sideways off him as she had always done, she relaxed completely and settled down solidly on top of him. He was on the point of losing consciousness when the door burst open again.
"Lotta!"
Inger Bottomley's voice came to Peter's ears as though from a great distance.
"Mother, I'm busy."
Muffled as it was, Peter could hear Lotta's irritation.
"Dinner's ready."
The effect was as magical as anything Peter could have done with his spell crop if it had worked in that house. The weight lifted from him and he could breathe. He gasped and spluttered.
Lotta was halfway to the door before she turned and looked doubtfully at Peter, as if she had only just remembered that he existed. He was still lying motionless, too weak to move at that moment.
"Do you think he'll be all right?" she asked.
For one mad moment Peter thought that perhaps Lotta was really concerned about him.
"Don't worry," her mother assured her, "He can't go anywhere once we've locked the door. The windows are barred, there's no other way out and he can't do any magic. There's no need to tie him up as long as both of us are here."
Apparently satisfied, Lotta continued her lumbering progress towards the door, the call of food taking priority over anything else. The door slammed, and Peter was left alone.
"Hairy Peter & The Secret Chamberpot"
A second extract from Susan Strict's new novel "Hairy Peter & The Secret Chamberpot"text: