Hairy Peter
and
The Secret Chamberpot
Part One
Smashwords Edition
Susan Strict
Copyright 2009 Susan Strict
Strict Publishing International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter 1 - At The Bottomleys
Peter had dreaded having to go back to the Bottomleys after a term at Fessewarts University for witches and wizards.
He knew that it would be at least as bad as it had been for as long as he could remember up until his eighteenth birthday when the appearance of the flock of Little Bustards, each carrying a copy of Peter's invitation to attend the University, had prompted Eustace Bottomley to flee with the whole family and Peter. Once Ingrid, the half-giantess who looked after the grounds of Fessewarts and had a particular interest in the magical creatures that lived in the sinister Forest of Portent at the edge of the grounds, had rescued Peter from the Bottomleys, everything changed for him. To have to return to the same living nightmare was truly terrifying, and the thought of having to sleep underneath Lotta Bottomley's bed or even under Inger Bottomley's bed when her husband, Eustace, was away, was as unpleasant a thought as Peter could imagine.
For once, however, Peter was wrong.
It was not as bad as it had been before his eighteenth birthday. It was worse. It was very much worse. It was so bad, in fact, that if Peter had been able to use the power of his spell crop to blast his way out of that house by magic, then he most certainly would have done it. Unfortunately, as Chancellor Fumblebum at the University had warned him, the Bottomleys’ house had an enchantment on it that completely prevented any spell, incantation or other magic working within its walls. For the first time in his life Peter found himself furious at his mother, unable to understand why when she was alive she had not predicted such a situation and not, therefore, worked the complicated enchantment that now prevented him using magic to escape.
It was not so much that Peter found himself a prisoner that bothered him. The bars that Eustace Bottomley had had fitted to the windows of the house did not concern Peter in the slightest. It was, quite simply, that neither Lotta Bottomley nor her mother Inger would leave him alone. He would have been quite content to spend the entire Christmas holidays reading and re-reading Merry Shagger's diary, so thoughtfully retrieved from Merry's possessions by his friend Herniame after the fight with He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon in which Merry was hit by some very dark power rising serpent-like from the dust that was the only remnant of He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon. Merry had ceased to exist, and although Chancellor Fumblebum had assured Peter that Merry was not dead, he also told Peter it was highly unlikely he would see Merry again, and certainly never in the form of the sad young woman to whom Peter had become so attached during the university term at Fessewarts.
To be left alone with her diary to grieve was all that Peter wanted. He had managed to read a little of it during the journey on the Fessewarts Express, and on arriving at the Bottomley's house in Kingston-upon-Thames, at first it seemed that he might get his wish.
"I'm not having a wizard wandering around the streets of Kingston-upon-Thames practising magic left, right and centre," declared Eustace Bottomley. "You will remain in here, Peter, until it is time for you to return to that place."
"No problem," Peter said, quite content to spend the next three weeks quietly reading.
"Upstairs right now," Mr Bottomley told him, "And stay there. Your food will be brought to you."
It suited Peter very well, but it soon became obvious that Eustace Bottomley's home improvements had gone much further than simply putting bars onto the windows. Lotta's bedroom door had been replaced by a very much stronger one of solid iron and a lock that would not have been out of place in a high security prison. A dividing wall now separated a corner of the large bedroom from the rest of it, and inside was a full en suite bathroom.
Eustace Bottomley pushed Peter into the room and slammed the door. "You'll stay there," he said again, "And don't think you can sweet-talk my wife and my daughter while I'm away. That door remains locked unless they are both there together, and if you can get past the two of them you're a braver man than me."
Peter put down the bag containing his spare clothes and other items from Fessewarts. He had never owned very much, and there was no sign of the little he had owned and left behind in Lotta's bedroom when he had gone. That did not concern him either. He 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.
***
Chapter 2 - Christmas Eve
For the next week Peter remained in that room without once being allowed to leave it. Inger Bottomley brought him food when she remembered, and the en suite bathroom so thoughtfully constructed by Eustace Bottomley provided his other essential needs.
He desperately wanted the time to read Merry Shagger's diary uninterrupted, but even this simple ambition proved impossible. When Lotta was at home she rarely left him alone. At nights he discovered that he was no longer obliged to sleep under Lotta's bed. Her needs were far too frequent for her to waste time dragging Peter out whenever she wanted him, so she made the decision that he should share the bed with her.
"Share" was not quite the right word. Lotta Bottomley took up at least three quarters of the bed even when she remained motionless, and Lotta Bottomley, even when asleep, rarely remained motionless. Peter found himself needing to stay alert and frequently on the move to avoid being squashed under Lotta during one of her numerous nocturnal repositionings. Peter remained in constant dread that he would find himself underneath her while she was still asleep and, as Lotta was not easy to wake, he feared that such an event might well prove fatal.
To make it worse, Lotta insisted that Peter should wear either wrist-to-thigh restraints each night or have his hands securely handcuffed behind his back.
"It’s to stop you fiddling with me while I'm asleep," she said seriously. "Mother says I have to be firm."
No amount of pleading could persuade her to change her mind. It made no difference for Peter to protest that he would never voluntarily fiddle with any part of Lotta's anatomy if she were the last female on Earth.
"Mother warned me about men," she said as she checked the restraints and pulled Peter towards her, pressing his head firmly between her legs. "None of you can keep your hands to yourself."
Daytime was, for Peter, even worse. Lotta now had a job, although what sort of job Peter could not imagine. She left the house promptly at ten minutes to ten every morning and did not reappear until shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon. Before she left, Inger Bottomley invariably appeared in Lotta's bedroom where Peter was now confined and assisted Lotta in making sure that Peter was fully immobilised.
"You see," Inger told him pleasantly. "I need to unlock the door during the day to bring you food and suchlike. I'm not at all sure that on my own I could stop you leaving, and dear Eustace would be so annoyed with me if you were to go outside."
With his ankles attached to the lower end of the bed and his wrists securely cuffed to the bed frame either side of him, Peter was unable to move.
"How am I supposed to eat when I’m like this?" he objected. "And I'll need to go to the bathroom before Lotta comes back."
"I'll help you," promised Inger. "I had some training as a nurse before I met Eustace, so I'm not inexperienced at looking after someone who's confined to bed!"
As promised, Inger looked after Peter from the moment Lotta left the house until the moment she returned home. Her attention was, in fact, quite insatiable, and made Lotta's persistent requirements seem quite gentle, mild and undemanding by comparison. Even the enthusiastic needs of the mature Madam Seleet at Fessewarts University hospital were nowhere near as intense as the passions that the equally mature Inger Bottomley now displayed.
For Peter, who had found Madam Seleet particularly arousing despite being at least thirty years older than he was, Inger Bottomley was a nightmare that rivalled the worst he had had when his subconscious had become inexplicably joined with that of Alan Semavivus, He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon, as he slept. Peter, unlike Alan Semavivus, most certainly was sat upon, and in every possible way that Inger could think of to sit upon him. Having him restrained on his back on the bed did prove to be slightly restrictive for some of the activities Inger Bottomley would have liked to have tried, but her inventiveness left him groaning and breathless on the rare occasions she actually let him alone for more than a few seconds. He did his best. He actually did very well, and managed to rise to the occasion at least one tenth as many times as Inger Bottomley wanted him to perform that particular task. It was, he thought, a particularly praiseworthy achievement considering he really did not find Inger Bottomley desirable in the slightest.
Peter would never have believed that he might look forward to Lotta's return and her joyful, smothering embrace, yet almost anything was preferable to suffering hour after hour of Inger.
By Christmas Eve it was becoming unbearable, and Peter was becoming so exhausted both from lack of sleep and from physical exertion that he was beginning to doubt he would survive until the end of the Christmas holidays. According to Inger, Eustace Bottomley was due to return from his business trip late that night.
"Don't worry," Inger told Peter as she eased herself away from him shortly before Lotta returned home, "Eustace will be away again as soon as Christmas Day and Boxing Day are over. His work is far too important for him to be spending time here."
The door opened.
"They let me go early as it's Christmas Eve," said Lotta happily. "Mother, what are you doing?"
"Oh, nothing," Inger told her.
"You aren’t wearing any clothes," Lotta pointed out.
"I spilt something down them," said Inger.
"Peter's got his trousers and underpants round his ankles," said Lotta, "And his shirt's undone."
"Um... yes, I spilt it on him too. I was just going to get him some clean clothes," Inger informed her.
"I see," said Lotta, quite happy with the explanation. "It's so funny, Mother, I thought for a moment you had been doing things with Peter!"
"Of course not," her mother assured her. "I would never..."
But what she would never was never found out. At that moment there was a strange roaring noise just outside the window.
"What's that?" asked Lotta to no one in particular, moving as quickly as her huge bulk would allow towards the window.
She screamed. And then Inger screamed. Both women cowered on the floor, quite obviously terrified.
There was a screeching noise of metal bolts being severed, and then several loud clangs of heavy metal objects falling onto a hard surface. The window shattered, and two shadowy forms leapt through the opening.
"There he is!" screamed one of them at the other. "Looks like he's pleased to see us!"
"Freda! Samantha!" Peter recognised Don's elder twin sisters, not that they were difficult to recognise. Their long, bright red hair streamed behind them as they leapt into the room and, as usual, their clothing did little to conceal their impressive breasts. Peter did not need to see their faces to know who it was. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"Rescuing you, of course," Freda told him cheerfully. "Unless you don't need rescuing? Is it us you're pleased to see, or were you in the middle of something with those two over there?"
She indicated Lotta and Inger who were still cowering in absolute terror.
"Nothing that can't wait!" Peter grinned. "Yes, I'm very pleased to see you."
"Wonderful," Samantha told him, leaning over the bed and grasping his erection enthusiastically.
"No time for that now," Freda warned her. "If someone spots Don out there, we're all in trouble."
"What shall we do with them?" asked Samantha, indicating Lotta and Inger as she untied Peter.
"Tie them up and leave them," suggested Freda. "Take the fat one's clothes off too, and leave the old battleaxe as she is. It will make them so embarrassed when someone finds them. They thoroughly deserve it."
"Eustace Bottomley will be coming home later," Peter informed Freda and Samantha. "He might be back any time."
"Then we had better hurry," said Freda, kicking the door shut.
"Um... I don't think you can open that without the keys," said Peter.
"Can't you?" asked Samantha, staring at the heavy metal door. "Where are the keys?"
"I expect Mrs Bottomley has them somewhere," said Peter vaguely as he struggled into his clothes.
"Got them," announced Freda triumphantly, producing them from the pile of Inger Bottomley's clothes.
"Good," said Peter.
"We don't need them," Samantha told him. "We're going out the way we came in. It will be much quicker and safer."
"Safer?" queried Peter. "We're upstairs! You two might be able to climb like monkeys, but I'm not so keen on it. I'm aching and exhausted."
"Aw, poor Peter!" said Freda, stroking his hair affectionately. "Don't worry. There's no climbing involved. You'll see."
Despite their obvious fear of Freda and Samantha, both Lotta and Inger struggled valiantly when the twins tried to tie them to the bed. Finally the twins managed it, with Inger Bottomley on her back underneath and Lotta Bottomley, now naked, on her front on top. Both of them were tied spread-eagled. The twins stood back, shaking with laughter at what they had achieved.
"It's not funny really," said Peter. "You're both impossible. I almost feel sorry for Inger. I know what it's like to have Lotta on top of you!"
"We need to go," announced Freda. "We're pushing our luck already. Is Don there?"
"Where?" asked Peter, looking out of the window for the first time since the twins had arrived. He was quite unprepared for what he saw. It was nearly dark outside, and hovering by the window with its nearside doors wide open, was a sleek, black car. The driver was looking in Peter's direction.
"All right, mate?" he enquired cheerfully. "Best get a move on."
Peter was speechless for a moment. "Don!"
"Yup, it's me. Haven't Fred and Sam finished with you yet? Someone will spot me in a minute. That muddle spell of theirs will be wearing off. Get in."
Peter grabbed the bag with his few possessions and cautiously climbed out of the window into the car. Freda and Samantha followed.
"Hang on," said Samantha as Don revved the engine, preparing to move away. She produced a large bag and threw it into the room. "That should keep them amused for a few hours," she said.
"I bet it doesn't work," Freda told her. "Magic isn’t supposed to work in that house. You know that. If it did, then Peter would have been free days ago."
"It's not the same as magic," Samantha disagreed. "I have a feeling that enchanted objects will retain their enchantment. I can hope, anyway. It's just so delicious to imagine what will be happening if it does. We can't go back and have a look, can we?"
The car was already moving away from the window. Freda shook her head. "It's too risky," she said. "That muddle spell has probably run out already. Don, get this thing down in the road as fast as you can."
"What did you throw in?" asked Peter curiously as Don guided the car down onto the road outside the house.
"Only sweets," said Samantha.
"Chocolate vibrators," Freda told him.
Peter actually laughed.
"You know about those?" asked Freda in surprise.
Peter nodded. "Last term, on the Fessewarts Express on the way up," he reminded Freda. "You were there. Herniame had some and they nearly fell off the seat in the train. You warned me that once they are loose they just look for a suitable orifice to squeeze into and then squirm and vibrate until they melt. Do you really think they might work in there?"
"I really don't know," Freda admitted, "But Sam's right. It's a wonderful thought imagining them queuing up four at a time for those in front to melt away. There were about eighty of them in that bag, and they cost us a fortune. It will be worth every penny if it does work!"
"Four at a time?" asked Don, concentrating on driving the car as fast as possible through the suburban streets.
"Use your imagination, Don," Freda told him. "I'm not drawing you a picture."
"Right," said Don. "I see, I think."
"Mr Bottomley will be back long before they've finished," said Peter.
"Maybe," Freda agreed, "But unless he has a ladder, he won't get into the room. I still have the keys."
"I rather hope he does get into the room," Samantha said brightly. "He won't have a clue what's happening until one of the chocolate vibrators decides to squeeze up his trouser leg. I don't think he'll be worrying about releasing his wife and daughter when that happens. Fred, do you remember those boys in the changing room?"
"Quiet!" Freda warned her. "I've told you never to mention that!"
Peter thought it was time to try and change the subject. "Where are we going?" he asked. "You're driving awfully fast, Don."
"He's showing off," said Freda. "It's the first time he's driven this one. It's a bit different from Dad's Ford Anglia."
"Two-point-five litre flat four," said Don. "Turbo. Three hundred and twenty brake horsepower. All wheel drive. Only three hundred and twenty of them made. I wonder how the Ministry got their hands on one?"
"What is it?" asked Peter, not particularly interested in cars but willing to show an interest if Don was so enthusiastic.
"It's a Subaru Impreza RB320," Don told him. "Limited edition. Watch this."
Don accelerated hard round a sharp bend. "Wow," he said. "It didn't even slip."
"You'll hit something in a minute," Peter told him. "Or the police will stop you."
"It can't hit anything," Samantha said. "For the same reason that it can fly."
"So why aren't we flying?" asked Peter. "It would be a lot safer," he added as Don swerved the car onto the wrong side of the road to pass a slower vehicle in front of them.
"Far too risky," Freda told him. "Anyone might see us, and there are loads of aircraft over this part of London coming down to land at Heathrow Airport."
"I should have thought that whatever magic makes it fly ought to be able to deal with that," grumbled Peter, clutching at his seat as Don slammed on the brakes and then accelerated past a lorry.
"It's not magic," said Samantha. "It's a bit complicated. Dad will explain if you ask him. At least, he will if we're not in too much trouble for borrowing it without permission."
"We'll be in trouble if Don goes on driving like this," Peter complained, and as if to confirm his words there was the sound of a police siren behind them.
"Better stop, Don," advised Freda. "I'll deal with it."
Muttering to himself, Don slowed the car and pulled over to the kerb. The police car stopped behind them and two uniformed officers got out.
"Is this your car, sir?" enquired one of the officers when Don opened his window.
"No," Don admitted. "It's my father's car from his work."
"You've been stopped," said the other officer, "Because..."
A bemused look went across his face.
"You've been stopped," he said again, and once more he appeared to be confused.
"Thank you for stopping," said the first policeman. "Have a nice evening, and drive carefully."
He looked up and down the Subaru as though seeing it for the first time. "Nice car," he said as the two of them walked back to their own vehicle.
"Neatly done," said Don grudgingly. "Best muddle spell I've seen."
"You said something about that earlier," said Peter. "A muddle spell. What's that?"
Samantha explained. "It's a spell that's used when non-magical people see or are likely to see something done by wizards or witches. It confuses them. It doesn't exactly make them lose their memory. It just sort of pushes the event to the back of their mind into the same category as memories of dreams or fantasies. They're not sure whether they've really seen it or whether they have imagined it. It's very useful."
Don was driving more slowly now, and Peter was able to relax a little.
"Is that what you call them?" he asked. "Muddles?"
"Is that what we call who?" asked Freda, sounding puzzled.
"Non-magical people," said Peter. "You call them muddles. That's why it's called a muddle spell because it confuses non-magical people."
"No," said Freda.
"What?" asked Samantha.
"Eh?" said Don.
"Muddles are non-magical people," said Peter again. "That's what you call them."
"That's daft," said Don.
"Are you making some sort of joke?" asked Samantha. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"So what do you call non-magical people?" asked Peter, now himself beginning to be confused. "What's the name for them?"
"We call them non-magical people," said Don. "What else would we call them?"
"So why is it called a muddle spell?" insisted Peter, convinced he must have it right.
"Because it muddles them, obviously," Freda told him. "Here we are anyway. This is The Borough. We've arrived."
***
Chapter 3 - The Borough
Don turned from the busy main
road into a tiny side street that appeared to have no way out of it
other than the entrance onto the main road. It was lit by just one
street lamp glowing orange at the far end of it. High buildings rose
on each side of the street, old blackened brickwork and barred
windows suggesting that these were offices rather than residential
dwellings.
"You live here?" asked Peter, staring at the sombre buildings. "Why is it called "The Borough"?"
"It's a very old name," Freda told him. "Dad says the area used to be the only "borough" of London outside The City itself. We're only a few hundred yards from London Bridge. We named our house after the area, so we're "The Borough" in The Borough. I expect non-magical people would be confused, but it makes sense really."
As they neared the very end a metal shutter began to open. Don slowed the car to a crawl and then accelerated forward as soon as there was enough room for them to pass under the shutter. It slammed down behind them the moment they were inside.
Peter gaped in amazement at what he saw. Far from being in a sordid little building as it appeared to be from the street, they were now in a broad driveway at the side of an extensive house that would not have looked out of place surrounded by its own ornamental gardens and miles of parkland. In front of them was not exactly miles of parkland but, almost as surprisingly, there were open fields and an orchard that was lit by a deep glow that seemed to come from the ground around each of the fruit trees.
"But how...?" asked Peter.
Freda laughed at his surprise. "The non-magical people don't even know it's here," she told him. "Unless you come in through that shutter, it doesn't appear to exist. You can see the office blocks all around, but they can't see us."
Don parked the car next to a battered Ford Anglia in the driveway. "We'd better get in quick," he said. "It looks like Dad is home already. I had hoped his emergency meeting at the Ministry would have gone on until much later."
Freda and Samantha led Peter around to the back door and into the kitchen of the large house. Having never seen a house belonging to witches and wizards before, Peter's attention was immediately drawn to some of the unusual objects and devices.
On the wall in front of him was a row of clocks. Peter wondered why anyone would need so many clocks, but when he looked more closely he saw that each of them had the name of a member of the family on them. More bizarrely still, there were no numbers on the clocks. The faces of the clocks were divided into segments, and against each segment was a label. As Peter watched, the two pointers on each of the clocks named Don, Freda and Samantha moved from "Up to Mischief" and "Travelling" to "Home". Other divisions were labelled "Sitting", "Being Sat On", "Shagging", "In Danger", "Tied Up", “Giving Pain”, “Receiving Pain”, and "Unknown Activity". Don's, Freda's and Samantha's clocks had a division for "At University", while the clock named Walter Weenie had a division labelled "At Work". All the pointers on all the clocks with the sole exception of the one for Bysshe Weenie, Don's elder brother, were now pointing straight up to the "Home" position. Bysshe's clock had both pointers indicating "Unknown Activity".
"Peter!"
Peter's dragged his attention away from the fascinating clocks as someone called his name. A short, smiling, large-chested woman bustled into the kitchen and headed straight for him, clasping him to her in an embrace that was somewhat reminiscent of the overwhelming assault launched by Lotta every time she saw him.
"Put him down, Mum," Don protested.
"As for you, Don Weenie," said his mother, her manner switching from geniality to wrath in a split second, "Your father wants a word with you and with those sisters of yours. How dare you take the Ministry car without permission?"
"It's my fault, Mrs Weenie" Peter apologised as he managed to escape the overpowering proximity of Mrs Weenie's chest. "They only came to rescue me. I hope you don't mind them bringing me here. I really haven't anywhere else to go."
"Mind?" Mrs Weenie changed from wrath to the thoughtful protectiveness of a mother hen as rapidly as the wrath had appeared. "Mind? Of course not, Peter. You are most welcome here. I'm so pleased to meet you. You look so tired. Would you like something to eat? You can have Bysshe's room. He won't be back for a couple of weeks at least. Call me Polly, please."
"I could do with something to eat, Mum," put in Don.
"You can wait until you've seen your father," Polly Weenie called back over her shoulder as she disappeared upstairs to prepare the room for Peter. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if he says that the three of you can go without supper."
"You come with us," suggested Freda as soon as their mother was out of earshot. "Dad won't have a go at us if you're there too."
Peter followed the twins and Don into the living room.
"Young Peter Petter!" exclaimed Walter Weenie. "I would have known you anywhere, without even seeing the clump of green hair just to the right of your genitals shaped exactly like a peacock."
"Yes, sir," said Peter, not at all sure how he should address Mr Weenie. He was well aware that Don's father had an important job at the Ministry of Sitting and Sadism, but he was not so sure what exactly Mr Weenie actually did.
Walter Weenie burst out laughing. "For goodness sake don't call me sir," he told Peter. "My colleagues at the Ministry would never let me forget it. Do you know what my job is?"
Peter shook his head. "No," he admitted.
"I'm a glorified traffic policeman," Walter told him. "My job is to make sure young witches and wizards on Flying Phalluses, and on any other magical transportation they manage to get hold of, aren't seen by non-magical people. If they are, I have to arrange for someone to deal with it."
"It sounds very interesting," said Peter politely.
"Chasing after careless youngsters?" said Walter. "It's not a bundle of joy around London, I can tell you. Have you any idea how many non-magical people catch sight of some careless young witch or wizard every year? No? Thousands. Tens of thousands. I've had to call out the phylaxes ten times in the last month alone to cast enough muddle spells to put right the damage, and that doesn't look good on me, I can tell you. It's all I can do to catch the young hooligans these days. I had one last week on a stolen Rampant 3000 from Tower Bridge all the way to Watford before I caught him, and if it wasn't for that new Subaru the Ministry managed to get me he would have flown clean away. It's scandalous. I don't know what the youth of today is coming to, I really don't."
"Yes," agreed Peter. "It must be a real problem."
"It's just as well some of you have too much sense to behave like that," Walter continued. "You have a Rampant 3000, don't you Peter?"
"I do," Peter confirmed, remembering his powerful Flying Phallus that he had left locked up at Fessewarts University. "Someone sent it to me. I think it was so that I could do better at Figgitch. I'm the bleezer for the Grindonner team."
Walter Weenie nodded. "So you are, so you are. Don told me all about it. Very adept too, by all accounts. Such a shame you missed so many matches last term. You must tell me more about that. There's a lot of speculation at the Ministry, and there are some who believe that old Fumblebum hasn't told us the whole story. That's partly why I was called in so late this evening. There are unpleasant stirrings, Peter. Dark powers are afoot. We haven't seen the last of He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon's followers, that I'm sure of."
"I don't know what Chancellor Fumblebum told the Ministry," confessed Peter. "He said to me that it was better for me to say as little as possible. He said that anything I mentioned was likely to be misunderstood and might start inaccurate rumours."
"Quite shrewd, old Fumblebum," commented Walter. "He's right, of course. It's such a pity that our First Minister has so little faith in Fumblebum's judgement. He doesn't believe a word of what Fumblebum told him. You can talk to me about it if you want, Peter. Anything you say won't go any further than these four walls, and that's a promise."
Peter yawned widely. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he apologised. "I'm afraid I'm rather tired."
"Wally! Are you bothering young Peter?" Mrs Weenie appeared at the door of the living room. "He's exhausted. Just look at him. There will be plenty of time for chatting. Come on, Peter. Your room is ready for you, and there will be hot food on the table in five minutes. I expect you could do with it."
In fact, Peter would not have minded in the least spending some time talking to Mr Weenie. There was something about him that Peter liked immediately, and he had absolutely no doubt anything he said would be kept in the strictest confidence. He wondered whether Don had already spoken about the fight with Alan Semavivus, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Sat-Upon, but there was a lot more that Peter knew and had not spoken about to anyone, not even to Chancellor Fumblebum. Don and Herniame had been directly involved in some of it, but Peter longed to be able to discuss everything that happened with someone older and more experienced he could trust.
Now, however, was not the time. Hunger and exhaustion took priority and, as Mrs Weenie had said, there would be plenty of time for discussion later.
"I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble, Mrs Weenie," said Peter as he followed her unsteadily into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
"Nonsense," Mrs Weenie told him as with a wave of her arm a steaming bowl of soup appeared in mid-air and sailed gracefully down onto the table in front of Peter. "It's a real pleasure to have you here for Christmas. I have a surprise for you tomorrow morning. You just wait and see."
Peter finished the soup, and then a plate of cottage pie, and declined the offered bowl of chocolate pudding.
"I couldn't eat anything more," he said sleepily. "I'm very sorry, but would you mind very much if I just go to bed?"
"Not at all. Of course. Of course. Off you go. I'll show you where your room is. The bathroom is just across the corridor."
Mrs Weenie fussed around Peter, making sure he had everything he needed. When, finally, he was in bed, she appeared three times more to check there was nothing he wanted that she had forgotten. Shortly afterwards, Don put his head round the door.
"All right, mate?" he asked.
"Thank you," said Peter. "I really need to get some sleep."
"Mum's a bit much sometimes," Don told him. "You'll get used to her."
"She's very nice," said Peter. "Was your Dad all right about the car?"
Don nodded. "Of course," he said. "Dad's all right about everything. He only gets cross with us when Mum tells him to get cross, and she was too busy fussing over you."
Ten minutes later Freda and Samantha appeared at the door to Peter's room just as he was beginning to drift off to sleep.
"Can we do anything for you?" asked Freda hopefully. "Sam and I were just wondering whether maybe after a week of nothing but Lotta Bottomley and her mother you might prefer something a little more interesting?"
"Thanks for the offer," murmured Peter wearily. "I really don't think I could..."
"You girls leave Peter alone." Mrs Weenie's voice came stridently from downstairs. "He needs his sleep. If you can't stay in your own room you can come back down here. I don't have this sort of trouble from Sherina. She was asleep more than an hour ago."
"We're not children," Samantha shouted back. "We go to bed when we want to go to bed. I'm nearly twenty years old!"
"If you're not going to bed then come down here and let Peter get some rest," insisted Mrs Weenie.
"Another time, perhaps," Peter told them, knowing the twins' energetic activities would be far more than he felt able to cope with that night.
"We'll hold you to that," said Freda, giggling.
"Or perhaps we'll just hold you," suggested Samantha.
"Part of you, anyway," agreed Freda.
"But not tonight," Peter told them as firmly as he could manage. "Goodnight."
He turned over away from the giggling girls, trying to ignore Mrs Weenie's strident voice as she demanded yet again that they come downstairs.
He was asleep in minutes, and had the first solid night's sleep he had had for a week.
He did not even dream.
***
Chapter 4 - Christmas at The Borough
"Good morning, Peter."
Mrs Weenie burst into the room with a large tray in her hands.
"Breakfast," she announced. "Everyone else has finished theirs. I didn't want to wake you too early, but you can't spend all day in bed. Happy Christmas!"
Peter struggled to sit up.
"Thank you," he said, looking aghast at the vast amount of food on the tray. "I'm not sure I can eat all this!"
"Just eat what you want," she told him.
Mrs Weenie sat down on the end of the bed, watching him as he started on the food she had brought.
"As soon as you've finished eating," she said, "Come downstairs. We're all in the living room. There's someone who's looking forward to seeing you."
"Who's that?" asked Peter curiously.
"Just you wait and see," Mrs Weenie said mysteriously. "You're a very good looking young man, Peter. You do know that? You'll have to be very careful. The girls won't leave you alone."
"I'm not too interested right now," replied Peter. "I've had enough of girls for the moment."
Mrs Weenie nodded. "I can understand that," she said. "I don't suppose you had much time to yourself with that Lotta Bottomley. It's such a pity that she isn't a witch. A proper wizarding upbringing would do her the world of good. She has just the right attitude if only it were tuned properly, and that goes for her mother too. It's her father who’s to blame, of course. Eustace Bottomley never could come to terms with anything magical. If Lotta had shown any sign of any real wizarding abilities he would have thrown her out of the house at once. I often wonder if it is in her, somewhere, underneath. I've long suspected that her overeating is only a symptom of repressed witchcraft."
"You know them?" asked Peter in surprise.
"Of course," Mrs Weenie confirmed. "Inger Bottomley was your mother's best friend before she married Eustace. How did you think you ended up having to live there?"
"I don't know," confessed Peter. "It was where I had always been. I never thought to question it."
Mrs Weenie stood up to leave, and then stopped and turned before she was halfway to the door.
"Peter," she said thoughtfully.
Peter looked up from his breakfast. "Yes, Mrs Weenie?" he said.
"I told you to call me Polly," she corrected him. "You are a good-looking young man, Peter."
"So you said," Peter smiled politely.
"And I quite understand that you prefer to avoid too much attention from girls right now," Mrs Weenie said carefully. "I just wanted to say that if you ever want a little attention from a more mature woman, then I would be more than happy to... More than happy."
"Uh... thank you," said Peter, startled and not sure how he should respond. "No thanks."
"I just thought I should let you know that it's an option," Mrs Weenie told him with a smile, and continued to the door.
"Um... Mrs Weenie? Polly?" Peter called her as she was about to open the door.
"Yes, Peter?"
"Thank you. I mean, really. Thank you. It's the nicest offer anyone of your age... I mean anyone who's so much older... I mean anyone who's mature and... Oh bother."
"I know what you mean," said Mrs Weenie comfortably. "Don't forget. The offer is always open, and unlike some witches I don't have a problem doing anything, and I do mean anything, with a nice young man like you."
She started to open the door, then paused again and added, "As long as he's tied up, of course."
She left the room hurriedly.
*
Peter ate as much as he could of the breakfast Mrs Weenie had brought him before dressing and going downstairs.
"Peter!"
A dark-haired whirlwind emerged from the living room at high speed and slammed into him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him affectionately.
"Hello, Herniame. What on earth are you doing here? You said something about going to stay with Wong Wei."
Peter smiled with genuine pleasure at Herniame's embrace, returning it with equal enthusiasm.
"I did go to stay with Wong Wei," Herniame confirmed. "It was a fascinating week, Peter. She's such a nice girl really, and her friends are just amazing. You wouldn't believe some of the things they get up to."
"I don't even want to think about it," Peter told her, remembering how Wong Wei and her friends had held Don prisoner and tortured him in the Scratchenclaw dormitories last term. "I don't suppose Don does either."
"Oh, that was Don's fault," Herniame said dismissively. "If he hadn't kept on and on and on at her to go out with him when he knew very well she didn't like men, then she would never have done it. He was asking for it."
"So why are you here?" asked Peter. "I thought you would be back at your parents' for Christmas?"
"They had to go away," Herniame told him. "My uncle in America isn't too well, so they decided to go and stay with him for a while. I could have gone with them but there's not too much room in my uncle's house, so when Polly said I could come here I jumped at the chance. I arrived late last night."
Herniame's arms were still around Peter and Peter's around her, their bodies pressed together.
"You don't change," said Herniame happily, feeling Peter's arousal and deliberately pushing her hips a little harder against him.
"Neither do you," Peter grinned at her. "I can't help it. You're doing it deliberately!"
"I'm not," Herniame protested, easing her hips back and then pushing forward again.
"Oi! When you two have quite finished shagging at the bottom of our stairs," called Don from the living room, "We're all waiting in here to hand out the Christmas presents."
"Oops," said Herniame. "I didn't realise he could see us from there."
They parted. Peter turned away for a moment, adjusting his trousers, and then they both went into the living room. Everyone was there.
"I don't think you've met Sherina," said Mrs Weenie, indicating a girl with long straight red hair sitting in the corner of the room. "Better known as Sherry. She's our baby. Come and give Peter a Christmas kiss, Sherry. He's standing right under the mistletoe!"
Sherry, who in fact had had her eighteenth birthday only a few weeks previously, blushed and stood up nervously. She was just fourteen months younger than Don, and would be attending Fessewarts University in the following September. She approached Peter without looking at him, put her hands on his shoulders and standing on tiptoe she gave him a quick peck on the cheek before rushing back to her chair, her face bright red in embarrassment.
"I think you've made a hit there, Peter," said Mr Weenie. "We shall have to watch you and our Sherina. I think your Herniame might have something to say about young Sherry."
"She's not my Herniame..."
"I'm not his Herniame..."
Peter and Herniame spoke simultaneously, then looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"That's settled then," said Don. "Anyway, I expect Herniame's gone the other way altogether after a week with Wong Wei."
Herniame was most indignant. "I most certainly have not," she protested. "Just because I have a few friends who aren't always interested in men doesn't mean that I'm not interested in men."
"No, that's obvious," Don retorted. "We all saw that a few minutes ago at the bottom of the stairs."
"Don! You make me so annoyed, sometimes," Herniame snapped at him. "That's Peter. And Peter is Peter. It doesn't mean that I'm... with him... you know. Anyway, even Wong Wei said she would love to have Peter over to stay with her for a week or two, so there you are. Peter is just... different."
"Thanks. I think," said Peter. "If I'm different then I think I'll just stay different." He changed the subject rapidly. "Happy Christmas, everybody. I'm sorry I haven't bought anything for anyone, but I didn't know I was going to be here until late yesterday afternoon and I really wasn't in a position to buy anything anyway. I'll tell you what: as soon as the shops in Diaphragm Alley open after Christmas, I'll take you all up there and buy you whatever you want. How's that?"
Peter's offer was greeted with enthusiasm.
"A Rampant 3000 for each of us, is it?" asked Don hopefully.
"Don't you dare take advantage of Peter's generosity," his mother told him.
"I was only joking," said Don. "Honest, Mum. I would never expect him to buy me anything like that."
"Sam needs a spare vibrator," said Freda. "Her favourite one keeps flying off all over the countryside. Sooner or later it's going to get shot down, and then I don't know what she'll do!"