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.
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.
