BBW The lady wot lunched a little too much (~BBW, ~~WG, Gluttony, Romance, Karma)

Discussion in 'Recent Additions' started by Halrion, Dec 30, 2018.

  1. Dec 30, 2018 #1

    Halrion

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    A lighthearted story about a troupe of glossy lipped estate agents with a penchant for pasties and posteriors that are rapidly buying up real estate. (~BBW, ~~WG, Gluttony, Romance, Karma.)

    Comments and feedback very much appreciated!


    Some illustrations of the characters (also by me) can be seen here: https://www.deviantart.com/halrion



    The lady wot lunched a little too much ~ by Halrion


    Chapter 1

    Blue Monday, officially the most depressing day of the year, was for Peter Morris very much proceeding as advertised.

    After squinting his way through blades of horizontal rain, he had arrived at the bus stop with seconds to spare, only to slip and smash his nose against the ramp while boarding, earning himself a stare of dull contempt from the driver and smiles of smug pity from the congregation of fuzz-headed old women on board - who, despite having nowhere to go and nothing to do, had managed to monopolise every pair of seats.

    He'd then bruised his shoulder while forcing entry through the semi-frozen door of his office, and spent the next ten shivering minutes trying to ignite the building's Victorian heating system, thumbing the pilot button with such desperate ferocity that he'd nearly missed the one brief event that made weekday mornings bearable.

    In the end, he almost wished he had missed it.

    For having scampered upstairs and weaved through an obstacle course of tables, chairs and boxes, Peter arrived at the tall office windows to find that his one fleeting moment of morning joy had been viciously blotted out.

    The single sight that could've salvaged his day was concealed from neck to kneecaps in a thick beige coat.

    Groaning more sullenly than the boiler, Peter watched Abby Prescott proceed regally across the pavement on the opposite side of the road: raven tresses restrained in a businesslike bun, head tilted back loftily, haughty chin lording it over the lush fur trim of a new designer coat.

    A coat - Peter noted bitterly - that matched in colour the beige pug pup that scampered and spun on the end of the pink lead Abby held delicately between her lilac fingernails, its unpredictable turns and panting happiness a stark contrast to the serene stride and pursed cherry lips of its mistress, who exuded the same air of bored, lethargic beauty that she'd cultivated in college, where each morning Peter and his fellow fifth-years had mustered at the classroom window to watch and drool as the hottest and most popular girl in school led her pompously bobbling bottom across the parade ground towards the sixth-form common room.

    Peter sighed. Abby Prescott's bum. It had been the only bright moment of his day back then, and the same was true ten years on.

    The fact that it had doubled in size over the last decade only made her all the more perfect.

    Not that he could enjoy the sight today. Exhaling in frustration, Peter cursed whatever sadistic deity had made the weather coldest at the time women were at their hottest. What good were all the seasonal treats that must have passed between Abby's whisper-pink lips, all the Christmas drinks, all the festive feasts, all the semi-comatose sofa snacking she'd indulged in, if the effects were to be cruelly concealed beneath thick layers of mocha-beige mink?

    'Damned January sales!' he murmured angrily, rubbing his hands together, steam rising from his mouth. Of course, winter was never the best time for Abby-watching: too windy for those lavish raven locks to be released in their gambolling glory; too chilly for the short skirts of summer, which strained around her hefty bottom and freed those long bulging thighs to flash joyfully in the sun.

    But never before, not even in the freezing depths of last February, had she worn a coat that fell below the waist.

    Groping for a positive, Peter wondered if it was a sign that the weekend had been a particularly excessive one. He knew from some diligent Instagram stalking that Abby had attended a house party on Saturday - a lavish affair at one of the fancy mansions on Epping Hill which he could only dream of being invited to. Wistfully he envisaged her sitting in cushioned comfort at a table of gossiping girlfriends, scoffing cakes and quaffing champagne until the seams of her party dress could stretch no further. He imagined her waking up the next morning, groggy and heavy, huffing and squirming herself blue in a doomed effort to zip her skirt, before finally concluding that a bulky new coat was required to hide the consequences of her hedonism.

    Peter's eyes scanned hungrily to Abby's uncoated corners for clues of increased curvature. The neck was still slim, but it always had been, Abby being one of those girls whose every extra pound seemed predestined for her derrière. He panned his gaze down. Were those ankles getting skinnier, or were her calves just a touch wider? They were certainly quivering generously as each expensive-looking heel clicked against the pavement. But it was difficult to be sure of a difference.

    Either way, it was clear from the way she carried herself that Abby's colossal ego remained undinted. As usual, the ample estate agent was late for work, and as usual there was not the slightest hint of worry or hurry in her imperious posture as she approached the glass, logo-embossed door of New Century Properties Ltd. Watching the curve of Abby's coated rump disappear inside, Peter mentally x-rayed the building, imagining the pompous brunette strutting past her subordinates with an arrogant smirk, casting off her coat and carefully lowering her hefty haunches into a thickly cushioned leather chair, before reaching into her desk for a start-the-day donut.

    It was one of Peter's milder Abby fantasies, but he was still annoyed when the familiar double beep of the door buzzer brought him back to reality. Turning from the window with a groan he slumped into his own office chair (neither cushioned nor leather) and reached for the edge of the desk, pulling himself towards his dusty old PC.

    As the ancient device began to boot up, and his ancient boss's boots thudded just as slowly up the stairs, there was time for one final, hopeful glance out of the window.

    The sky stretched out like a wall of granite, as permanent and grey as an elephant's hide. Despite the absence of clouds, a thin mist of drizzle had begun to descend.

    Peter's weedy chest sagged. Great. The chances of Abby heading out for lunch sans coat were pretty much nil.

    'Morning Morris!' The schoolmaster voice of ancient John Kipling scratched Peter's eardrums like fingernails on slate. Why did the old fool insist on using surnames? As if the white tache and tweed jacket didn't make it obvious enough that he'd 'been in the war, you know!'.

    'Any appointments today?' Lance-Corporal Kipling (as he was dubbed by the staff) slid his briefcase onto the adjacent desk.

    'Ermmm,' Peter tapped the mouse irritably, watching the Windows timer turn uselessly. Beside it, Kipling's reflected face goggled like a colonel inspecting a crooked infantry line.

    'You mean you don't hold these things in memory, man?!' he cried, bushy eyebrows wriggling like deranged caterpillars. 'What if the computers went down, hmm? What would we do then, hmm?'

    I dunno. Take your free bus pass back to the fucking Boer War?
    'Ummm,' Peter muttered, loading Outlook and opening the calendar with a speed that he knew his technophobe boss could never have managed.

    'Just Richard Alderson. Two pm meeting at Alderson Autos in town.'

    Kipling inhaled slowly through his nostrils, as if contemplating news that the Wehrmacht had overrun Kent. After a few seconds he clapped Peter on his injured shoulder with a strength no man of seventy should possess, 'You'll have to hold the fort here then, old boy,' he said stoically. 'Russell is abed with the flu, called in sick already, and Davis is out harrying clients.'

    This was the first bit of good news Peter had received all morning. No Greg Davis moaning about the weekend's football. No over-quiffed Justin Russell recounting his imaginary Saturday sexathon.

    And best of all, an entirely empty office all afternoon! Three hours of complete peace. No Corporal Kipling blazing at him to print an encyclopaedia's worth financial statements simply because the old fool couldn't operate the iPad.

    As his boss turned and marched for his office, Peter reclined in his threadbare chair and clasped his hands behind his head. Two whole hours of pure, uninterrupted freedom. Perhaps he'd research a new graphics card, or order a Stanner Stairlift from Kipling's computer. He grinned at the thought of the old fool unboxing it, and then trying to take apart his computer to find the 'damned Jerry saboteur' hiding within.

    It seemed like a good plan. Then again, so did a kip on the meeting room sofa. Or maybe...

    Struck by sudden inspiration, Peter sat upright in his chair. Spinning round, and with a quick glance over his shoulder to check that Kipling wasn't spying on him, he opened a private browser window.

    Perhaps today wasn't going to be so bad after all.
     
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  2. Dec 30, 2018 #2

    Halrion

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    Chapter 1 - Part 2

    'H-ho-yes!'

    The triumphant shout reached Gemma Patterson's ears just as she was blowing gently over her Costa cappuccino. Mauve fingernails clicking across the keyboard, she sighed in defeat.

    'Seriously? How much this time?'

    As she awaited the reply Gemma quelled an involuntary shiver with a big swig of coffee. Not that she was cold. Far from it. A modern building with well-fitted windows and a generous owner who set the radiators to fire up at 8am meant that even on the iciest Monday the staff of New Century Properties felt like they were entering a sauna rather than an office.

    No, it was just that Gemma Patterson simply wasn't Gemma Patterson until she'd quaffed her morning dose of creamy caramel-infused caffeine. She was taking her third gulp when the response echoed down the short hallway.

    'One hundred and eight enormous pounds!'

    Gemma almost coated her monitor in cappuccino foam.

    'Seriously?!' she spluttered, reaching for a Kleenex as a victoriously smiling Holly appeared in the doorway, brandishing a receipt between thumb and forefinger as if it were a winning lottery ticket.

    Dabbing her pink lips with extreme delicacy, Gemma shook her head in disbelief. 'How the hell do two people spend a hundred quid on lunch?!'

    Holly couldn't resist a smirk. Last Tuesday, after work, she and Gemma had paid a visit to Augmenta Aesthetics for some well-earned midweek pampering; and despite being a tender twenty two, vain and gullible little Gem had splashed out on all sorts of overpriced beauty procedures, including a bee venom facial and volumising collagen fillers. Since then the paranoid platinum-blonde barbie had been treating her preciously plumped lips as if the slightest impact would cause them to explode. She'd even hesitated before licking them free of sugar after her "Friday treat" of a strawberry iced jam donut.

    'Well let's see...' Returning to the matter at hand, Holly propped herself lazily against the doorframe and began to unfurl the piece of paper. She cleared her throat theatrically. 'Madame and her client both had the shrimp cocktail to start. That's eighteen quid straight off the bat. Then came the mains: a béchamel chicken pie at sixteen fifty, and fillet steak with Bearnaise sauce: twenty six pounds. Tenner says the steak was hers. And for dessert,' Holly's bright brown eyes widened as they scanned down the scrap of paper. 'One triple mocha java cake, nine eighty five, and a sherry trifle, eight pounds.'

    Lowering the receipt she looked up with a smirk. 'All washed down with a New Zealand white, and some sort of expensive Chianti.'

    Gemma o-mouthed. 'Two bottles! No wonder her cheeks were so flushed when she got back.'

    'Reckon that java cake made its way to her cheeks too,' giggled Holly, patting her pencil-skirted bottom for emphasis.

    Gemma's shoulders shook with her giggles. 'Yeah, to be reunited with its long lost cousins, the Jaffa Cakes, who emigrated there in their hundreds last week!'

    In the bout of bitchy tittering that ensued, Holly looked at her friend admiringly. The newest and youngest of the three permanent employees at New Century Properties, Gemma had bonded quickly with her over a shared passion for makeup, celebrity gossip and Henry Cavill. Sure, many women would've found the young blonde too pretty by half. But not Holly Moore. Confident in her own beauty and recently married to her childhood sweetheart, she just wasn't the jealous type.

    Besides, thought Holly, eyeing her friend more closely, as sexy as Gem is, she hasn't been wholly resistant to the bottom-enhancing properties of the Jaffa Cake herself. Indeed, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, Holly had noticed her petite colleague's pencil skirts riding progressively higher as the bored blonde made ever more frequent and bountiful expeditions to the office kitchen, revealing the upper reaches of thighs that well attested to the calorie content of the tasty riches she returned with.

    Nor, apparently, was it only the Patterson posterior that had expanded of late. Holly's eyes widened as a still-chortling Gemma leaned back in her chair. In her mirth, the young blonde was for once completely neglecting to suck in her dainty but undeniable office potbelly. Pushing porkily against the fabric of her blouse, it jiggled with her giggles, enjoying a rare opportunity to relax.

    'So how's the gym going?' Holly asked casually, snorting with laughter as Gemma immediately pulled her gut in and rounded on her with a pout worthy of Kylie Jenner. 'Kidding Gemmykins!' she chuckled amiably, leaning forward to gently pinch one of her friend's gorgeous cheeks, as rosy as ripe apples. 'I just wanted to get a proper look at those sexy new lips is all.'

    This smooth recovery melted Gemma's indignance into a wide, well-whitened smile. Blondie loved compliments almost much as she loved cupcakes.

    'Fancy going tonight?' said Holly, straightening up again.

    Gemma frowned. 'We went on Tuesday.'

    Holly's rich brown eyes did a full three sixty. 'I meant to the gym!'

    The buzz-click of the front door opening saved Gemma from having to come up with an excuse. Instinctively her hands went to the keyboard. Crumpling the receipt, Holly hastened to her own desk.

    Watching the constricted wiggle of her friend's bottom, Gemma couldn't help wondering if perhaps she wasn't the only one who'd been a stranger to the gym lately. Holly's favourite curve-clinging grey skirt was wrapped like spandex around her bulging buns, restricting her to tiny, dainty steps that made her hurried movements look comically furtive, as though she were ineffectively fleeing the police with a pair of bowling balls stashed beneath her skirt.

    A smile formed on Gemma's augmented lips. It was now three months since Holly had returned to dry land, and despite her confident assertion that her fitness-freak husband would have her looking ship-shape in no time, the "holiday pounds" that she'd blamed on her five-star honeymoon cruise buffet were clinging stubbornly to the young newlywed's stern. Indeed, a more critical observer might even have speculated that a few stowaways had revealed themselves of late.

    Too much cuddling on the couch after big romantic dinners, thought Gemma with an involuntary sigh.

    Yet ample as Holly's backside was, it was totally eclipsed by the planetary side profile that moved into Gemma's field of vision a few moments later.

    'Morning girls!' chirped the beige eclipse, humming haughtily as it passed between the two desks.

    'Hey Abs... Hey Coco pops!!' Gemma cooed adoringly, leaning forward to pet the impossibly cute pug who had followed her mistress into the room and was now pawing joyfully at Gemma's shins. Delighting in the attention, Coco scampered over to Holly's desk for a secondary stroke and then charged off down the corridor to the kitchen.

    Gemma sat back in her chair, turning her attention to the pug's rather less friendly owner. Usually Abby emitted her crisp greeting without breaking her stride towards her personal office, but today she was loitering in the main room, sipping her frappuccino and gazing vacantly at the calendar on the wall.

    It wasn't hard to see why.

    'New coat?' inquired Gemma off-handly.

    Though Abby was facing the other way, Gem was certain she saw the edges of her cherry lips twist upwards. Sure enough, after draining her tall frappuccino and dropping it into the bin, the tall girl turned to her with an incredible amount of self-satisfaction on her beautiful oval face.

    'This little thing?' Abby smiled smugly, touching the fur trim with her pristine lilac fingernails. 'Ryan bought it for me. Said I needed to look the part on these client lunches we're doing. It's mink.'

    Gemma couldn't hide her admiration as Abby smoothed her hands down her ample beige hips. It really was a stunning coat. Clearly designer, rich in colour, and with a mane of decadent mocha-brown fur that exaggerated its owner's slender neck and formidable bosom, giving the tall raven beauty an even more imperious bearing than usual. It seemed to be a perfect fit too. Other than bulging out around Abby's massive arse, of course.

    Probably custom made, Gem mused to herself with a mild stab of envy. Definitely a four-figure sum, knowing Abby. A drop in the ocean to Ryan, of course. But still...

    'It's really comfortable,' added Abby, seeming to inflate with smugness as she absorbed the waves of envy radiating from her colleagues. The only thing she loved more than being the best dressed girl in the office was rubbing her underlings' noses in the fact. 'Keeps me nicely insulated too. Any appointments today?'
     
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  3. Dec 30, 2018 #3

    Halrion

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    Chapter 1 - Part 3

    'Um, lemme check.' Fortunately Gemma already had Outlook open. 'A Bill Ainsley at half ten, to check out that flat on Renford Street. Then we got Kieran Blake for that five-bedder on Thornton Drive. That's at three. That's all... Oh, hang on -' A new message popped up in Gem's email. 'Looks like an online booking's just come through...Yep, a John Kipling - wants to look around Ethel at two thirty.'

    Abby was not the kind of girl who showed much emotion, but there was no mistaking the gleam that came into her sultry green eyes. At a cool £2.6m, Ethel House was by far the hottest property on New Century's books, and would yield an enormous commission fee it sold for anywhere near the listing price.

    'Wonderful! Call him in ten to confirm. And, uh, try to get me his background, so I know who I'm talking to,' continued Abby, reigning in her initial enthusiasm. With a sober cough she turned to the other desk. 'Hol, you can show Bill Ainsley round Thornside. Gem you take the big detached one later - that Blake guy, or whatever his name was.'

    Having thus issued her orders, New Century's roundly-bottomed young branch manager turned and strode into the short corridor adjoining the main office, disappearing through a door halfway down, which bore her name and title on a polished bronze plaque.

    Gemma's phone was buzzing before the door had even closed.

    'Like blubber buns needs any more insulation!' Holly's WhatsApp message had a winking emoji at the end.

    Stifling a giggle Gem typed back: 'Cant believe she took Ethel again! Must be 6th viewing since Christmas?!'

    'Why can't you believe it?'
    Holly's reply was followed by a puffy faced emoji. 'Odds on her needing a new chair by March?'

    Abby's door swung open. Instantly the pair stashed their phones out of sight, their eyes shooting up guiltily. But the subject of their discussion was already heading the other way.

    'Snack time already?'
    mouthed Holly, once their boss's abundant rump had wobbled a safe distance down the corridor. As if in answer, a voice called down the hall:

    'Are we out of biscuits?'

    Gemma winced. Abby's tone was tinged with irritation.

    'Um, yeah. Sorry Abs,' she called back lightly, rising from her chair and making an uh-oh face in Holly's direction. 'Back in a sec!'

    As she headed for the door, Gemma returned Holly's conspiratorial smirk. At face value, 'Abs' was a perfectly innocent abbreviation of Abby. But for Gemma and Holly it was also a sarcastic reference to the surprisingly slender waist that sat above their bitchy manager's curvy hips and bulbous caboose. Despite Abby's claims to attend thrice-weekly spinning classes, Gem and Holly were sure that their boss's pinched middle owed far more to spanx than to cycling, and that several inches of chub separated Abby's abs and the outside world.

    Apart from anything else, Gem had seen the exercise bikes at her own gym, and highly doubted they could accommodate a butt that huge!

    The petite blonde sighed. She wouldn't have minded being bossed around so much. There was certainly no questioning Abby's superior sales skills. But still - she was only a couple of years older than Gem herself: they'd even been to the same school, though with Abby two years above they hadn't known each other. It was bad enough she always took the Ethel viewings.

    There's another reason to doubt Abby's apparent slimness, reflected Gemma as a swirl of cold wind whipped up dust and leaves around her heels. In an effort to motivate staff and buyers alike, Ryan Hughes, New Property's flashily handsome middle-aged owner, had devised a genius policy of offering a free lunch at Le Bistro de Bon Viande - the only multiple Michelin starred restaurant within a hundred miles - for all potential buyers of the company's most expensive lot. Gem wasn't quite sure how it worked; she guessed he'd made some sort of deal with the restaurant whereby they always kept a private table ready. But the idea was for one of the three attractive young estate agents to smile her way around the mansion, and then to invite the viewer (invariably a rich and male) to join her for a free lunch at Le Bistro, at an exclusive, secluded table, where she'd continue her flirtatious mission over several courses of stunning French cuisine, refilling her guest's glass frequently and sweet-talking him into a deal.

    That was the theory. In practice it was always the same staff member who did the Ethel House viewings: Abby Prescott. So long as the big-bummed branch manager had Ryan Hughes wrapped around her well-manicured finger, there was almost no chance of Gemma or Holly ever getting to sample the Michelin-starred delights of Le Bistro. Abby never seemed to take a day off sick (though after lunching at Le Bistro she often returned to the office a little greener than she'd set out) and though amiable enough most of the time, she was far too selfish to ever delegate an Ethel viewing to one of her subordinates.

    And so Gemma and Holly would sit with their Greggs pasties or Tesco wraps, reduced to ruminating wistfully about the indulgent courses their boss was devouring and placing small bets between themselves on the astronomic table bills Abby and her guest were racking up - and speculating on when the cumulative effect of all that rich French food would finally burst the seams of her designer skirts.

    The doors to Tesco Express slid open, and Gemma stepped gratefully into the warmth. Navigating around a few elderly morning shoppers she diligently loaded up her basket with several large bags of chocolate digestives, a twelve pack of different flavoured crisps, three tubes of Pringles and a bag of Demerara sugar for the tea - and a bumper bag of Malteasers that was on special offer. By the time she'd reached the tills, she'd added a Terry's chocolate orange and a box of strawberry jam donuts from the bakery counter.

    Tossing in a pair of galaxy caramel bars from the discount basket by the checkout, Gemma made a mental note to put those last few items on a separate receipt. It wasn't the expense she was worried about: Ryan never made any comment on the amount of petty cash his staff expended on snacks. No, it was simply that those donuts and chocolate orange wouldn't last five minutes if Abby got wind of them. The bitchy branch manager hadn't developed that Kardashian-sized caboose by sticking to fruit, after all, and she took a similar attitude to snacks as she did to lunching at Le Bistro. Even with the huge haul Gem was bringing back, she knew Abby would manage to get at least half of the chocolate orange for herself, and probably three out of the six donuts. Where food was concerned, the girl was relentless. Even when Holly had snuck a couple of sleeping pills into Abby's morning tea a couple of weeks ago, she'd somehow managed to rouse herself and stagger to the Ethel viewing in the afternoon, crushing Holly's hopes of stepping in and dining at Le Bistro. Abby would snack herself sick before she relinquished an entire chocolate orange to Holly and Gemma.

    'Are you all right love?'

    Gemma gradually became aware of the kindly stare of an aged shop assistant. 'Oh, sorry!' she looked round, realising she'd been standing dumbly at the checkout. Fortunately there was no queue at this time of morning.

    Joan the till lady smiled softly as she swiped the bonanza of chocolates and sugary goodies across the scanner and transferred them into shopping bags, attributing her pretty customer's hesitation to guilt at having filled quite such an unhealthy basket. She saw it a lot, especially with the businesslike blondes. And this crisply dressed specimen looked like a prime example: a high-maintenance young professional whose once-slim figure was undergoing a steady office softening. Joan had no doubt the young dear paid a token gym membership every month and periodically purchased stylish new workout gear, only for her new kit and good intentions to be lost and forgotten amongst a wardrobe of smart form-fitting suits and flattering bodycon party dresses.

    Poor dear, thought Joan as she watched the chubby business barbie wiggle awkwardly out of the shop, bulging shopping bags bouncing against her bell-shaped hips. Young ladies these days spend far too much time sitting on their bottoms.
     
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  4. Dec 30, 2018 #4

    Halrion

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    Chapter 1 - Part 4

    Echoing the sigh of soft Italian leather, Abby Prescott lowered herself smoothly into her recliner, feeling the plush material mould itself around her ample derrière.

    The Queen Bee of the Cheshire Branch smiled. If there was one thing guaranteed to melt her irritation at having to rise early for work, it was arriving and reclining in her very own office. With her very own oak hat stand (draped with one very stylish mocha mink coat), her very own three-seater sofa, and Coco's very own foam-cushioned dog bed. Not forgetting her luxurious recliner and desk, both shipped in from Italy at immense expense to the company.

    Abby traced her fingers over the latter's smooth, polished surface. She loved her desk. A vast thick-legged construction of rich mahogany, it made even the twenty-seven inch Retina iMac at its centre look modest. It was a desk worthy of Downing Street. Few things were more enjoyable to Abby than resting a hand palm down on its shiny surface, adopting a pose of casual self-importance as she beckoned a knocking client or staff member into her domain. It made her feel like the president of a multinational - or, in particularly egotistical moments, of the United States.

    Best of all, she hadn't even had to sleep with Ryan for that one. It had been a freebie to go with her promotion.

    Smiling, Abby scooted her buttocks back into the yielding leather and leaned forward to within reaching range of the desk's top drawer to pull out a notepad. Tossing this onto the desk, she smiled eagerly at the prize beneath.

    A two tier box of Guylian Milk Truffle Seashells.

    In truth, Abby was loathe to dip into her own stash (especially as she was down to the last tier of her last box), but Gemma's blonde-brained failure to keep biscuits stocked had left her with no choice. It would be at least twenty minutes before the diminutive barbie got back from Tesco with fresh supplies, and if Abby left her snack that long...well, she might not be hungry enough to properly appreciate lunch at Le Bistro. No, a little chocolate now was essential. Her fingertips danced above the open box. Just a couple of those smaller seashells...

    Three seahorses, four chocolate cockles and two spiral wentletraps later, a rather bloated branch manager was slouching back in her luxurious seat, clumsily unfastening the middle button of her blouse and sliding her hand into the gap, hoping that her cool touch might sooth away the mild sensation of sickly fullness around her middle.

    Coco, who had padded over in hope of getting a box to lick, tilted her head in a way that, while sympathetic, was not without a touch of parental judgement. It was a well-how-did-you-think-nine-chocolates-would-make-you-feel? sort of tilt.

    'Ugh, don't look at me,' moaned Abby, trying not to think about how vulnerably plush her abdomen felt beneath her fingertips. 'This is Gemma's fault for letting the biscuits run out. It's not my fault it takes more chocolates to feel full.' She peered accusingly at the one remaining seahorse in the box. Was it winking at her? Lowering thumb and forefingers, Abby lifted it out for closer look.

    Coco shuffled forward and sat up expectantly.

    Abby shook her head sadly, pointing the chocolate at her beloved pug. 'No Coco. These are mummy's chocolates. You eat too many treats already.' Casually she bit off the seahorse's head. 'Don't - mmph - don't think I haven't noticed that chubby little belly you're developing,' she continued through a mouthful of chocolate, waving the headless seahorse in a now quivering Coco's direction. Leaning as far forward as her fullness would allow, Abby lowered her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. 'You need to learn self-discipline, or you'll end up mmph as porky as Gemma and Holly.'

    Head moving up and down with the chocolate, Coco inched closer, stretching her neck upwards. She licked her upper lip.

    'Ugh, fine!' Abby relented, leaning back again in her chair. 'But don't blame me when you can't fit through the dog flap. Here, catch!'

    She tossed the headless seahorse weakly into the air. Turning over twice it bounced gently off the thickly carpeted floor just in front of her pampered pooch's feet.

    A bewildered Coco looked down at the chocolate and then up at her mistress, who rolled her eyes.

    'Oh Coco, you'll never make Crufts,' she yawned, squirming deeper into her recliner. Filled to the brim with Belgian truffles, Abby could feel the warm office heating pressing heavily on her eyelids. She didn't resist. After all, a little nap now would give her more energy for the day ahead, and she needed to be on the top her game with that Ethel House viewing later. Leaning over the armrest, she sent her right hand questing downwards to locate the chair's recline controls.

    'Ugh, perhaps I should've rrgh slept with Ryan again,' Abby grunted as she fumbled for the recline button, the leather digging uncomfortably into her side. 'He might at least oof have gotten me a chair with buttons on top of the armrest.'

    At the sight of her mistress's flailing hand, Coco's eyes widened with excitement. That was that hand that had gifted her that unbelievably delicious treat! Instantly she darted over and rose to her back legs, planting her paws on the side of the recliner, sniffing and licking eagerly at Abby's knuckles and fingers, desperate for even the slightest smear or vestige of tastiness.

    'Ugh, down girl,' whinged Abby feebly as the pug pup wagged her tail happily, scampering her paws across the side of the recliner in constant pursuit of the chocolate-bestowing hand. 'Or I'll trade you in for a pood- Woooaahh!'

    Abby yelped like a schoolgirl on a rollercoaster as her huge chair dropped suddenly back, her legs jolting up in front of her nose. The contents of her stomach seemed to jump up within her and then land down again with a chocolatey slosh.

    'Ooof!!' Clutching at her disturbed abdomen, Abby lay back in her recliner, breathing heavily from the unexpected exertion. After a few seconds of panting she glowered towards the dog basket.

    'That oof does it Coco!' she huffed. 'I'll...'

    The panting prima donna paused, finger still raised accusingly. In her short career as branch manager, Abby had ruled over her subordinates without remorse, imperiously dismissing their requests for extra holidays and ruthlessly hoarding the best viewings for herself. But there, curled in up her bed, with her pug-face lowered onto her little paws and a look of forlorn guilt in her brown eyes, Coco was just too darn cute to criticise.

    'Bad urrf dog,' Abby grunted weakly, raising a sleepy finger, her eyelids already beginning to droop as the chocolate calm closed in once more.

    Moments later, she was washed into an after-snack dream, in which she and her recliner had been transported to the white-curtained finery of La Bistro de Bon Viande. Across a lavish purple tablecloth, Coco ate caviar from a gold dog bowl with a knife and fork, while she herself leaned back easily, periodically opening her mouth to accepts bonbons from a life-sized chocolate seahorse in a waiter's outfit.

    Snoring gently, Abby shuffled deeper into her recliner, stroking her softly gurgling belly and unconsciously looking forward to lunch.
     
  5. Dec 30, 2018 #5

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    Chapter 2 - Part 1

    'So that's the lounge, John. Shall we, uh, go upstairs?'

    Turning and setting her palm on the marble lion's head at the foot of the banister, Abby let her smile droop into a weary sneer.

    Partly it was the prospect of the climb. When you layered skirts and shapewear as tightly as Abby did, stairs were never a welcome sight, but Ethel House took the piss - three floors separated by two huge, curving staircases as high as Rapunzel's tower with steps so steep they surely violated every EU safety directive ever passed.

    Mostly though, the fatigue in Abby's features was caused by her companion.

    Predictably enough, John Kipling had turned out to be a disappointment - and a bit of a weirdo to boot. Abby was no prude. In her decade of adulthood she'd been leered at by countless wannabe lotharios and wolf-whistled by every builder this side of the Severn. It was the main reason her ego was nearly as big as her backside. So accustomed was she to male attention that, despite her immense vanity, she rarely even noticed it any more.

    But this guy's perving was impossible to miss. In pretty much every mirror they'd passed Abby could see him close behind her: chin dipped, eyeballs swinging like pendulums as they followed her arse. Then there was that disturbed schoolboy smirk in response to her mildly flirtatious "Shall we go upstairs?". Not to mention his several failed attempts to start a conversation (and blatantly allude to how rich he was), the words gurgling forth in a nervous flurry.

    Abby glanced back and managed to muster a coy smile as the bulging eyes behind shot up guiltily from her backside. His nervousness had actually surprised her a little, because as well as being seriously rich he wasn't actually that bad looking. Receding a fair bit for his age and wearing a shirt that bagged up clumsily around his skinny shoulders. But plenty of millionaires had no fashion sense, and in Abby's book money always trumped muscles anyway. Really, he was just the kind of infatuated, eager-to-please rich kid she'd have pounced on five or six years ago: an easy ticket to the designer clothes and luxury holidays she adored.

    But the mature twenty-seven year old Abby Prescott knew she could do better. John Kipling would have needed to roll up in an Aventador to arouse even a flicker of genuine interest.

    Still, he was a potential buyer - and a reasonable prospect, given the signs so far. You could never be sure, of course. A natural manipulator, Abby had been soft-bullying people into buying and selling houses for over five years, relishing the various challenges different sorts of clients posed, adapting and honing her approach and building up an impressive record. Sleeping with the boss had gotten her a pile of perks and presents, but it was Abby's considerable talent for sales that had made her the youngest branch manager in the company's history.

    And she'd been in the game long enough to know that ultimately it all came down to money. So many potential buyers talked a game their wallets couldn't play - especially those eager to impress her, as this Kipling kid obviously was. It didn't mean he had a cool £2.6m at his disposal, and she knew the owners would barely budge on the price, even with her powers of persuasion. Convincing this wealthy weirdo that he wanted to buy wasn't the problem - indeed, Abby almost wished that part was more of a challenge.

    She could not, however, say the same for this staircase.

    Passing the large Georgian portrait halfway up, the raven-haired sales queen failed to suppress a grunt. She was sure the owners were secretly adding ten or fifteen steps between each viewing. The climb seemed much harder than she remembered, and it had only been - what - a week ago?

    It'll take at least three bottles of Le Bistro's finest to get over this, she huffed to herself, gripping the banister and hauling a heavy leg up onto the next step. Maybe a slice of that lemon buttermilk pie before the starters. I'll easily have burned off the calories.

    Spurred on by the prospect of an exquisite meal, Abby struggled up towards the summit, dragging one leg after the other. The sound of her companion panting like a jaded Labrador behind her was some reassurance. If that skinny freak was having trouble with the stairs, who wouldn't?

    Sure enough, three steps behind, John Kipling was indeed panting heavily.

    But not because he was tired.

    No, John Kipling - aka Peter Morris - was panting because he was breathless with lust.

    For ten years - ten years - he'd drooled over Abby Prescott's tremendous buttocks from afar. And now here they were, just inches in front of his nose. And they were every bit as bulbously majestic as he'd imagined, wobbling and bulging like a pair of giant overfilled water balloons as the hefty hottie wheezed her way up a long but gentle flight of stairs. It was fantasy come true.

    And to think he'd very nearly cancelled the booking this morning! The moment he'd clicked to confirm the viewing time, a sudden anxiety had engulfed him, his brain racing through all the possible disasters if he got caught out - arrest, imprisonment, being outed as an impersonator on Twitter. What would the real John Kipling say? Christ, what would his mum say?!

    Thankfully, two hours of mindless bank statement analysis had given him time to must courage and plan out his ruse.

    So far, it was going better than he could possibly have hoped. Rolling up to Ethel House in a dirt-rimmed Peugeot 302 clearly wouldn't do, so Peter had arrived early and parked the decrepit thing half a mile away, in the shade of the giant oaks that gazed down over the southernmost wall of Ethel's extensive grounds. Then he'd strolled round to wait at the mansion's gated front. His work shirts were his best anyway, and, as it was Monday, his shoes had been well-polished by his mum that morning, making them look - hopefully - more expensive than the £70 he'd forked out for them. When Abby pulled up twenty minutes later, he'd explained (in what he reckoned was a pretty suave offhand manner, given his hammering heart) that his "damned chauffeur" had gotten the time wrong and buzzed off in the Bentley before he'd realised. She seemed to buy it, and, seeing from her reaction that she'd googled John Kipling and been expecting a man of seventy, Peter had swiftly gone on to introduce himself as John Kipling Junior. A step down from being the actual owner of a vastly profitable chain of accountancy firms, of course, but said owner's son and heir, with wealth enough to afford a multi-million pound property, would surely be impressive enough. Even for Abby Prescott.

    Who was everything he'd dreamed of and more.

    Much more, in fact. From the moment she'd gripped the doorframe of her gleaming blue BMW and pulled or rather hauled herself out by her manicured fingers, it was clear to a goggling Peter that his fantasies about Abby's added poundage hadn't been far off the mark. She was wearing the damn coat, but unbuttoned so that it billowed wide in a chill breeze that swept her thick raven hair behind her shoulders and plastered her white blouse to her curved abdomen and remarkable bosom, both of which bobbed tightly as she advanced across the vast drive, her long legs swinging forth imperiously from beneath a deliciously short pleated skirt, shuddering meatily from the knee upwards as her shallow heels clicked against the patterned concrete. With each lengthy stride the inadequate garment fluttered saucily in the breeze, revealing upper thighs so delectably plump that they seemed to bulge forwards as well as out to the sides.

    But in Peter's erudite opinion there was no better viewing angle on earth than the one he was enjoying now. Shoulders hunching as she leaned forward into the climb, Abby's bulging backside rose up haughtily before his awestruck eyes as she huffed and puffed her way up the staircase. Her pleated skirt hung over the edge of her bulbous rump like a barely adequate tablecloth, bouncing against the bulky buttcheeks that rocked and swayed beneath. Bending his knees slightly and keeping several steps behind, Peter had an orgasmic view of the teasing creases at the top of Abby's fleshy thighs, into which the underside of her lavish buttocks rose and dropped with a rhythmic wobble, one then the other, as the ponderous goddess continued her increasingly laboured ascent.

    He could barely keep the drool in his mouth. It was like walking behind his very own Kim Kardashian - if Kim Kardashian gave up exercise for a year and stuck to a strict diet of hamburgers, that is. She seemed pretty keen on him too, despite the perpetually sleepy expression, explaining how the house really needed "an owner of means and stature", inviting him upstairs with those bedroom-ready eyes, always smiling - even when she'd caught him staring at her ass a few moments ago.
     
  6. Dec 30, 2018 #6

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    Chapter 2 - Part 2

    Well she does think I'm a millionaire. Scrawny chest inflating with unfamiliar confidence, Peter took the next two steps at once and squatted to the point where he was practically kneeling on the stairs with his long nose almost brushing the skirt that barely covered his guide's divine derriere. Damn that was one hell of an arse! At a distance, he'd judged Abby to be quite lean around the middle, but up close he could see that it was an illusion created by her natural curviness and monster caboose. No wonder she was struggling so much with the stairs, towing all that freight out back! Those quivering thighs and chubby calves clearly weren't designed for transporting such a prodigious load up any sort of incline. As Abby slowed further, reaching out her plump arms to grip the banister on both sides, Peter began to fantasise feverishly. He pictured the bulky diva groaning to a halt a dozen steps below the summit, panting heavily and declaring herself utterly unable to continue without assistance - whereupon he would chivalrously roll up his sleeves and sink his hands into her meaty ass cheeks, all the way up to his wrists, gallantly pushing his porcine princess up the final few steps, whereupon she'd coo in adoring gratitude and reward him generously in the nearest bedroom.

    Peter shuddered in giddy lust. There was just something so decadent, so luxurious, so downright sexy about a preening, pampered rich girl who'd become too plump to climb a simple flight of stairs.

    'Don't worry about the uurf creaking-' Abby's close voice startled him back to reality. 'It's just huff a feature of. Authentic. Eighteenth century... Oak,' she continued, gulping oxygen after each word.

    I suppose people in the eighteenth century were a lot lighter, thought Peter with a lascivious smirk. Whether he'd unconsciously moved closer in his daydreaming or Abby had slowed further, he found that he was now close enough to reach forward and touch her hair - or better yet smack her arse. The smell of lavender was intoxicating - overwhelming. Or was it Jasmine? Who cared. Oh how he longer to wrap his arms around her thick waist, to feel her own hands close acceptingly over his as they rested on the generous swell of her belly, to lean forward, brushing his cheek against her hair as she turned for a kiss. He felt himself begin to stiffen.

    All Abby felt was a stale panting against the back of her hair. At any other time it would've been creepy, but at the moment she was just grateful for anything that cooled her down.

    But even with the cooling effect of Peter's sour breath, the poor girl was puffing like a bellows by the time they reached the landing. A tinge of ruby coloured her round cheeks and a sparkle of dampness ran across her rich hairline.

    'Heating's in uufff full working order,' she huffed, fanning her flushed cheeks with a delicate hand and hoping she didn't look as exhausted as she felt.

    The semi-boner her companion was trying to hide by leaning forward suggested that he wasn't put off. And when she'd recovered enough breath to suggest that they head to the master bedroom, a noise emerged from his mouth like someone gargling acid, his face distorting like a cartoon character who was trying to stop his head from exploding.

    Honeyed lamb
    , she told herself, forcing a smile back onto her lips and then turning to lead the way. With rosemary dressing. She glanced round and found that he had resumed gawking at her butt.

    And an extra helping of those syrup-fried pomme frites.

    *****

    'Now this -' Abby paused for effect, drawing herself up and resting her palm on the heavy oak door '- this is my favourite room in the house.' Pushing the door open with a venerable creak, she ushered Peter in.

    It was certainly impressive, in a slightly dated sort of way. A king-sized four-poster bed rested against the wall, with silk sheets of regal violet and bedposts carved into elegant leafy patterns, 'Hand crafted circa 1910 and likely to fetch eight grand at auction, if not to your taste, the owners are leaving it,' Abby commented casually as Peter's eyes passed over it with an apprehensive look. A high ceiling gave the large room an even greater sense of grandeur and size, and a newer door led to a recently installed modern en-suite with a 'floor of imported Egyptian marble, laid five years ago' and the French-style window opening onto a balcony yielded a stunning rural view, 'particularly beautiful in the morning,' of acreage beyond that 'belonged solely to the owner Ethel House and had approved planning permission for a large pool and a tennis court, if desired.'

    As Abby smoothly concluded what she she liked to think of as her 'bedroom pitch', Peter was gazing out of the window in awe. She glanced down and smiled. The outline of his hand in his suit pants pocket was clasping his wallet.

    That's why they pay me the big bucks, she thought to herself. A little sex appeal helped, of course, but really it wasn't about shamelessly flirting and touching clients' arms, as giggling Gemma did, or piling cliched superlatives on every feature and babbling about opportunities (Holly's forte) as if reciting from a sales manual.

    No: real salesmanship was about making the buyer trust you - making him feel like he was getting an informed and impartial opinion, stating everything in a cool, factual manner, as one expert to another, even pointing out the odd minor flaw here and there, slowly building up the buyer's confidence in himself and in you. With her naturally aloof air of indifference, it was a technique Abby had quickly perfected. If the man had the money, she could almost guarantee he'd part with it.

    And now it was time to move in for the kill.

    Abby padded slowly across the room, her heels muffled by the plush carpet. She paused, looking carefully at the carved bedpost, running her fingers around the curves of its embossed leaf pattern as if examining it for flaws.

    Peter, meanwhile, was admiring Abby's side profile, running his eyes around its thick curves and contours, the way her boobs and pooching belly pushed forward but failed to balance out the flimsily veiled rump that rounded enormously out back. She'd recovered after climbing the stairs, but a slightly hurried rise and fall of her considerable bosom suggested that the bulky branch manager was still feeling something of a hangover from what must, for such a pampered, preening goddess, have been some pretty extensive cardio. He could even make out the slightest circle of sweat spreading out just beneath her plump upper arm.

    Mind taking over again, Peter imagined Abby turning up at the weekly circuit he sometimes attended at his gym, her bulbous curves squeezed into stylish black sports lycra, top-of-the-range trainers thudding against the floor as she wobbled her way though star jumps: cheeks flushed, sweat pouring, those huge buttocks rippling as they clapped together with each feeble jump - her meaty thighs quivering with each landing as she puffed her way slowly through three squat jumps before collapsing onto her back in exhaustion.

    'Truthfully, the house does need some TLC,' Abby hummed, ignoring the strange stare in her companion's eyes and gently tightening the noose of her subliminal sales pitch. 'But not many people can afford a property like this. It's a niche market, you know?' she continued, stoking his ego where most salespeople would have banged about how much interest they had. 'The sellers are moving abroad in two weeks -' she paused to let the hidden incitement to act quickly sink in '- but they may accept an offer of two point five, maybe even two point four five to get things sorted before then.'

    For one crazy, insane moment Peter, still squeezing his wallet, found his mouth opening to offer the full asking price and ask where to sign. He wanted her. He wanted the house. Maddened by lust for his guide's bulging curves and bewitched by her smooth sales pitch, he could barely distinguish between the two.

    Abby wasn't about to come to his rescue.

    'I'll call the seller now,' she said, tapping casually on her phone's screen. 'See if they'll drop to two five fifty.'

    'Ummm...I...well...' Peter blustered feebly.

    Abby shook her head with a chuckle. 'Okay, okay - we'll try two five,' she said. 'I do admire a man who chances his arm.'

    'You do? Uhh... wait. I mean... hold on!'

    Abby looked up at him, finger poised over the big green call button.

    'Properties like this don't come along very often John,' she said.

    'Well... Uhh..' Peter felt his hand straying to the back of his neck. 'I'll have to check with my fath- I mean, er, financial adviser, you know. Make sure the money's in the correct accounts.' He finished, straightened himself up in what he hoped was a businesslike manner.

    Abby slipped her phone away with a knowing smile.

    'I see.'
     
  7. Dec 30, 2018 #7

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    Chapter 2 - Part 3

    'In-coming!'

    With a speed and precision born of frequent practice, Gemma whipped open the top drawer and slid the large box of chocolates down into it, slamming it shut. Her other hand was already herding chocolate crumbs to the edge of her desk and sending them tumbling down into the bin between her legs. Quickly scanning around for any further traces of evidence she pushed the bin back into its usual position with her toe and reached for her mouse. One swift click and eight tabs of Daily Mail gossip column vanished, leaving only Outlook and a half-typed description of a kitchen sitting innocently on her screen.

    She needn't have bothered. When Abby entered the room a few moments later, it was clear that every ounce of the buxom branch manager's attention was dedicated to a matter of far greater importance.

    That of putting one foot successfully in front of the other.

    Gemma and Holly exchanged eyebrows. They were used to their boss returning from Le Bistro looking a little sluggish. Who wouldn't, after free Michelin-starred lunch and unlimited wine of the finest vintage?

    But this... this was something else.

    Puff-cheeked, eyelids drooping, and with a tinge of ruby to her porcelain forehead, Abby looked ready to topple sideways at any moment - and almost certainly would have, were it not for the balancing effect of her abundant hips. And though she maintained that air of high-chinned aloofness, her eyes betrayed her. Unusually heavy, they were fixed on the wall ahead with the over-casual gaze of a girl who's sober enough to know she's drunk, but drunk enough to think she can look sober.

    Any lingering doubt was completely dispelled when Abby proceeded to drape her prized mink coat over the communal hat stand, before proceeding wordlessly through the room with barely a grunt of acknowledgement to her subordinates.

    'Late viewing must've made her thirsty,' said Holly with a smirk, once Abby's office door had safely closed behind her bulbous back-end. There was no need for Whatsapp this time, they could already hear her snoring through the door.

    'Did you her belly sloshing as she walked past,' chuckled Gem. 'Oof. Must've been a heavy one!'

    'Yeah, good job you didn't leave those choccies out. She'd've had those for sure.'

    Pulling open her drawer and extracting a hazelnut swirl, Gemma smiled triumphantly and popped it between her plump lips.

    She'd earned it, after all - having bounced, fluttered and flirted her plump-bosomed platinum blondness to a big sale earlier that afternoon. Not only had Kieran Blake bought a £486k detached at the asking price, he'd smarmed into the office not long after the viewing finished with a big grin and an even bigger box of premium collection Thornton's chocolates to thank his guide for 'being so helpful'. This delighted Gemma no end, of course, especially after Holly's little aside earlier about her absence from the gym. After all, she couldn't possibly be getting fat if a man as handsome as Kieran Blake was plying her with expensive treats.

    And so, in the absence of their boss, and feeling rather lumpish after their lunchtime pasties (somehow they always seemed to order a little more than usual when Abby was at Le Bistro) the two pretty estate agents had eschewed work and passed the afternoon gossiping lazily and grazing on the double-layer box of premium chocolates.

    A box from which Gemma now picked out a champagne truffle.

    'Hey, sharing is caring!'

    Smiling Gem stood up and tossed the box onto Holly's desk. 'I'll make the tea,' she chirped, bouncing off towards the kitchen. When she reached the corridor she snuck a glance back, grinning as her colleague slyly lifted up the first layer and snaffled two orange truffles from the one beneath, shoving both into her mouth at once.

    Careful chubbybuns, or you'll be squeezing into Abby's hand-me-downs by Christmas. Humming to herself Gemma picked up her pace towards the kitchen. At a recent get-together Holly's husband had warned Gem against leaving his hot high-maintenance wife alone with chocolate, and she suspected he was only half joking. She wanted to get back before they were all gone!

    Sure enough, the moment Gemma disappeared down the corridor Holly took full advantage. In her mind, the blonde was already two chocolates ahead, so it was only right that she evened things up. Jaw still working on the truffles, the greedy girl added a vanilla velvet to the limited space on her tongue, just to see what the combination of flavours was like. It was good. Good enough to justify popping in another. I'm only saving Gem her from herself Holly reasoned as she reached for a raspberry canache as well, trying to rationalise her descent into full chocolate monster mode. I'm doing Tough Mudder training with David tonight, probably, so a little extra energy will help. In went an amaretto truffle. Gem will only plant her chubby ass in front of the TV and-

    Holly froze, fingers poised above a caramel meltaway. Her gaze was glued to the box of chocolates, but out of the corner of her eyes she could see the faint outline of what could only be a pair of trousers... Right in front of her.

    But that was impossible. There hadn't been a buzz. Unless-

    Holly groaned internally. Abby! That drunk fatass had forgotten to close the door!

    'Hi - uh - I mean, hello there,' said a male voice from above the trousers, its tone undergoing a strange deepening midway through the statement. Holly wondered how long he'd been standing there. 'Sorry to - ah - barge in, you know. The door was open.'

    Well duuh, thought Holly. But what could she do.

    'Uff, yesh, herrowf,' she looked up tentatively, reaching for a tissue to dab the caramel from her smile and provide enough cover for her to gulp down her mouthful of half-chewed chocolates. 'Cafn I guulp help you?'

    She looked the visitor up and down.

    'I'm afraid hurp 'scuse me, we don't have any graduate vacancies at the moment.'

    The man, who had hitherto been considering her with an expression of dazed oblivion, blinked and frowned.

    'Huh? Oh... No. I'm not. I mean...'

    He paused, drawing his chin up. His tone deepened again.

    'The name's Kipling. John Kipling.'

    Peter felt his knees buckle and his cheeks flush as as the porky girl's eyes shifted down and to the side, clearly trying to hide her bemusement at this Bond blunder. It wasn't his fault! He'd expected to stride into the office and accost some glasses-wearing moneypenny, not to walk in on an overstuffed overdressed stunner engaged in her afternoon binge, packed into a suit that looked fit to burst as she leaned forward in her chair, fat office bum swelling upwards as she troughed her way through a huge box of chocolates with such intent greediness that she hadn't even noticed him come in. Even Bond himself would have struggled for words.

    And the day had been going so well. After finishing the viewing he'd felt like the king of the earth. Bizarre as it first seemed, there was no doubt that Abby Prescott, the object of his bedroom fantasies for over ten years, had the hots for Peter Morris - or John Kipling, really, but... that was attention to detail.

    She'd caught him off guard with that sales pitch and sexy side profile, leaving him gawping like a fish. But after a couple of hours in an empty office he'd recovered, resolving to nip to Thornton's and buy their most expensive chocolates, then pop across to New Century that minute and ask her out there and then.

    That had been the initial plan, at least. While buying the chocolates, Peter had come to the conclusion that perhaps just asking for a follow-up viewing would do for now. You know, soften her up a little more before asking for a date. By the time he'd walked through the New Century door he'd half-wondered if just handing over the chocolates and thanking her might be best. Give her time to enjoy his present, at least - women were always more acquiescent with a belly full of truffles, weren't they? He'd get another glimpse of that decadent derriere, and he could call her later about the viewing.

    'Is Abby Prescott in?' he got the words out eventually, adding, a little irritably, 'She showed me around Ethel House this afternoon. I'm considering making an offer, but I wanted to confirm a second viewing - and to give her these.' He placed the gold chocolate box down on the table next to a near identical one that Holly had been decimating.

    'In person,' he added, eyes flitting between the empty box and Holly's plump middle.

    'That really depends on your perspective.'

    For the second time since entering the office, Peter started. The chocolate monster had opened her mouth to reply, but the words seemed to have come from over his left shoulder, and to have been uttered in a voice much lighter than the slightly husky one she'd used earlier. He turned towards the sound, and could do nothing to prevent his eyes bulging like dinner plates.

    An equally overfed, just as sexy, perhaps even higher maintenance and considerably blonder girl was leaning against the doorframe, chubby fingers resting casually on a curvaceous hip. If anything, this one's clothes were even tighter than her colleague's. Peter's eyes were drawn like a magnet to a tiny tanned triangle of smooth exposed skin beneath the bottom button of blondie's blouse, which, thanks to the curve of a tummy that had clearly received its share of Thornton's finest, was barely staying tucked into her painted-on skirt.

    Bloody hell, he thought, blinking in disbelief, What do they feed the women in this place? ... Other than chocolates, of course.

    'She is in,' went on blondie, now eyeing him thoughtfully. 'But... she's also out, in a sense, and...'

    The girl trailed off with a frown. She tilted her head.

    'Peter?'
     
  8. Dec 30, 2018 #8

    Halrion

    Halrion

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    Chapter 2 - Part 4

    Holly knew he was an important client. But she just couldn't resist. 'Aha, no Gem, I think you'll find you're mistaken. This is Kipling.' She paused for effect. 'John Kipling. He was taken round the-'

    'I know who he is,' Gemma cut in, suspicion in her eyes. 'He's Peter Morris. He was in the year above me at school. I, er, had a crush on him.'

    She said this in the tone of one mildly puzzled by her own youthful folly rather than feeling a resurge of latent lust, but it was enough to break Peter out of the grip of the terror that had been rising in his gorge at the rapid unravelling of his ruse. He looked at her for a moment.

    'Wait...' He gawped in shock as recognition dawned. 'Geeky Ge- uh, I mean, Gemma Patterson?' His eyes dropped to her blouse-busting tits. 'Wow, you've grown. Taller, I mean.'

    The diminutive blonde scowled, hands planting firmly on her generous hips.

    'Why are you pretending to be someone else?'

    Peter could feel the sweat gathering at his forehead. 'I uh, well John Kipling is actually my uncle and uh...'

    He trailed off at the rise of Gemma's disbelieving eyebrow.

    'C'mon Peter, it doesn't take a genius to figure it out.' She tilted her head knowingly.

    Peter's shoulders slumped. She wasn't as blonde as she looked, this one. Probably she remembered how lusted-after Abby was at school and put two and two together. He was still struggling to come to terms with how Geeky Gemma had transformed into such a stunning little bosomy blonde. And to think, she'd once fancied him! What a pathetic sight he must make now: impersonating a millionaire just to impress a girl.

    'Thought you'd snag a couple of free lunches at Le Bistro, huh?' continued the geek-turned-goddess. 'I bet you overheard-'

    'Okay, okay!' Peter raised his palms submissively, still avoiding her gaze. There wasn't much point denying it. He might as well fess up. 'Fine. Look, I just really fanc-'

    Something clicked in his mind. He looked up in puzzlement.

    'Wait... Free lunch?'

    The blonde rolled her eyes. 'It's a little late to play dumb now "John".' But despite her annoyance, Gemma was a kind-hearted soul, and still felt a little sympathy for her lacklustre crush. Former crush. 'Look,' she sighed, 'I'm sure the food was amazing but you really can't go around impersonating a buyer like that. It's not-'

    'But I haven't even had lunch!' yammered Peter.

    Gemma sighed. There was just no helping this guy. Struck by sudden inspiration she walked over to the hat stand and ruffled in the pocket of Abby's splendid mink coat, soon producing a small piece of paper. Eyes fixed on Peter, she unfurled it with the air of a prosecuting barrister revealing conclusive evidence of murder.

    'Black truffle Melanosporum with artichoke risotto,' she read out, lifting her eyes accusingly in Peter's direction. He couldn't help thinking she looked like a very sexy young schoolteacher. All she needed was a pair of half moon spectacles to complete the effect. And a cane.

    'Roast saddle of lamb. Reserve vanilla and smoked chocolate ice cream.' She refolded the receipt conclusively.

    'Ring any bells?'

    To her surprise, the condemned lunch-thief was goggling at her wildly.

    'Seriously,' he pleaded. 'I swear - I went straight back to work.' He pointed over the street. 'My office is just over there.' There was no use trying to hide its location: she'd find out easily enough. He dropped his finger and looked at his feet with a beaten sigh.

    'I can show you the CCTV to prove it.'

    After a few moments of considering his toes, Peter chanced to raise his head again.

    He found that the two impressively plump and uncommonly pretty girls were staring at each other in silence. Eventually Gemma spoke.

    'But if he didn't-'

    'Then who-' added the brunette.

    Their eyes seemed to widen in unison. As one, the two tubby estate agents turned their heads slowly towards the corridor. For a few moments the room was silent, save for the muffled snores emanating from the branch manager's office.

    Eventually Gemma turned to Holly and opened her mouth. Then, as if having second thoughts, she shut it. And then opened it again. After several repetitions of this fish-like cycle she finally recovered the power of speech, her voice emerging in a hoarse whisper.

    'Sh-surely not...'
     

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