"Hairy Peter..." for those with a sense of humour

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"Hairy Peter & The Gallstone" was the first in the series of "Hairy Peter" books - a Femdom parody that takes a sideways look at BDSM in its many forms, as well as parodying wizarding novels. It's also highly erotic, and a compelling and exciting story in its own right.

Anyway, for those of you with a sense of humour as well as a love for all things SM, I'll post the first few chapters here one at a time on this thread:

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.

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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."

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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!"

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Chapter Four - The Fessewarts Express

Now properly robed, with Ingrid back from her visit to the bank and with various other purchases under Peter's arm, they left Diaphragm Alley.

It was a pleasant day, and although Peter felt extremely silly in his new black robe that made him look like a transvestite with no dress sense, he and Ingrid walked slowly through Regent's Park on their way to King's Cross station. Fortunately for Peter no one commented on his attire, possibly because there were, as was usual in that part of London, many people whose clothes were far stranger than his. More fortunately still, there was no women in the park who Peter found the least attractive.

"You'll need to catch the train at platform eighteen," said Ingrid.

"Eighteen?" asked Peter in surprise. "That seems rather straightforward?"

"Of course," confirmed Ingrid. "It had to be eighteen. Anything less just wouldn't be right."

With that cryptic comment, she produced her long, pink vibrator, waved it and disappeared, leaving Peter on his own to make his way to platform eighteen at King's Cross Station.

The train was no different from any other. Ingrid had told Peter that it would depart at precisely five minutes past one, but at two o'clock it had not moved an inch. Peter found himself an empty compartment and sat down, listening for the announcements that he hoped would tell him what was happening.

"Shhhh hscrat for Feshhhhhwoooorts now leaving froom plashfoorm eitheeeeeen," spluttered the speaker in the roof of the compartment. The train lurched forward six inches and then stopped.

The door of Peter's compartment crashed open. A young witch closely followed by an equally young wizard burst in. Peter guessed they were about the same age as he was.

"Nearly missed the train," said the witch breathlessly. "Hello."

Peter held the front of his robe, struggling desperately to prevent it rolling upwards. He won the battle. The witch with long dark hair and wizard with short red hair sat down opposite him.

"I'm Herniame," said Herniame.

"I'm Don," said Don.

"I'm Peter," said Peter.

"Not...?" asked Herniame.

"Not who?" asked Peter.

"She means not THE Peter," said Don.

"I don't know," said Peter uncomfortably. "I've always been Peter."

"You're the Peter with the clump of green hair in the shape of a peacock just to the right of your genitals," said Herniame triumphantly. "I would have known you anywhere. Can I see it?"

Peter fought with his robe as it obligingly tried to show his clump of green hair to Herniame.

"No!" Peter told Herniame. "It's personal."

Herniame shrugged, and at that moment there was a commotion in the corridor outside the compartment.

"It's the trolley," announced Herniame.

Don stood up and went to the door. "Why are you always right?" he asked disgustedly.

"What trolley?" asked Peter.

"I've only known you five minutes, Don" pointed out Herniame. "We met while you were trying to find the platform."

"Yes," agreed Don, "And you knew exactly where it was."

"It was only a guess," said Herniame. "I had a hunch it might be between platform seventeen and platform nineteen. I am always right, of course. It's very observant of you to have spotted it so quickly."

"What trolley?" asked Peter again.

"THE trolley," Herniame told him "You know. The trolley that brings round anything you want to buy. It was in the University prospectus under 'facilities for undergraduates', right above the paragraph about whips, straps and restraints."

"I didn't see a prospectus," said Peter.

"A little bustard should have brought it," said Herniame knowledgeably. "Little bustards always bring everything."

"You'll miss the trolley if you sit there jawing," said Don searching his robes to find some money. He produced a single copper piece and looked at it miserably.

"You need a rich girlfriend," Herniame told him. "Don't worry, I'll buy you whatever you want if you'll let me sit on your face for the rest of the journey."

"No way!" Don objected. "It's four hours at least until we get to Fessewarts!"

"Four hours eighteen minutes and twenty-three seconds without any delays," said Herniame. "That was in the prospectus too, and as we've now been moving for at least thirty seconds that would make it approximately four hours seventeen minutes and fifty-three seconds."

"It's all right," said Peter hurriedly. "I have some money. I'll buy whatever you want for both of you."

Peter stood back as Herniame and Don chose a number of items from the trolley. Peter was far from sure about any of the items on sale, but Herniame seemed to know what she wanted and Don seemed prepared to try anything.

"Those are new," said Don. "I haven't seen those anywhere else."

"What are they?" asked Peter.

"Gruntfuttock's Every Flavour Condoms," Don read from the packet. "I'm going to try those."

"Be careful," advised Herniame, "I read that..."

"Oh shut up," Don told her. "You can't believe everything you read in books."

"What have you bought?" asked Peter as he and Herniame sat down back in the compartment. Don had disappeared somewhere.

Herniame looked a little uncomfortable. "Well..." she began slowly.
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Chapter Four - continued...

"Yes?" insisted Peter, anxious to appear polite and interested.

"They're chocolate vibrators," said Herniame taking one from the bag and sucking it. It wriggled and vibrated until she bit the end off it and swallowed it. "You have to take care with these, because..."

Her explanation was cut short when the door of the compartment was flung open and Don stood there, his face as red as his hair.

"I can't get it off," he wailed.

"I told you to be careful," said Herniame. "You didn't really put one on without reading the instructions first, did you?"

"It's hurting me!" squealed Don. "How do I get it off?"

"You can't," Herniame told him. "Obviously. The only way to get it off is to have someone eat it off. That's why they're flavoured. If you don't make the effort to find someone who will do it fairly quickly then they start to tighten. I've no idea how much they tighten. The book didn't say. I would imagine it could be rather painful."

"Just get it off!" Don was becoming desperate.

"Let me see," said Herniame.

Don lifted his robe and Herniame examined the tightening condom with interest.

"It's really a clever bit of magic," she said. "I wonder who thought of it? Of course you would be in serious trouble if you had one of the really awful flavours. I mean, no one would want to eat it off, would they? With the possibility of every flavour it could be something just impossible to eat!"

Don was moaning in pain. Herniame took his condom-covered cock in one hand and sniffed it cautiously.

"You're in luck," she said. "It's peppermint, and I love peppermint. This won't take long."

She knelt down in front of Don and began to suck at the peppermint-flavoured condom. The door of the compartment opened again.

"Hello hello hello," said a voice. "You don't hang about, do you Don?"

Peter saw two identical faces surrounded by two identical mops of long, red hair above four extremely large almost-robe-covered breasts.

"Go away," said Don through gritted teeth.

"It's all right," Herniame explained, taking her mouth from Don's once again erect cock. "I'm just getting an Every Flavoured Condom off him."

"He should have had more sense," grinned Freda, Don's elder sister.

"He never had any sense," smiled Samantha, Don's other elder sister and Freda's twin.

"Oops. Watch those!" warned Freda pointing at Herniame's bag of chocolate vibrators that was on the point of falling off the seat.

"Why?" asked Peter, not sure he wanted to know.

"Because they have a mind of their own," said Freda. "Once they're out of the bag all they want to do is to find a nice warm orifice to squeeze into and then vibrate and wriggle until they melt. It's no joke, believe me. It's all very well if you're ready for it, but you can imagine how inconvenient it can be if it happens when you're not expecting it!"

"Who says it's no joke?" said Samantha grinning impishly. "You thought it was a joke when we threw two full bags of them into the boys' changing rooms last year! I've never heard so much shouting and complaining!"

"Quiet!" Freda warned her. "There will be so much trouble if they ever find out it was us!"

"That's Peter," said Herniame as she finished the last of the Every Flavoured Condom. "Mm," she added. "I quite enjoyed that. Are there any more peppermint ones? Go on, Don. Put one on. Actually, I think the taste is still there."

Herniame concentrated on sucking the last of the peppermint flavour from Don's erect manhood.

"Peter? Not THE Peter?" asked Freda.

Herniame nodded. Don yelped.

"Hey, Sam," Freda turned to her twin sister in excitement. "This is the Peter with the clump of green hair in the shape of a peacock just to the right of his genitals."

"Really?" Samantha immediately turned her full attention to Peter. "Let's see it."

Peter, who had just stood up, lost the brief battle with his robe.

"Wow," said Samantha. "I've never seen anything like that."

"Right," said Herniame swallowing quickly and turning to take a better look. "It's quite impressive, isn't it? I read that it would be."

"Shall we flip a coin?" asked Freda.

"Better," agreed Samantha. "I can't be bothered to fight you again. To be honest I can't decide which end I like best."

"What are you doing?" asked Peter with interest as the coin was thrown into the air and Samantha called 'tails'. He never received a reply. Before he knew what was happening he found himself on his back on the floor of the compartment with Freda's broad yet shapely buttocks planted firmly on his face. Samantha stroked the clump of green hair in the shape of a peacock just to the right of his genitals tenderly before lowering herself onto his erection.

"Good grief," said Don.

"How vulgar," commented Herniame. "I think we should leave."

"Yes," agreed Don. "I think I've found another peppermint Every Flavour Condom. Shall we...?"

"Oh yes," said Herniame. "Yes please."

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Chapter Five - Fessewarts

Time passed remarkably quickly for Peter. It was, in fact, several hours from King's Cross to the station in the village of Asfixi-by-Mooning. After the years of abuse from Lotta Bottomley, it was almost a pleasure to have the more shapely backsides of Freda and Samantha wriggling around on his face for the duration of the journey.

"We're here," called Herniame who had been looking out of the window. She had been incredibly bored for the last two hours, ever since Don had run out of peppermint flavour Every Flavour Condoms, and had resorted to playing with her chocolate vibrators to pass the time much to Don's discomfort and to Herniame's delight.

"How did Ingrid manage to get here so quickly?" asked Peter when he spotted her huge bulk on the platform.

"It's her pink bubblecar," Freda told him knowingly. "It's much faster than the train."

"Everybody out," roared Ingrid. "You can't spend all day at Asfixi Station."

"He's right there," said Peter as he scrambled out onto the platform and followed the other students to where the carriages were waiting to take them all for Fessewarts.

Even though the village was quite some distance from the university, the old building could be seen from the station looming huge and imposing on the hill in the distance. It had not always been a university, of course. The university had been founded less than three thousand years previously, but the castle of Fessewarts had been built long before that by the Mad Mistress of Mooning who, according to popular legend, had used it for the sole purpose of incarcerating every man she could capture, lure or otherwise entice into it. It was only when one of them managed to escape before she or any of her disciples, the Mooning Maids, had smothered him to death, and he had managed to persuade the local population (who by that time were almost exclusively female) that the continued decimation of the male gender would eventually prove disastrous for everyone, that action was finally taken. The ensuing battle was, by all accounts, one of the most bizarre that had ever taken place.

The militia of Asfixi in the years long before the coming of He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon were highly skilled in the arts of erotic magic. Much of their art has been lost today, and what remains has mostly been corrupted into frivolous devices of no real significance such as the chocolate vibrators that Herniame found so enjoyable or the Every Flavour Condoms that so nearly proved to be Don's downfall. In those days, however, there was a far more serious purpose to their enchantments.

The militia sent their battle vibrators in first. Through every crack in every door and every window they buzzed and wriggled. Down every drain and up from every plughole and primitive toilet they thrust and vibrated their way inside. With their own unerring magical senses they found secret tunnels and hidden entrances that even the builders of Fessewarts Castle had long forgotten.

Naturally, there were innocent casualties. It could not be helped. The battle vibrators, much like their modern-day equivalent the chocolate vibrators, were not particular whose orifice or which orifice they entered, and unlike those chocolate vibrators these long-lost ancestors did not succumb to the heat and moisture or a human body and melt. Once embedded in their target they did what any good vibrator should do, and for any female in whom the vibrators had found the most appropriate orifice that meant unending orgasm until either exhaustion overcame them or someone with sufficient magical power was able to command the vibrators to cease and to withdraw. For those for whom the vibrators had not found the correct orifice, usually because they were either the wrong sex and did not possess that particular anatomical structure or that particular orifice was already occupied, the result was far less pleasant. The vibrators, not being particularly bright, tried to fulfil their natural purpose of creating an orgasm. Finding, usually, that this was not working, they tried harder. The end result when they worked themselves into a frustrated frenzy was, to say the least, quite disturbing. The details are better imagined than explained.

The Mistress of Mooning's disciples were, of course, well versed in the skills of sexual magic. It was surprise that the militia counted on, and they nearly got away with it. If it had not been for the fact that the Mistress herself and the majority of her disciples had the faces of their prisoners deeply embedded and busy with the aforementioned orifices at the very moment most of the battle vibrators entered the building, it might have been very different. As it was, the first the small army of facesitting women knew of the attack by the militia was when their seats began to squirm with more than their customary vigour and were clearly suffering in a way that could not be accounted for by smothering alone.

A few of the Mooning Maids had sufficient concern for their seats to apply the counter-magic in time to save them from too much suffering. Most of the Mooning Maids managed, for themselves at least, to avoid this first assault altogether, and were prepared for the next attack from the militia even though as yet they had no idea who it was they were fighting. Only a few fell and passed away in throes of ecstasy, overcome by orgasm after orgasm and quite unable to remember the appropriate magic (if, indeed, at that particular moment they wanted to remember anything at all) and too far from any of the others for their cries of pleasure to be recognised and for anyone to rush to the rescue.

For the Mistress of Mooning herself, it was quite another matter. She recognised the attack immediately and cast enchantments around her long before any of the battle vibrators had wriggled its way close enough to begin to consider which orifice it should make the subject of its irresistible attentions. She remained seated, oblivious to the panic around her and giving her whole attention to the pleasure she derived from the helpless face underneath her.

The second attack from the militia was quite different. Having been shown the weak points in Fessewarts Castle's defences by the ingenuity of the battle vibrators, the next step was to examine these possible points of entry and use the most easily accessible to force their way in.

It was not straightforward. The militia divided into four groups, intending to attack simultaneously from four directions. The groups were commanded by Suffron Smotherin, Groanna Grindonner, Swallow Suckenpuff and Sadise Scratchenclaw, all experienced leaders whose commitment to law and order was beyond question and whose abilities in combating the forces of evil were powerful and awesome.

Before Suffron's contingent had even reached the end of the hidden tunnel they were following, they were already in trouble. It was booby-trapped. An unearthly huge pair of fleshy breasts swung down from the roof of the tunnel, trapping and smothering the two members of Suffron's group who were leading the way. No amount of magic would release them and, reluctantly, Suffron decided eventually that to leave them and to retreat was the only option.

Swallow's contingent fared little better. Having forced their way through a rotting door at the rear of the castle they charged gleefully through the castle's corridors firing immobilisation spells in all directions with many happy shouts of stiffum et smotherum which was, obviously, the appropriate spell to put its victim into a coma-like state in which the victim could move nothing except his or her mouth and at the same time produce an arousal so intense and lasting that he or she was quite incapable of thinking of anything else like casting a counter-spell to reverse the effect. It was also noted by those who care about such things, that this had other distinct advantages for the attacker if she had the time to take advantage of it.
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Chapter 5 continued...

It was in the fifth corridor that it all went badly wrong for Swallow. Leading the group, she rushed into a large chamber with the usual shout of stiffum et smotherum. She had completely failed to notice that the Mooning Maids had lined the walls of the chamber with magic-reflecting mirrors, or that two of them wearing anti-spell suits were hiding behind the heavy iron door.

As Swallow and her second in command, Spit, reached the middle of the chamber to investigate the apparently empty smother seats positioned there, the door slammed behind them. At the same time, Swallow's own spell rebounding from mirror to mirror hit her and Spit at precisely the same second. Their arms slammed rigidly to their sides. Their legs ceased to support them. They fell, turning as they did, to land on their backs right inside the smother seats. With a cry of triumph the two Mooning Maids shed their anti-spell suits, slammed shut the smother seats and plonked their well-rounded buttocks on the faces of the immobilised Swallow and Spit. Despite the efforts of the rest of Swallow's contingent to rescue them, the door to the chamber remained magically locked and impenetrable to either brute force or the most sophisticated opening spells. It was, as Groanna Grindonner commented later, yet more evidence of the depravity of the Mistress of Mooning and her followers, for there was no doubt that the Mooning Maids in that room took as much pleasure from their treatment of Swallow and Spit as they would have done from any male they had forced into the same position.

Groanna had a little more luck, as did Sadise. Each of them with their eager force of spell-happy troops behind them, entered the castle quite simply through secret entrances the battle vibrators had uncovered and had left gaping open. They met with some resistance from the Maids. Spells flashed backwards and forwards down the corridors of that great castle, and many on both sides fell. It was, finally, the perversity of the Maids of Mooning that led to their downfall, for few could resist the temptation to sit on a fallen victim, and a seated, aroused Maid (or anyone else in such a position) finds it difficult to pay attention to anything other than the seat underneath them. Both Groanna and Sadise had the foresight to anticipate such a situation, and every one of their followers had been instructed to make a concentrated effort with her mouth and tongue if and when they fell victim to any of the castle's facesitters.

It worked. Within three hours every Mooning Maid in the castle had been rounded up and suitably restrained, and more than a few of the male prisoners had been freed before the battle vibrators had done too much damage. Swallow and Spit were also rescued, although such was the enthusiasm of the Mooning Maids who had captured and sat on them in the smother seats that neither were much use for anything else that day.

What puzzled everyone was that so far there was no sign of the Mistress of Mooning. They thought that every chamber in the castle had been searched, and still they had not found her.

Finally, it was Groanna who found her, and in the most obvious place.

Right in the centre of the castle's Great Bedroom she sat, surrounded by scores of restrained males. She moved from one to another, sitting on each with screams of ecstasy and shudders of orgasm.

"You'll never take me," she screamed as soon as she saw Groanna. "I must sit! I must sit! I must sit!" (which is partly why she was later referred to as "She-Who-Must-Sit", but that's another story).

It took forty of Groanna's guards, all of Sadise's sorcery, and all the skill of every one of the contingent led earlier that day by Swallow, to break through the barrier the Mistress of Mooning had put up around her and around the scores of men under her power.

With a scream of anger combined with a scream of pleasure (she had just reached a climax yet again), the Mistress of Mooning spun round on the face of her seat towards them. In a flash of red and green she vanished, leaving behind nothing but the restrained male she had been sitting on. She was never seen again but, remarkably, the male under her had survived. He coughed, spluttered, choked and then coughed again. A small object no bigger than a large marble shot out of his mouth and rose high in the air. Groanna caught it and examined it closely. She had no idea what it was, but she put it away in her pocket meaning to study it later.

The clear up operation did not take too long. In the following days the four leaders of the liberating forces spent many hours in deep discussion over what to do with Fessewarts Castle. It was decided that it should be a place of education where students would be taught the four S's: Safe Sitting and Safe Sex. They stayed on in the castle, the new University of Fessewarts, for many years, and the huge student dormitory and house areas took their names: Smotherin, Grindonner, Suckenpuff and Scratchenclaw. It was the start of an establishment that would endure for centuries, and outlast even such international disasters as the Smother Wars and the rise of He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Sat-Upon, and it was this establishment that Peter found himself rapidly approaching.

Peter, of course, knew nothing of the history of the University of Fessewarts. All he knew was that he was here, and that he was being taken steadily towards the sinister buildings that commanded the countryside for miles around.

He had no idea what would happen next.

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Chapter Six - The Sorting Seat

"To everyone new, welcome to Fessewarts, and to everyone else, welcome back."

The voice of Chancellor Fumblebum echoed around the hall, silencing the hubbub of conversation.

"Before we proceed with sorting our newcomers into Houses, I have a few announcements."

There was a general air of boredom. Many of the students fidgeted in their chairs, familiar with Fumblebum's customary speeches and determined to make themselves as comfortable as possible for what would undoubtedly be a long and boring wait.

"I'll keep it short." Fumblebum beamed at the students, "Unlike last term."

There was a ripple of laughter and scattered applause. Fumblebum held up his hand for silence.

"Firstly, I must tell you that this term we have had to make the second-floor corridor in the north wing out of bounds to all students. This is for your own safety. I will not go into details, but suffice it to say that a very painful death awaits anyone foolish enough to ignore my warning."

A low muttering broke out. This was most unusual, and the students were curious to know more. Fumblebum hurried on, leaving their questions unanswered.

"Secondly, I want to extend a warm welcome to two new professors this term. Professor Vanessa Valium will be teaching Vanilla Avoidance, and Professor Drusilla Drencham will be in charge of Defence Against Dirty Deeds. I also need to congratulate Ingrid who, in addition to her other duties, will be taking a new course we have decided to call "Sexual Satisfaction for Magical Creatures". It has just been approved by the Ministry of Sitting and Sadism, and not without considerable effort on my part I can tell you. The Minister was not too happy with the idea.

The Chancellor paused, smiling benignly around the room. Several of the students looked worried.

"Further," he continued, "We have reshuffled some of the existing roles. Professor Scrape will be taking Safe Sadism and Professor Mackafart has kindly agreed to impart her particular skills to the combined courses of Safe Smothering and Sitting Survival."

The professors stood up as Chancellor Fumblebum mentioned their names. Apart from Professor Scrape, they were all female.

"Finally," Fumblebum said to the gasps of surprise that he was actually finishing his speech so quickly, "I want to mention a few basic rules to our newcomers and to remind the rest of you. Pay attention. This is very important. I will remind you again to avoid the second-floor corridor in the north wing. There is no choice in this matter. As always, the Frumptious Forest is off limits unless you are accompanied by a professor who has my express permission to take you there."

Fumblebum turned and looked sternly at the row of professors seated behind him. They all nodded in agreement.

"Also as always, I strongly advise against trying out any of the techniques you are taught here unsupervised. There will be plenty of time for that when you have graduated, and a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing."

Peter noticed at this point that both Freda and Samantha were sniggering, and than many of the other students either looked highly embarrassed or were desperately trying to hide the expressions on their faces.

"I know," continued Fumblebum, "That most of you will ignore this advice. Well, that's up to you. I have given you my opinion and I will not dwell on it. I will, however, mention once again the rules about dormitories. The female dormitories are out of bounds to all males and, as some of you found out last term, they have magical protection to deter intruders of the wrong sex. This a deep and powerful magic built into the building itself, and beyond my power to counter. I can only point out that if any of you young men are so foolish as to stray where you should not go then nothing, and I do mean nothing, will free you from that dormitory until you have remained at least ten feet away from any female for a period of seventy-two hours precisely. I therefore also request the young ladies here to co-operate in this matter, and if an over-enthusiastic young man is found in there then please leave him alone. I really do not want a repetition of last term. Is Neil Shortass back? Ah, there you are Neil. Perhaps you could tell us all what it was like to be trapped in the Grindonner ladies' dormitory for eight weeks? No? I thought not."

Everyone was looking at Neil whose face was bright red with embarrassment.

"He was lucky to survive the Grindonners," said one of the young men sitting at the next table. There was much laughter, but looks of anger from the girls seated at the Grindonner table.

"Enough," said Fumblebum, clapping his hands. "It's time for the sorting."

A chair was placed in the middle of the hall, although it was not like any chair Peter had ever seen. It was highly ornate, with carvings of faces all over its back and sides. It might have been a trick of the light, but the carvings seemed to move. As soon as the chair had been positioned and the professors had stepped back, a voice came from it. Peter had not been mistaken when he thought the carvings had moved. The chair was speaking.

"I'm ready," it said.

Fumblebum produced a long roll of parchment and looked at the list of names on it.

"David Smith," he called.

A nervous youth stood up. "Here," he announced uncertainly.

"Lie face up under the chair," instructed Fumblebum kindly.

The youth did as he was told, his head positioned right under the seat. At once, and without anyone touching it, a leather strap buckled itself around the youth's neck and the base of the chair under his head moulded itself around him. It rose slowly until he was pressed against the underside of the padded seat, his face just visible through the hole.

"Who shall sit?" roared Fumblebum.

Apparently the question was not directed to the assembled students nor to the professors.

"Hum, let me see," said the chair thoughtfully. "Female, I think. A post-graduate from... Scratchenclaw!"

"How shall she sit?" called Fumblebum.

"As she is," said the chair.

After some pushing and arguing from the back of the hall, a young woman came forward. She sat carefully on the seat, completely covering the youth. Straps on the arms of the chair magically buckled themselves around her wrists and more straps held her thighs firmly in place. She could not move.

"Ah," said the chair, "This one is easy. SMOTHERIN!"

The straps immediately released the young woman and the base of the chair descended, freeing David Smith. He looked stunned and confused. Professor Mackafart took his hand and led him to the table where the students from Smotherin House were assembled.

"Amelia Merville," called Fumblebum.

The procedure was repeated, this time with the chair calling one of the professors to sit. For the next hour each new student was called to the chair in turn, and the chair picked a sitter it considered suitable. Sometimes, when Fumblebum called "How shall she sit?" (and in a few cases "How shall he sit?"), the chair issued different instructions. "Naked below the waist" was not uncommon, and neither was "Underwear only." On a few occasions the chair seemed to be having trouble in deciding which House was appropriate for the new student, and more than once he or she was released not far short of unconsciousness from lack of air.

Finally it was Peter's turn. "Good luck," said Freda, giving him a playful punch. "You want to hope it's Grindonner. That's where we are. Don's bound to be Grindonner. It runs in the family."

"Like noses," added Samantha.

Before Peter had worked out quite what she meant, he found himself in the middle of the Hall and lying under the Sorting Chair.

"Hello," said the chair quietly to him as the strap buckled itself securely around his neck and the base of the chair moulded itself around the sides of his face. "I've been waiting for you."

"Why me?" asked Peter in surprise.

"You're Peter," said the chair. "You have the clump of green hair just to the right of your genitals shaped exactly like a peacock."

Peter groaned. "Does everyone know?" he asked.

"Pretty much," the chair told him. "Can I see it?"

"Now?" asked Peter, startled at the request.

"Well, I suppose not," replied the chair. "Maybe later. I suppose I ought to decide which House to put you in."

"Grindonner," said Peter at once.

"Why?" asked the chair. "I mean, I haven't checked your reaction to being sat on yet, but you look much more like a Smotherin to me."

To tell the truth, Peter had no particular reason for wanting to be in Grindonner other than what Freda had just told him. It was simply that he did not know anyone else at the University, and it had not been completely unpleasant spending so much time underneath Freda and her sister on the train journey.

"We'll have to check this very carefully," said the chair while it was positioning Peter's face in the centre of the hole in its seat.

"Who shall sit?" roared Fumblebum.

"Ingrid," replied the chair loudly. "I hope she doesn't break me," it added quietly to Peter, "I haven't asked her to sit before."

"What about me?" squealed Peter, horrified at the thought of Ingrid's huge bulk descending on his face.

"Oh, you'll be all right," said the chair optimistically, shouting "Nude!" in reply to Fumblebum's "How shall she sit?"

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Chapter Seven - Grindonner

Ingrid's backside was not only solid and heavy, it was also hairy. She descended onto Peter with the force that could only be likened to a bull elephant charging backwards.

Unlike Peter's unfortunate experiences with Lotta Bottomley, this was no soft, yielding mass of flesh but a solid, muscular rear that squashed as much as it smothered and that threatened to break every bone in his face by its sheer power alone.

Luckily for Peter, his nose fitted neatly between Ingrid's buttocks, and the firmness of those buttocks meant that although her sphincter was no more than a couple of millimetres from the end of his nose it did not press against him and break anything. Not so luckily, he was completely unable to breathe.

"Hmm," said the chair. "She is rather heavy, isn't she?"

Peter would have replied if he had not been as completely unable to speak as he was completely unable to breathe. The chair, however, seemed to be able to read his thoughts.

"Yes," it said, "I thought so. This is going to be very difficult indeed. You insist Grindonner, and everything points to Smotherin. I wonder if you will change your mind in a minute or two?"

Peter was screaming long before two minutes had passed, but only in his head because firstly Ingrid's heavy backside prevented any sound from him and secondly it was less than one minute before Peter had neither the breath nor the energy to make any noise even if Ingrid had stopped sitting on him.

The buckles around Ingrid's wrists and (just) around her large thighs snapped open. She stood up. Peter, befuddled but relieved, waited for the chair to lower his head away from the seat and release the buckle around his head. He had not heard the chair announce the name of the House he was assigned, and he assumed it had happened at some point well after the end of the first minute when his senses were beginning to fail.

"I told you this was going to be difficult," the chair whispered to him. "This will really shock them. It hasn't happened for over a hundred years."

"What hasn't happened?" asked Peter, confused.

"We need another sitter," announced the chair loudly. "Professor Windy Mackafart, please."

After a few gasps and cries of "surely not", there was absolute silence in the hall as Professor Mackafart walked towards the chair. Students and professors alike realised the significance of this remarkable turn of events. Quite apart from the rarity of the chair not being able to place a new student after a single sitting, no one could remember Professor Mackafart ever being called by the chair to sit, and she did not seem too pleased to have been selected now.

"I trust," said Professor Mackafart icily in a strong Scottish accent, "You will not be requiring me to remove my clothes?"

"No, you're fine as you are," said the chair indifferently. "I don't want to put you out, Professor. I need to decide whether this young man is suitable for your House, so I thought you were the best sitter for the occasion."

With a snort that was somewhere between "ocht", "acht" and was followed by something that might have started with an "f", Professor Mackafart gathered her robes around her and sat primly on Peter's face. In the silence around them, there was no mistaking the sound of escaping flatulence from the Professor as she sat.

In many ways, to have Professor Mackafart sitting on him was far worse for Peter than to have Ingrid on top of him. True, he could breathe, but quite apart from Professor Mackafart's continual flatulence her backside was decidedly bony and not at all well padded. Fortunately for him she did not move at all, and although the pain was intense Peter was in no danger of suffering serious damage.

"This is a waste of time," said the chair as Professor Mackafart let out a particularly noxious blast of wind from her backside. "Phew! Let's try someone else."

The straps released Professor Mackafart's wrists and thighs. She stood up with a small squeak and turned to study Peter who remained unable to move.

"He'll do for my Hoose," she declared. "A student with potential, aye."

"I'll decide that," said the chair firmly. "And I haven't decided yet."

There was much fidgeting and murmuring among the students as the chair called three of the more senior female students one after another to sit on Peter, and kept each one there until Peter came close to losing consciousness. Still, it seemed, the chair was unable to make up its mind.

"I really think it's Smotherin for you," it told him.

"No," said Peter resolutely, not at all sure why he was so determined. At that point he would have done almost anything to be released and to put an end to the succession of backsides pressing down on his face.

"Perhaps someone of your own age?" suggested the chair. "Now... who have we left who has neither sat nor been sat on?"

"Herniame Grimwaite!" it called loudly.

"Oh! Me?"

Peter recognised Herniame's voice at once. Although she had said very little on the train, mainly because her mouth was full for the first few hours, it was quite distinctive.

"Yes, you," said the chair. "Have you met Peter? Ah, I see his robe already knows you and approves."

Much to Peter's embarrassment, his robe had reacted to Herniame even before she approached the chair, exactly as it had done on the train. In his present position he was quite unable to stop it doing what it liked.

"No underwear, I see," said the chair.

"I came out in rather a hurry," Peter tried to explain. "There wasn't time to buy anything in Diaphragm Alley."

"No need to make excuses to me," said the chair. "I've seen it all before. You wouldn't believe some of the goings on at Fessewarts since I've been here. Why, once in the eighteenth century there was this witch who developed a fancy for..."
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Chapter 7 - continued...

"Look," Peter interrupted hastily, "I'm really very uncomfortable. Do you think we could get on with this?"

He could just see Herniame standing nervously in front of the chair, and at the same time he was aware that a large number of students were now on their feet and peering forward.

"What are they looking at?" he asked indignantly, noticing there was at least as many of the men as there were girls trying to see what his robe had exposed. Even some of the professors had moved forward and were looking down at him.

"Silly," said Herniame, "It's clump of green hair just to the right of your genitals shaped exactly like a peacock, of course. Everyone knows about it."

"I didn't know about it until yesterday," said Peter, more than a little annoyed.

"Everyone else did," Herniame assured him "It's very interesting. I'd like to examine it properly later."

"Plenty of time for that," the chair told her. "I'm already getting vibrations that tell me the two of you will be in the same House."

"All right," agreed Herniame. "How do you want me to sit?"

"In your underwear, I think," decided the chair. "That would do nicely."

"Actually," said Herniame, her face turning a little pink, "I'm not wearing any either. I never do. It doesn't seem necessary under the robes."

"Fine," said the chair. "Just lift your robes and sit on him as you are."

Herniame did as the chair had told her. She lifted her robes just enough to position herself over Peter's face without any part of the robes coming between her and him, taking great care not to allow any of the watching students and professors to see any more than was absolutely necessary. She descended onto Peter with great care, adjusting her position until she was quite comfortable. The straps snapped across her wrists and over her thighs, tightening and holding her firmly.

Peter heard Herniame gasp, and felt the twitching of her muscles.

"Oh ho!" said the chair just loudly enough for Peter and Herniame to hear, "We have a first, I think. Well, Miss Grimwaite, you haven't ever sat before, have you?"

"Ho ho ho," chortled the chair. "A facesit virgin. We haven't had one of those at Fessewarts for a good few years either. Do tell me, Miss Grimwaite, are you enjoying it?"

There seemed little doubt that Herniame was enjoying it. Her breathing became faster; her muscles tensed and shuddered; she seemed completely unable to speak.

Peter was not quite so sure whether he was enjoying it. Herniame was considerably lighter than the others who had sat on him. In fact, he thought, she was probably the lightest female who had ever sat on him and certainly far more pleasant even than Don's twin sisters Freda and Samantha. In all likelihood he would have thoroughly enjoyed the experience at any other time, but having suffered being crushed and suffocated under Ingrid, gassed and bruised under Professor Mackafart, and well and truly smothered and squashed under the others, all he really wanted was to be free from the chair.

"Go on," the chair encouraged him. "Show her how much you like her."

It took him a moment to work it out, and then Peter carefully put out his tongue and pressed it as far into Herniame as he could reach.

That was all it took. Herniame squealed. It was a squeal of surprised that turned into a squeal of pleasure, a shudder of delight and, without pausing to draw breath, a scream of orgasm that, to Peter at least, seemed to go on and on and on.

The muscles in Herniame's buttocks and upper thighs shook and rippled most alarmingly, squeezing Peter between them repeatedly even though the straps holding her allowed little real movement either up and down or from side to side. A cheer arose from some of the students, and applause from others as Herniame's orgasm slowly subsided.

"Well," said the chair. "Grindonner it is then; for both of you."

"Are you sure you don't need anyone else to sit on him?" called Freda who had been observing closely.

"Quite sure, thank you," replied the chair dryly as it released the straps holding Herniame on top of Peter and began to lower Peter from the underside of the seat. It did not hear Samantha's whispered comments to her sister, nor Freda's reply. To anyone who had heard them, there would have been absolutely no doubt that both were delighted to have Peter in their own House of Grindonner.

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